#battison x reader

[jupiterredolent]

SOME OF YALL ARE JUST…

you know that angst is fucking delicious when you can feel your heart sinking in your chest. some of y’all are just too damn good, omg.

#batman x reader #bruce wayne x reader #battison x reader #shoto todoroki x reader #katsuki bakugou x reader #eren jeager x reader #eren yeager x reader #könig x reader #x reader #angst #hurt/comfort #angst writing #angst prompt #angst fanfic #captain john price x reader #john price x reader

[amourlyns]

❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

✧ 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕: in which the reader meets bruce wayne at a gala, the riddler is rampant in the city. and this gala is his next target. part one of two.

✧ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: mentions of alcohol consumption, and drugs. bruce is vv emotionally repressed, he’s got problems ok?

✧ 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: 🦦 this is pattison’s batman influenced by matt reeves (the batman.) no use of y/n, pov switches to bruce twice in this fic. listen to 〞thank god for the rain 〞 by bernard herrman for ambiance.

⟡ ⠀ | Gotham is well (…) an odd city. An odd city with slick—tongued alley cats who roam and lurk at each corner, merging with the shadow and watching passerby dance and speak in hypnotic tongues.

You liked to call it the Gotham effect, it comes with the city of sin and crime. It’s odd, like you stated before. There’s the occasional glitz and glamor of wealthy Gothamites, galas laced with cocaine pearls and wine filled bottles (…)

Accompanied by champagne flutes and hors d’oeuvre’s to indulge in for the night.

And within this false sense of normalcy and entitlement, there’s the night. The Gotham better known for its crime and vigilantes. You see, everyone in Gotham is acting. The key to understanding it all in Gotham is the rhythm.

The people are the rhythm, the day is the rhythm. The night is the rhythm. And within this element of rhythmic chaos, there’s always something lurking. Watching the city underneath light polluted skies and charcoal clouds. When the smog seems to clog up your lungs and choke your breathing, there’s always something else to worry about.

The Batman, of course.

If anything, he highlights what Gotham is at the core. A broken city, deeply scarred and angry. Scratching at its surface to be heard. To be healed. Has Gotham always been seeking justice and light? Or is it seeking something much more carnal and sinister (…) Vengeance? A certain greed?

Whatever it was, it spoke to Gothamites. Hate the Bat, or love the Bat. He spoke for the city of Gotham, and he would always be there at every corner, watching.

Gotham is sick and venal.

You hope for the day of a real rain to come and wash off the scum from the streets. For now, it’s the Bat who takes care of the illness. Could 〞 it 〞 save Gotham?

Maybe.

It’s silly thought anyways, Gotham has been plagued with crime for decades. Some masked vigilante wouldn’t be able to stop that regardless. The thought is flimsy and useless. Something made out of hope and optimism, the kind of thing you consume in dreams. Not only that, but the Batman is more of a fable, a myth.

Besides, there was no use in consuming yourself with thoughts of Gotham and its nightly specter. For now, you’re here, at another Gala— with the same diluted faces and the same twisted smiles. Then night moves on in an odd distorted way, a blur even.

The man who snaps you out of this daze is Bruce Wayne. Gotham’s Prince, the man of the hour. You could only wonder what caused this recluse to emerge out of the manor he calls home. Unlike other notable people in Gotham, Bruce Wayne chooses to live a quiet life shrouded in mystery.

When he does remove himself from the confines of the manor, and the tabloids simply go into a frenzy. Like sharks during a feeding. It feels like everyone in Gotham wanted a piece of Bruce Wayne. Craving a flesh they surely don’t deserve.

Something tells you to draw closer to the oddity, like this would be the only time you’d be able to lay your eyes on Bruce Wayne in the flesh. So, you might as well take the opportunity to really take him all in.

Wayne eventually loses the limelight. The audience dies and you decide to pass through the sea of bodies that separate you two. He notices this of course, ever so vigilant. Some part of you expects him to flee and avoid the confrontation all together. Wary hues remain fixated on your figure slipping through the crowd.

Surely he isn't waiting (…) Right ?

Apparently he wasn’t, not like you knew of course. Bruce Wayne was a hard man to decipher after all, you couldn't tell if something compelled him to stay or if that kept him still.

For the first time tonight, you're accompanied by someone else. It'd off to say the least, Bruce is certainly a presence to behold, sure. But he wouldn't even spare a glance at you, you gaze eventually follows his line of sight.

Now? Now, all eyes are set on beacon in the sky now. The symbol of the night.

Batman is called by the city tonight, needed in the shadows once more. You could only wonder what for. You’re not one for new and tabloids but, there has been some discussion about the 〞 Riddler. 〞

Gotham’s newest deranged lunatic villain.

The man was terrifying, you’ve seen the footage. You've seen the terror and heard the screams. So how was the Batman going to save the city now? The thought of Gotham coming to its own demise (…) it was bound to, the city hasn’t had hope in a long time. You knew that very well.

Now what was he thinking? Did the Wayne believe in the Bat? In Vengeance, and his own crusade. Before you can even ask the question, he’s turning away. Maybe he’s had enough of your company for tonight.

❛ MISTER WAYNE, WAIT. Before you go, I’m just (…) curious about this one thing━━ IT’S THIS (…) BAT. VENGEANCE, do you really think he can protect the city ? Save Gotham ? His motives just seem so unclear. He’s menacing, almost reminds me of the Riddler. It’s all about vengeance, no ? Whether it’s about the city or people who’ve wronged you. ❜

Bruce does not turn back around to face you, instead he turns his head. Adjusting his gaze to you and the symbol in the night, it shifts. Once, twice than thrice. His face is unreadable. Typical.

He wants to speak, you know that much. Yet he doesn’t, for whatever reason. Bruce chooses to stare right through you.

You let him.

He doesn’t owe you a response, you know that much. Before you know it, he’s gone.

𝙱𝚁𝚄𝙲𝙴 𝚆𝙰𝚈𝙽𝙴’𝚂 𝙿𝙴𝚁𝚂𝙿𝙴𝙲𝚃𝙸𝚅𝙴 𝙾𝙵 𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝙶𝙰𝙻𝙰. A FEW HOURS BEFORE YOUR ENCOUNTER (…)

⟡ ⠀ | THE CITY IS QUIET TONIGHT. Unlike any another night, the city streets are deserted, emptied if you will. It’s all because of the recent attacks by the Riddler. There’s a few stranglers of course, sticking near the shaded roads and corners.

There’s a gala tonight, Alfred informed me on that. He wanted to me to attend because I needed to 〞 maintain 〞 my appearances for the sake of my family’s reputation and legacy. I only agreed because it would be the perfect opportunity to watch the city through civilian eyes. And give me an advantage.

The suit is less than ideal. Tight, stuffy and constricting.

Alfred is in the middle of fixing my tie when he tells me I look like my father.

I do not reply to that.

I stare into the mirror. Taking the time to analyze my polished appearance, Alfred fixes my tie and hands me my father’s cuff links once more. Now he’s watching me closely, too closely. Like I’ll break and shatter because he mentioned my father.

My face must’ve given my thoughts away, Alfred is quick to place his hand on my shoulder. Giving it a squeeze. My eyes dart between his hand and his face.

There’s that (…) sympathy again, or was it regret? Sometimes the two emotions blur and mix, all into one.

I should be kinder to Alfred.

If I could vocalize it, I would. But it comes out all raw, sore and achy. Like I’m forcing the kindness out of me. If only I could— could verbalize this gratitude. I would—

My chest throbs at the guilt. I grimace. Alfred seems to get it somehow, he can see the apology in my eyes. He lets me go for the time being, I insist to drive myself. He obliges.

The arrival is dreadful. The lights are too bright and there’s too many eyes on me. Voices ring out, calling out my name— Gothams Prince, Wayne, Mister Wayne, Bruce Wayne. They chant to me. The media swarms me like flies, and questions flood after.

I hardly keep my head above the water, I’m practically drowning. The only thing that keeps me going is that light in the sky.

The signal.

The media disperses, shifting towards the beacon of light that brands the sky tonight. From my peripheral view, I see something moving closer to me. Slipping through the sea of people. Their destination is to me. My gaze remains fixated on the bat-signal.

I have to go.

The figure besides me shifts, eyeing me down every now and then. I decide to take my leave.

❛ ❛ MISTER WAYNE, WAIT. Before you go, I’m just (…) curious about this one thing━━ IT’S THIS (…) BAT. VENGEANCE, do you really think he can protect the city ? Save Gotham ? His motives just seem so unclear. He’s menacing, almost reminds me of the Riddler. It’s all about vengeance, no ? Whether it’s about the city or people who’ve wronged you. ❜ ❜

Their words capture me for a few moments. I still. Letting the words settle into my mind. I can’t find it in me to look at them.

WHEN I LEAVE, it seems like the city mocks me. It feels like the rain corrodes my kevlar. The frigid rain seems to sink through bone marrow and nip away at skin. There’s a ferocious wind in Gotham tonight, the rain drenches everything in a torrential downpour.

Storm drains are filled and plugged, creating miniature oceans in the road.

When I arrive, the commissioner informs me on the recent developments of the Riddler. He has plans for tonight, and another letter written for me.

An explosion goes off that night.

#𝐼 . ⁽ 𝐕 ⁾ 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎’𝚜 : writings. #spirithub #battinson #dc batman #the batman 2022 #the batman #batman #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne #batman x reader #batman x you #batman x gn!reader #batman x gender neutral reader #battison x reader #battison x gn!reader #robert pattinson #detective comics #dc universe #dcu #autistic bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #the riddler #dc #dc comics

[preciouslandmermaid]

from high above, Gotham glows (battinson x f!reader)

Note: First Time writing Battison lol and uhh this one really got away with me so there’s a decent amount of Plot and Yearning before you get to the smutty stuff. LMAO. Takes place pre-movie with some generous fuckery with the timeline and off-hand original characters.

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. Dubious consent drug use (reader is required to take the drug to keep her cover secret). reader suffers from claustrophobia/fear of tightly enclosed spaces (only mentioned/experienced during the "fear scene"). established childhood friends with Bruce. cursing/explicit language. minor hurt/comfort. enthusiastic consent during sexual content. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. 

prompt: cockwarming, clothes ripping, balcony/window | pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list  

“You’ve got Gotham under your nails, girl.” Falcone hisses, close enough to smell his shitty cigar breath, “More than that. You’ve got her in your blood. I can tell. And I could use a girl like you.”

You ignore your roiling, empty stomach that sloshes with alcohol. Someone leans down to whisper in Falcone’s ear – some goon, you gather – and it’s just enough time for you to slip away from the crowded booth. Your hands are clammy, and you wipe them off on your short dress.

Your bones practically vibrate beneath the thumping bass of the club’s techno music. The lounge is an assault on every sense. Sight: nauseating flashing lights. Sound: the music that rakes claws down your spine. Touch: sweaty, clammy hands reaching for your dress, your arm, your shoulder. Smell: cigars, and marijuana, and sweat, and cigarettes. Taste: harsh, clear vodka that burns and strips layers of your throat going down.

You stumble out into the misty and glossy Gotham and press your hand to your racing heart.

Was the intel you gathered about Falcone worth his grubby hands and gross breath? Surprisingly, the answer is yes. You eagerly get into your car and verbalize everything Falcone told you into a tape recorder. You’ll write down the rest when you’re home.

*********

Home is a single-bedroom apartment that’s only redeeming quality is the little balcony that views the sunrise on precious mornings. When the sun touches Gotham, it paints everything a reflective orange and yellow, igniting the city on fire without a touch of smoke. More often than not, you went to bed on the couch, watching that sunrise, watching Gotham burn.

You don’t bother scrubbing off your glittery makeup or removing your tight dress. Your fingers itch to fly across the keyboard. This frantic determination is what earned you the nickname “Quicksilver” back when you were a pulp journalist writing about missing cats and happy birthday columns.

Despite your hard work, both in the field and out, the Gotham Gazette refused to promote you. In attempt to prove yourself, you singlehandedly wrote an article that revealed the corruption of several Arkham State Hospital doctors. When you dropped the story on your editor’s desk - they fired you. You went freelance after that.

It’s a shame the Gazette wiped your files and withheld your work laptop. Your current laptop wheezed to life; their fans mimicked a jet engine about to take flight. Corruption ran into the very veins of Gotham. Her blackened, wet streets were littered with petty crime and shady corporations. Sometimes it felt like you and the Bat and Gordon were the only people left with a shred of moral integrity.

You click on the multi-colored lights that framed your balcony window. You are the only one in the building that kept the lights up year-round. They are your very own, personal bat signal. You flipped them on whenever you had important news to share about Gotham.

The blue light of your computer screen frames your face as you start transcribing your notes from your tape recorder. The soft click-clack of the keys and the sharp, heavy ‘clunk’ of the play and pause button are the only sounds that fill your apartment for a long, long time.

Batman’s voice is gravel scraping against your skin, “what’ve you found?”

You jolt. “Jesus.” Your gaze narrows at him, “we talked about knocking, didn’t we? Just a little tap-tap on the glass will do.”

“I don’t have time, Silver.”

You roll your eyes. No time for pleasantries, huh? Not even a shred of basic, human decency. You’re not sure what you expect from a guy who runs around dressed like a bat. Still – he’s your ally. You turn the laptop around to show him your notes.

“It’s worse than I thought.” You say, brow furrowing, “I thought – I theorized that Falcone was just using the girls to run drugs, maybe help establish meetings, but he’s – he’s got them testing some kind of psychoactive drug for him.”

“LSD?” Batman rasps, his shadowed eyes scan the screen.

“Something else.” You drum your fingers against your coffee table. It’s always a little silly seeing Batman, decked out in his heavy armor and big cape, in your cramped living room. It’s big enough for a couch, a coffee table, and your overflowing bookshelf – but that’s it. Batman swallows the space like a hungry black hole.  

“Injected – is my theory – based on his linguistic tell.”

His eyes meet yours over the lip of your laptop.

“He mentioned Gotham being in my veins. Said he could use someone like me.” The term ‘use’ was slang for junkies when they blissed their brains out with drugs. You look down at your exposed skin, at the translucency of your inner elbow, where a needle impresses, where wandering, greedy hands at the club try and grab. You suppress a shiver.

Batman’s question comes as a surprise; “How long were you with Falcone?”

“Few hours.” You shrug. His concern is sweet, but unnecessary. There is some truth to Falcone’s words. You were born and raised in Gotham. And very little in this city could scare you. Hell, when Gordon introduced you to Batman in a dark, shadowed alleyway, you merely blinked at Vengeance and proclaimed you needed some food if you were going to have this conversation.

You start to pace, because moving helps you think, “he didn’t give up much. He was too busy trying to impress me with expensive drinks and flattery. But he threw the word opportunity around a lot. He kept mentioning how he was the one on the ground floor of this thing.”

You fold your arms across your chest and stare out your balcony sliding glass door. “We know Falcone is involved in a drug trafficking, and maybe even human trafficking too. I’ll go there again tomorrow—”

“No.” The word tears from his throat. You spin, expecting him by the table, and your heart gallops in surprise at his close proximity. He practically looms over you. You peer up, and the second surprise comes in the color of his eyes, striking and watery blue, smudged with some type of black paint or makeup.

He says, “you’ve got enough.”

You almost laugh. “I’ve got shit.” You shake your head, “I don’t have anything to pin Falcone with. I’ve got conjecture. I’ve got a half-remembered conversation thanks to all the booze they plied me with. I don’t have names, or details, but if I go in again—”

“You said he wanted to use you.” Up close, you see the chest plates of his body armor flex when he inhales deeply. “You could get hurt.”

You shrug. “Occupational hazard.”

You stare into Batman’s impassive, stoic expression and his tense, tight jaw. Your resolve flares white-hot. The girls working for Falcone are actively getting hurt, being hurt, the longer you take to crack this case. Yeah, sure, you’re just a freelance journalist. But lots of people in Gotham read your articles. A big enough article should garner enough public backlash to cause the Gotham PD to investigate. That was your hope anyway. And if not—well—you had Batman in your living room. You’d give the evidence over to him.  

You lift your chin and set your shoulders, “I can bear the pain if it means saving others the trouble.”

Something ripples across his half-masked face. Something – you think – like empathy? Until his eyes drop pointedly to your mouth. Your thoughts dry up, your mind a wasteland, and a new, sudden pulse reverberates across the muscles of your heart. You slowly release your lower lip from your teeth. If you had any space to move, you would slink around him, return to the solace, and comfort of your couch and start digging through Falcone’s contacts. But – tiny living room, big Bat. Outside, you hear a deluge pattering on the balcony railing and the rooftops below. A low and distant rumbling thunder vibrates through the skyscrapers.

Batman edges impossibly closer and the front of your chest brushes against his armor. Your neck aches from craning upward to look at him.

“Don’t go back to the lounge.” Says Batman.

“You’re not my boss.” You quip. “No one is. That’s kinda the point.”

“What about Gordon?” His lips thin. “I thought you worked for him.”

“Nope!” You respond brightly, “I just dig around in sketchy business and stir the pot, so the PD gets off their assess and does their actual jobs.”

Batman grumbles lowly.

“I can handle Falcone from here.”

“I’m sure you can, Vengeance.” You agree with just the barest touch of sarcasm.

Handle Falcone? Yeah. He’ll probably go break a few of Falcone’s ribs. Effective for intimidation, but not effective for the truth. You’ve seen Vengeance in action more than once (he’s got a pesky habit of turning up in the same circles you’re investigating). But would his technique of busting skulls help the girls in trouble? No. It wouldn’t. Based on your assumption of Falcone, if Batboy was busy fighting, then Falcone’s men would just transport the girls – and the drugs – to another location.

You reach behind yourself and tug the door handle, “I’ll call you with an update.” You slide the door open and burst of wind pushes chilly rainwater onto your floor and your back. “I promise.”

Batman glares down at you. He looks ready to say something else but thinks better of it. You step to the side to let him pass. You release a relieved sigh once he’s gone. What was that? Why did it almost seem like he was going to kiss you? You shake the foolish thought from your mind. You and Batboy? Hah! In your dreams maybe.

*********

A single phone call changes the trajectory of your entire day. You find yourself at Bruce Wayne’s Tower. You never thought you’d be here again. You use a tissue from your car’s glove compartment to try and wipe off the residual clumped mascara from last night. You aren’t as blue-blooded as the Wayne family. But the closeness in age, and the friendship your mother had toward Martha Wayne, meant that you and ‘Brucie’ were set up for playdates when you were old enough to talk. You despised him instantly.

On your first playdate, you bit him. The Bruce-Free days only lasted so long before the mothers decided to try again. On the second, he wouldn’t give you your favorite toy back. This caused quite a rift. He was forced to handwrite an apology. You still have it – somewhere – in a shoebox.

By the third or fourth playdate, things changed. Bruce stopped some older kids from picking on you and shoving your face in the dirt. He earned a busted lip and your unwavering, childish loyalty. You started looking forward to those scheduled, routine meetings in his big, fancy penthouse.

Until his parents were killed and whatever fondness that was born beautifully between you as children grew distant and cold.

You frown and count backward on your fingers. Jesus. It’s been years since you’ve seen him. Granted, it’s not like you tried to reach out either. After the years of ignored calls and radio silence in the fresh, tender years after his parent’s death—you gave up on trying. Was it shitty behavior? Maybe. But you were like ten. You didn’t know how to handle the grief of losing anyone either.

You smooth the wrinkles on your slept-in shirt and pop a piece of gum in your mouth to calm your nerves. Oh, well! You can’t hide in the car forever.

You’re led inside his glossy, gothic penthouse. Your eyes snag on the polished, wooden table holding a vase. You’ve got a tiny, white scar from where you smashed your face into that exact table from running through the hall. Alfred gives you a polite, well-mannered smile before pouring tea.

He says, “it’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks.” You accept the pretty, floral teacup, “can’t say I was expecting a phone call from the Wayne house.”

“Hm. Indeed.” His eyes sparkled, “I, myself, was quite surprised when Bruce told me to contact you. He said he could trust no one else with it.”

You squirm a little in your seat. “Being vague to a pseudo-reporter is like the literal worst thing you can do. Care to enlighten me as to why I’m here?”

The only tidbit of information Alfred gave on the phone was that Bruce had a job for you. Although it felt a little weird to be meeting up with your old childhood friend under the blanket of professionalism and employment opportunity, your pathetic bank account is two overdraft fees away from being closed completely, so you really couldn’t be prideful or finicky.

“I’m afraid I cannot. He will explain everything.”

In that moment, the man of the hour decides to bless you with his presence. Your teacup clatters shakily against the porcelain saucer. His damp hair hangs in wet, slinky tendrils along his pale forehead. A shadow of dark stubble crests over his square, handsome jaw. He doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping based on his hunched posture and the dark half-moon circles under his baby blue eyes.

“Did you not consider getting dressed, sir?” Alfred tuts and shakes his head. Bruce sinks into the chair opposite to yours with a sigh. His dark, large hoodie and gray sweatpants drape over his frame like a blanket. His feet are bare which you find both funny and startlingly intimate.

“Quicksilver’s seen worse.” He grumbles.

You smile at the old moniker. “You’ve been following my career have you?”

Bruce’s lips quirk, something boyish and bashful crossing his features for a mere second, before he tamps it down.

“Here and there.” He shrugs, reaching for his tea, “I heard about you leaving the Gazette.”

“I wish it had been a more dramatic exit.” You sigh, “I can see the headline now. Sacked journalist gags Gazette with gory tell all of Gotham’s crime grime!” You drag your hand across the air as if smearing the headline into space.

Bruce exhales through his nostrils, a short and huffy sound. “Does it have to rhyme?”

“No, but it’s more fun if it does.” Your heart flutters when you look over at him (when did the gangly boy who hid behind pillars at charity events get so handsome?) You look away and focus on the ever-blooming pink roses on your teacup.

“Which brings me to my next point – why am I here?” You ask.

He sips his tea.

“How much did Alfred tell you?”

“Close to nothing.” You half-heartedly glare at the doorway where Alfred exited. “Said you had a job, said you asked for me.” Your heart does a strange twist. “Said you’d only trust me with it.”

Bruce stiffens. You notice it in his shoulders hidden beneath his baggy clothes. You’ve never known Alfred to lie but his statement, however true or not, made Bruce uncomfortable. You attempt to read his exhausted, sullen face, but it’s like trying to read a street sign within the reflection of a puddle.

Bruce avoids your eyes, “it’s about Arkham.”

Your eyebrow quirks upward. How did Bruce hear about that? Or was this unconnected? You shift in your seat again, sitting upright, attentive, and a scent not unlike blood fills your nostrils. Your old editor used to say: ‘Quicksilver, you got the instincts of a fucking shark.’ It’s a shame the bastard didn’t bother to fight to keep your big story afloat. Before Bruce even opens his mouth again, you can taste it—The Story. There’s something under the soil waiting to be dug up and brought to the light.

“I’m listening.”

“I heard about the story the Gazette wouldn’t publish.” Bruce sucks in a breath, “I want you to write it.”

The floor dips out from underneath you. You’re glad you’re not holding the expensive, delicate teacup because otherwise it would be shattered on the hardwood floor.

You balk. “What?”

“Write it.” He says with more certainty this time. “I’ll pay you.”

“Bruce.” You shake your head, immediately worried for his reputation, “if people find out you’re footing the bill to uncover Arkham’s dirty laundry…”

Something scared and small inside of you cringes at the idea of going into Arkham again. Then, abruptly, the face of one of Falcone’s drugged-out girls surfaces to your mind. Shit. If you do this, you’ll be fighting two monsters. Falcone’s dangerous corruption and obvious viciousness, and Arkham’s cold, claustrophobic corridors and placid doctors who – if you’re honest – have plastic smiles that freak you out more than some of the dangerous patients.

He says, “it doesn’t matter.”

God, he’s dumb. He’s all that’s left of the benevolent Wayne family name, and he wants to spend his days a shut-in recluse paying an ex-journalist to write a story no one wants? You want to shake sense into his shoulders.

You nibble your lower lip before asking, “why me?”

Bruce actually looks at a loss for words (not that he’s been a man of many words but whatever). His head tilts ever-so-slightly to the left. His eyes narrow imperceptibly. You twist the tiny sugar serving spoon between your fingers for the sake of movement, so you don’t start pacing in his parlor.

“Alfred already told you why,” murmurs Bruce.

All air whooshes out of your lungs in something that resembles a chuckle but is far too warbled to be an honest laugh.

“Even if I write the story, Bruce. What happens next? If I post it online, people will call me a conspiracist, or a liar, or both! And if it comes out that you’re involved, they will drag your name through the mud for supporting it.” You explain a hurried rush, desperate for him to understand, “there’s no way in hell the Gazette will publish it. And none of the smaller papers either would risk the Gazette’s wrath.”

You continue, “And this is all assuming my old contacts will even speak to me.”

You had walked in, ready to accept the job offer with a smile on your face, and now you were arguing against it. Why? Because you don’t want Bruce to have his name slandered? Because it looks hopeless? Or because you don’t want to face Arkham again? Or because you already have your hands full with the Falcone drug ring investigation?

You are uncertain of the answer. It feels like a little of everything.

“Write the story first, then we’ll figure out what to do with it.” He slides his palms down his legs, from his thighs to his knees. “There are papers outside of Gotham. As for your contacts…well…the ones who won’t speak to you are likely paid off by the Gazette, right?”

You blink at him. Holy shit. He’s serious. He wants you to rewrite the story. The damp, musty air of Arkham clings to the vessels inside your lungs. Can you do it? Can you tell both stories? Save the girls from Falcone and save the patients in Arkham? It’s a Herculean task.

But it’s not impossible. You told Vengeance last night that you’d suffer pain for the sake of others. And ‘others’ included the criminally deranged patients in Arkham.

You pinch the upper bridge of your nose and close your eyes. “Fuck…”

“You’re going to say yes.” Although you’re not looking at him, you can hear a faint smile in Bruce’s voice. A molten, nostalgic, and hungry heat unfurls through your bones. Goddamnit. At the end of the day – it’s Bruce, the scrappy boy who took a blackeye and busted lip for you – that’s who is asking you for a favor. You can bite and bark all you want. But you know you’re going to agree. Doesn’t explain how he knows it, though.

You meet his steely, blue gaze, “how do you know?”

Bruce shrugs.

You groan. “Fine, fine. Yeah. Yes. I accept. Show me the paperwork to sign.”

The rich bastard does actually have paperwork for you to sign. Which is like – hilarious and also ridiculous and your leg bounces under the table with each shiny, wet signature you leave behind. It’s basic non-disclosure agreement and ownership stuff that you’ve seen a hundred other times. You mutually agree to not reveal whose paying you, you keep your contacts private and secure, and Bruce agrees that once the article is complete—it’s his. You can choose to strip your name from it completely. He’s free to sell it to the highest bidder outside of Gotham.

Though, with minor hassling, he agrees to consult with you beforehand before it goes anywhere to print.

Once the business is done, you find yourself falling into sort-of-easy conversation. It’s mostly one-sided because Bruce’s life is incredibly fucking boring. He’s unlike the other rich elites of Gotham – those with their smiling, plastic faces on glossy magazine covers.

“What?” Your prompt, leaning your elbows on the table, “Not even a single torrid and gut-wrenching love affair to share with your old friend?”

Bruce deadpans, “no.”

“What about Alfred?”

“No.” A little line appears between his eyebrows. It’s cute. You stifle a giggle in the back of your throat. “Unless he’s keeping secrets.”

You lean back in your chair, “I’ll ask him on my way out.”

You talk about work because it’s easiest. You tell him about your other articles – both published and tossed aside. You tell him about your brief period, post-Gazette, as a private investigator (“It was mostly trying to find out if partners were cheating on each other and I got bored fast” You clarify, “money was good though”). You tiptoe around any topic that implies you have a life outside of your work. Simply because you don’t. You fall asleep staring at your computer screen, up to your neck in research, and you wake up staring at the same screen. It’s a little…embarrassing…to consider how hollow your life is, but Bruce doesn’t leave his house. It’s not like he can judge you and you’d give him hell if he tried.

A notification on your cracked phone screen informs you that you need to go. You’ve got a meeting with Gordon in an hour. You already passed information off to the Bat. Now, it was time for Gordon to follow-up with you on the leads you gave him last week.

“I’ll walk you out.” He offers, falling into quiet step behind you.

You tease. “Always a gentleman.”

His lips twitch. You think he almost smiled. Now, It’s not perfect. You’re not slotted together at the hip like you used to be when you were kids. And he’s practically your boss now. But at least you’re talking again. At least it’s something. That’s better than the years of static and loneliness and complicated, yearning feelings you endured in your youth.

You press the button for the lobby with a short wave to Bruce in farewell.

His long pale fingers suddenly wrap around the silver, polished elevator door and he stops it from hissing shut. His eyes roam your face like he’s trying to memorize the slope of your nose, the bow of your lips, and the arch of your brow. He looks …haggard – a little wild…like whatever he’s about to say or do is being ripped from his ribcage. Bruce is on a flimsy tether and he’s one rough pull from unraveling.

His voice dips low, stoking at an ember you weren’t aware of in the depths of your belly.

“You always used to close your eyes before saying yes to me.” His eyes pin you, their gaze darkening, and the rumpled slump of his shoulders tightens.

You grin. “That’s because you were an insufferable brat who always got his way.” You rapidly press the ‘close door’ button a few times. It doesn’t do anything, of course, because Bruce is white knuckling the door.

“Anything you need…” He trails off, then finishes his sentence with a gruff, “– just call.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You wave a hand, trying to be as nonchalant as possible with your heart trying to fucking escape from your chest like an Olympic acrobat. “I’m on the payroll now. Got it.”

You’re about to become the Queen of Multi-tasking.

*********

Fuck this fucking club, you think, as Falcone places his arm around your waist. It sends a clear message to the other creeps in here. He’s interested in you. Everyone else better back off or they’ll lose an eyeball. Your skin crawls. You put on a brave face. You giggle at his jokes. You pet the front of his blazer, curling up next to him in the booth, enduring his cigar-breath and fingers groping your thighs.

“How ‘bout we get outta here, sweetheart?” He asks, “I got something I wanna show you. Something that’ll make you feel good.”

You flutter your eyelashes, playing dumb, “really?”

Gordon followed some of Falcone’s cars to the shipping district and confirmed that Falcone was keeping the missing girls somewhere else. Gordon couldn’t breach the private warehouses without a warrant. And Batman has been MIA for the past two nights. You hope and pray that Falcone is planning to take you there now. You’re desperate for a lead.

“Yeah, baby.” He grins. “Remember how I was telling you that I’m getting into something big? Something groundbreaking? Well – tonight, you get to have a taste of it.”

You don’t want to be too eager. “Can’t we just go to your office?” You wine.

“No, no, baby.” He takes a long pull of his cigar, “I don’t keep it here.”

He signals for one of his boys to bring a car around. You don’t bother to hide your nervous and bouncy excitement. You mentally and emotionally prepare yourself for the car ride. So far, you’ve avoided Falcone’s mouth by dodging and playing coy and leaving before things get heated—but he’s a brute and a criminal. He’ll take advantage of the small space of the backseat. You’re sure of it.

Plus, he thinks you’re a runaway who is desperate for her next fix. He thinks you’re vulnerable and weak. He has no idea how wrong he is.

You hold the image of the missing posters at the forefront of your mind. You repeat their names as Falcone shoves his tongue between your teeth. You climb onto Falcone’s lap so he can’t reach between your legs and fantasize about Batman punching into Falcone’s slimy face.

Thankfully, it’s a short ride. You make a big show of pouting when the car door opens and then giggling as if you’re drunk at Falcone’s goon. Falcone leads you past some of the warehouses and into a small receiving office. You’re confused until he opens the door at the far end of the wall which leads into a narrow staircase.

Your lungs shrivel. It’s underground. You take Falcone’s offered hand and follow him down the stairs, counting each step, counting every breath. You hope the stairwell will open up into a larger space. You never did well in tight, confined spaces. You swallow thickly. You repeat the girl’s names over and over again like a mantra to salvation and sanity. Nearly halfway down and you start to hear low, echoing moaning. You bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from reacting. Falcone doesn’t look back at you.

The universe is downright cackling at you when the stairwell ends, and you’re confronted with a wider-than usual hallway pocketed with doors. The air is chillier than above and you’re in a black mini dress and fighting off a panic attack.  A full body tremor wreck through you. The urge to bolt, to run upstairs, digs its claws into you.

Falcone misinterprets your trembling, “don’t worry, honey.” He nods to one of his boys and they open one of the doors, “you’ll get what you want.”

You come face to face with one of the missing girls. Her cherry blonde hair is mussed over her damp, tear-streaked face. She’s curled on a mattress and muttering, quietly, to herself. It almost sounds like a song.

All self-preservation flies out the metaphorical window. Your heels click toward her, you crouch, and smooth her hair away from her face. Her big, brown eyes are glossy and distant. Wherever she is – it’s not here. And you’re thankful for it. Her hair is longer than her missing photo, but you recognize her. Her name is Karina. She broke up with her boyfriend and ran off after they had a fight. Falcone – or one of his people - must’ve grabbed her during the emotional turmoil and fallout.

Now, you’ve found her and there’s a high chance the rest of the girls are in the other rooms. You need to get to them. Gordon might not be able to shut this place down in time. The silver lining is that Falcone has limited security here. This is where he keeps the girls – not where he keeps the drugs. The few security goons you saw only carried pistols. You will get your hands on one. You’ll get these girls out.

You’re a journalist, not a hero. But doesn’t stop you from formulating a plan. If all else fails, you’ll reveal the ace in your sleeve, and tell Falcone about the tracker in your phone. It had been Batboy’s idea. It’s a one-of-a-kind program. Once activated, if you don’t check-in after 2 hours via a passcode, it alerts Gordon.

Come to think of it, it probably alerts Batman too.

“Don’t worry.” Falcone croons, “it’s more than pleasant.”

His goon grabs your arm. You almost jerk away until you remember yourself and let your wrist fall limp in their hands. You flinch at the bite of the needle. The world swims in vibrant, pulsing color. You cling to reality as feebly as you can. Whatever lucid part of your mind rationalizes that the high cannot last too long. Your tongue rests heavy in your mouth. The door echoes shut with a loud bang.

The walls close-in toward you. Shit, fuck, what the fuck?! Is the room collapsing? You press your hands to the concrete with a panicked gasp. Yes, yes, you feel vibrations. An earthquake? In Gotham!? It sounds implausible. Your mind is foggy, formulating thoughts through a haze of animalistic panic, your heart thundering so loud in your ears that you hear nothing else.

You hiccup, unaware when you started crying, your sluggish fingertips clawing at the flat, immovable walls that press closer and closer with every ragged inhale. A swarm of black spots dance like demons in front of your eyes.

You’re not even sure why you say—“Bruce?!” until you realize it’s because an earthquake is happening, and you’re stuck underground and he’s at Wayne tower and it’s going to collapse! And no one is going to be able to warn him and no one is going to be able to save him and no one is going to be with him and—Oh God!

The air is stale. You don’t have enough of it. You’re going to die in here. The realization hits you as the ceiling starts to drop. Tiny flecks of white plaster drop onto your head and into your eyes. They cloud your vision and burn. You want to curl up into a little ball and scream, but you suddenly remember you aren’t alone.

You grab Karina’s addled face, “we have to breathe slowly!” You shout to her over the noise of crumbling walls and plaster. “Slowly!”

You practice the correct slow and measured breathes to conserve oxygen. Karina doesn’t listen. She is crying. Her tears fall, fat and watery down her face. You keep trying to show her how to breathe like a mother teaching her child how to take their first steps. Karina is hopeless. She continues to wail and cry, and blubber apologizes and lamentations for her parents.

You stumble to your feet on the unsteady, shaking ground. Somehow, the metal door has withstood the ongoing earthquake. You’re not sure how this is possible, but you’re not going to spit on the blessing. Your fingers dig into the cold handle and tug. It gives way – unlocked – and you barrel into the hallway with watery knees. Another tremor of the earth and you shoulder into the doorway directly across the hall. Your body flares at the pain of impact.

Someone is screaming. It’s not Karina. Your face turns toward the sound. The collapsing world is a mess of greys and an off-shade blue that’s too unlike the sky and nearly nauseating. Every time you move your head, there’s an after-image of the world prior, like your mind is lagging and struggling to hold connection to your body and your visual receptors.

Batman is standing in the hallway. His cloak is billowing outward, led by an unknown wind, and you nearly collapse with relief. He can help. He can save Bruce and Karina and all the others. You don’t have to do it alone.

You scream, “Bruce!”

He reflectively jerks like someone slapped him. The elbow in his hand, held at an awkward and painful angle, is dropped. You lean your weight against the wall and stumble toward Batman to explain, your tongue still feels heavy, and your lips tingle.

“Bruce – my friend – my friend Bruce - you have to help him.” You grab Batman’s solid arm, heavy and black, but he’s the only thing not crumbling around you.

“There’s been an earthquake—didn’t you feel it?! And he’s on his own and someone has to warn him so he can -so he can get out. So, Alfred can get out. They live in a tower. It’s going to collapse. It’s going to collapse. Please, please, please, please. I can’t lose him again. Please, please, please.”

Your body won’t stop shaking. Your jaw tenses with a wild, deep urge to grind your teeth. “You’ve got tons of gadgets. Do a gadget. Help him. Help him, please.”

Batman is holding your face. When did that happen? You feel the heat of his palms through his gloves. Or maybe it’s you. Your skin is burning up. You feel the heat of it travel all the way down the back of your neck and across your chest. The words are slipping now like big slimy eels. Your tongue struggles to shape them.

“What did he give you?”

“Dunno.” You slur, your eyelids droop. “Karina. Other room. Help Karina. The girls. Help B—Bruce. Please. Please. Earthquake. Tell him. Hurry. Hurry.”

He squeezes your face, “Silver. Look at me.” He demands. “There’s no earthquake. It’s the drugs. Did you see where Falcone went?”

As if to prove him wrong, a piece of rubble falls from the ceiling.

It lands on him.

He collapses like a squashed bug. You shriek. The force of it renders your throat into bloody ribbons. You back pedal with arms flaring, blood hot and sticky on your face, and you trip over your feet. Someone is grabbing you, their grip strong, and they’re talking—but you can’t hear them. The walls are falling, falling, falling. You’re going to be buried alive. You failed. You failed the girls. You failed Bruce. You failed yourself.

You squeeze your eyes shut because to look would be unbearable.

*********

The next time you open your eyes, you’re in a hospital. The white and blue gown is itchy and fits poorly. You rub your eyes and work the muscles of your aching, dry throat. Your body feels…mostly fine. There’s some minor discomfort at the back of your skull and your jaw.

Gordon says, “Quicksilver, you gave me a scare.”

You probe your memory and glance to your bedside where Gordon sits. “Take it from the top, Gordon, because I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“You asking me as my friend or as a cop?”

He straightens his shoulders and his mustache quivers, “a friend.”

“Finding Karina in a sub-level below a shipment receiving office. Falcone’s men drugging me.” You chew at your lower lip, “I think…I think there was an earthquake?” Your mind snaps to Bruce and to his safety. The heartrate monitor betrays your unease.

Gordon mutters, “he mentioned that.”

“Who?”

“Our mutual friend in black.”

You sit up in bed, “he’s alive?!”

“Why wouldn’t he be?”

“I – I saw him. I don’t know if it was the drugs or if it was real…but he was there.” You fuss at the sheets pooled around your waist, “I guess it was all a hallucination. Fuck. What was it?”

“The lab is running an analysis on your blood.” Gordon clears his throat, “we know it triggers the adrenal gland, and it induces auditory as well as visual hallucinations, and based on the other victims, we think it affects cognitive abilities as well.”

You make a mental note to ensure Gordon releases the analysis to you.

“Are they okay?”

“They’re badly shaken, but everyone is accounted for thanks to you.”

You weren’t sure what happened to Falcone and didn’t feel ready to ask, but if you had to guess—he likely weaseled his way out of there.

You relax a little into the pillows, “Gordon, can you do me a favor?”

“Of course.”

“Can you call my boss?”

Gordon smiles faintly, “I thought you were freelance. Untethered, I think, was the word you used last time.”

“Fuck off.” You laugh, “I’m allowed to change my mind.”

*********

Gordon gave you the rundown of what happened while you waited for Bruce. Your app triggered shortly after you entered the shipment office. Batman was following you the whole evening (because of course he was! He’s worse than an overbearing grandmother).

When you didn’t check in, he assumed the worst and followed. Batman found you, rambling and sweating and screaming about an earthquake in the hallway. Batman called Gordon who arrived shortly thereafter with EMTs.

None of the doors keeping the girls were locked. A stronger dose, Gordon explained, usually rendered your body paralyzed. He theorized that Falcone must’ve wanted to see how you’d react first, but when Batman arrived, he fled. You decide not to think about what could’ve happened if Batman didn’t show up.

Gordon leaves the room to take a call. You’re left alone with your thoughts.

You rest your cheek along the stiff, bleach-smelling pillow and stare out the window to Gotham’s chrome brilliance. It’s overcast, painting the skyscrapers gray, the big, fluffy clouds reflect on every giant window. They promise rain. And when Gotham’s skies promise rain—she almost always delivers. You sigh.

Bruce hasn’t been in your life for more than three days and he was your first thought when you were in trouble. It is embarrassing. It’s heart-wrenching. You were on a drug-addled hellscape of your worst nightmare and what did you do? You begged Batman to keep Bruce safe. The seasons change, but your candle to Bruce Wayne hasn’t. He’s ingrained into you. The little white scar from his hallway table. The folded apology letter in the shoebox under your bed next to the faded, sun-washed photograph of you two eating watermelon slices.

The door creaks open.

“Hey, no hoodie this time! I’m honored.” You smile and try to infuse as much teasing and normalcy into your voice as possible.

The treacherous heartrate monitor betrays you again. Your pulse is erratic from simply looking at him. Truthfully, he looks like shit. All bedraggled, and sleep-deprived, and pale. He somehow manages to look more hollowed-out from when you saw him last. You wish whoever kept carving out pieces of Bruce Wayne’s heart out of his chest would just stop. But, sadly, the truth is that Bruce is the one holding that knife.

You kick the covers off your legs, standing when he approaches you, “you shouldn’t—” He says, but he’s too late. Too slow. You throw your arms around him. You tremble, hot and biting tears burn inside your lower lashes, and your hands fist the fabric of his heavy, woolen coat. His cologne is earthy, masculine, and warm.

It takes him a minute to wrap his arms around you. But when he does—oh God—when he does that’s when you shatter. You’re not sure how you have the energy to weep after everything that happened, but somehow, against all odds, you do. You cry messy, snotty tears into his expensive wool collar. He clings to you like he might just fuse your bodies together through sheer willpower alone. It nearly hurts. You gasp, muttering his name over and over again, through the salt and relief that clumps your eyelashes together.

“I was so scared.” You admit, voice small like a child, “I was so scared something happened to you and that I wouldn’t be able to reach you.”

“Me?” He rumbles, “what about you?”

You shrug and pull away to look up into his face. “I can take it.”

Bruce’s hand cradles the side of your face. You lean into it. His hands are cool and surprisingly calloused. His thumb catches an errant tear and brushes it aside. He looks at you like he’s about to give you something. His expression so earnest, so pained, that it momentarily steals the breath from your lungs. Your exhale quivers through your parted lips.

He says, quite simply, quiet plainly, vocal chords rough and strained; “I can’t.”

It feels like a declaration. It feels like a confession. The wretched heartbeat monitor has not stopped relentlessly beeping and displaying your desperate, aching heart. Your fingers crawl toward his jaw. His stubble scratches your palms. His pink tongue skirts across his plush lower lip. There is a question lingering in the fathomless depths of his blue eyes. You crane onto your tiptoes, edging closer, and Bruce finally asks the question in his eyes—

“Can I kiss you?” He breathes.

Your eyes close, “yes,” and you nod minutely.

His lips graze yours. You close the barely-there distance between your mouths. He sighs into your mouth. It tastes like inevitability. He presses you snug against the hard, lean muscled strength of him. He is warm, and strong, and safe. You start to pull away, but he chases your mouth with his, humming pleasantly and pleased, you feel the vibration of it from his chest.

His hand on your face slides to the nape of your neck and he holds you, securely, and almost possessively. Your tongue glides against the seam of his lips, and he opens willingly for you. You lick into his mouth with a selfish and needy whimper. This feels right. It feels good.

The door swings open, followed by Gordon’s voice, “They said they’d release—” You wrench your mouth free and hide your face in Bruce’s collar.

“Oh.” Gordon clears his throat.

You burst into laughter, bubbly and bright, traveling all the way up your stomach and through your nose like fizzy champagne. To your immense pleasure and surprise, Bruce doesn’t let you go. His grip relaxes, but he doesn’t release you. You stay pinned to his side. Hip to hip.

You wipe the residual tears from your face, “tell me I’m going home.”

“Under supervision, yes.” Gordon’s perceptive gaze flickers to Bruce. “The side-effects of the drug are unknown. They wanted to keep you here but I – uh – I argued against it.”

“She can stay with me.” Offers Bruce.

“Hell yeah!” You beam, “tell me you have the same mattresses. Please.” The sleepovers were rare, but you had fond memories of those squishy, expensive mattresses and throwing pillows at Bruce’s head. After the kiss…maybe you’d stay in Bruce’s room? A tiny light of hope ignites in your chest.  

Gordon’s eyebrow lifts a notch. You ignore him.

“I have a guest room, yes.”

Well, that hope was short-lived. You stamp down on your disappointment and focus on the positives. You’re staying with Bruce. He won’t be a phone call away. He’ll be a few feet away at most. You can make up for lost time. Lord knows you’ve got plenty of it.

“Can I leave now?” You ask Gordon.

“There’s some paperwork you need to fill out, but generally, yes. You can leave whenever you’re ready.” He regards you, both professional and concerned, “are you sure you’re okay?”

You nod. “The less time I’m in a hospital, the better.” To Bruce you say, “can we stop at my place so I can get some clothes and my laptop?”

Bruce looks quizzically at you, “your laptop?”

“Mhm.” You nod, “for work.”

“I suggest we keep the Falcone investigation private for now, Quicksilver.” Gordon says with a worried pinch to his brow, “we don’t have enough evidence to charge him. I know you’re not really ‘The Press’ anymore, but you’d be doing us a favor.”

“Don’t get your tie twisted, Gordon. I’ve got other projects on my plate.”

Gordon hums, a deep sound low in his chest, and he gives a knowing glance to Bruce before leading you out.

*********

You try not to internally panic at the reality of Bruce standing in your awkwardly living room. His eyes roams over your bookshelves and to the messy, unkept pillows and blankets on your coach.

“I’ll just be a minute.” Your bedroom door softly clicks shut. You peel off the hospital scrubs they gave you. Your shoulder whines with sharp, throbbing pain. In the mirror above the bathroom sink, you prod the mottled bruises that decorate your shoulder and splatter like paint across your collarbone. You don’t remember hitting the door that hard. You change into bulky, comfortable clothes. You shove enough clothes for a few days into a backpack.

According to your discharge paperwork, the doctors advised you should be monitored for at least 72 hours. You exhale harshly through your lips. Three days with Bruce Wayne. What can go wrong? What can go right?  

Maybe he’ll just hand you off to Alfred and call it a day. You chuckle to yourself.

“Okay,” You swing the door open, “I’m ready—h-hey!” You proclaim, frowning, seeing Bruce holding your laptop open in his hands.

He doesn’t even look up, one hand on the keyboard, the other flat beneath it. “Your laptop is grossly outdated.”

“First of all, invasion of privacy. Rude. I should kick you out.” You sidle beside him and peer around his arm, “secondly, how’d you guess my password?”

His lips curve upward into a smirk. Your stomach swoops and awareness prickles across the nape of your neck. You’re relieved there’s no longer a heartrate monitor to blast your embarrassing feelings on monochromatic display.

He says, “I got lucky.”

“Bullshit.” You laugh.

*********

The sound of your laugh unravels something in him. He’s been so careful, so distant, and yet one laugh from you and he’s weak. He wants to wrap you in his arms again and ensure you’re safe. He wants to drag Falcone by the hair to the steps of Gotham Police. He thought he mastered fear. He believed himself immune to it. He is shadow, and vengeance, and righteous fury.

But, at Falcone’s drug den, he was helpless to ease your suffering. His failure plagued him. It is forever buried into the deep reaches of his mind. Every possibility of what could have been flashes through his mind whenever he looks at you. Losing you would be…his stomach sours thinking of it. He avoids your perceptive gaze and carefully snaps the laptop closed.

He says, “you should change your password.”

Your nose scrunches. His heart pangs within the hollowness of his chest. All at once, he is seven years old again, chasing you in the park, and pretending summer would never end. He’s refined the art of missing you – of your necessary absence – and now all those careful, practiced skills are turning to dust.

“Why?”

He tucks your laptop under his arm, “the code is too obvious.” Said code is his birthday. The password implies that you’ve not forgotten him—despite his distance, his lack of friendship. He recalls your glossy, wild eyes begging the Batman to save him. Falcone’s drugs clutched you in a vice grip of madness and you thought of him. He doesn’t deserve it.

“So?” You shrug, but a nervousness enters your eyes and gives you away. “How many people know we’re friends? Like two people, right? The odds of those two people trying to hack my laptop for information are close to zero.”

He sighs. You’ve got that fiery, determined gleam in your eyes. There’s no winning this argument.

On the walk back to the car, you continue, “besides, all my important notes and files are encrypted with a different password. I browse anything online through a VPN. And—” You keep talking throughout the car ride. You fidget in your seat. You chew at your lower lip.

He realizes, albeit slowly, that the excessive rambling isn’t because you want to prove a point. It’s because you’re anxious. It’s likely because of Falcone’s continued freedom. His grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Falcone can’t reach you here.” He says levelly, “you’ll be safe at Wayne Tower.”

“Huh?”

“You’re…” He clears his throat, glancing sidelong toward you, “acting jumpy.”

“Oh.” You rub both of your hands over your face. You go quiet. You turn your face away, watching the city through the rain-speckled windshield. Bruce immediately wants to kick himself. Shit. He wants to comfort you, reassure you, not cause you to withdraw. He fumbles to find some type reply of that’ll get you talking again.

You reach over to the center dashboard and flick on the radio. An old, classic croons through the speakers. You rest your chin in your palm and continue to stare out the window. His fingers flex against the wheel with an errant, foolish wish to stretch across the space and settle his palm on your bouncing knee. The rest of the car ride is silent, save for the rain hitting the metallic roof, and the droning, sorrowful song in his ears.

*********

Bruce is painfully absent once you enter the tower. He doesn’t even explain why. He walks in with you and then vanishes like an impressive magician. You’re half-tempted to go knocking on walls and look for secret doorways.

Dory shows you to the guest room. She’s sweet and fusses over your comfort and keeps saying how nice it is to have a guest over. Alfred helps you connect to the wi-fi signal. He keeps you company in the room you’ve plugged your laptop into (the old beast can’t hold a charge anymore). You take notes about Arkham, you eat little sandwiches and fresh fruit, and force yourself into some semblance of normalcy. Alfred is a decent conversationalist, but you worry that he’s here to keep you occupied so you won’t go looking for Bruce. You push the thought away.

It's not like Bruce is avoiding you, right? He’s just busy doing weird billionaire reclusive stuff. You wrinkle your nose. What could Bruce be doing? Oh, God. Maybe Alfred is keeping you away, maybe Bruce has some freaky, embarrassing hobby. Like roadkill taxidermy and then he uses the taxidermy animals to produce original puppet shows.

Alfred says, “found something interesting, have you?”

You realize you’re smiling from the thought of Puppet-Show Bruce. You shake your head.

“I’m piecing together the etymology of the word Arkham to build my timeline for the hospital and the Arkham family’s influence. I want to see if any of it connects to the current medical board or the staff.” Your fingers continue to click-clack across your keyboard.

“It’s interesting. Usually, surnames will connect back to a specific occupation, or piece of land which you can cross-reference, but for Arkham there’s nothing.” You divulge these findings to a patient and attentive Alfred.

He smiles fondly, “I see.”

“You’re looking at me funny.” You squint at him.

“I’m just pleased you’re here.”

You press your lips together. A pleased, appreciative warmth prickles along your skin.

In the evening, Bruce doesn’t show up for dinner. And you start to wonder if you hallucinated the kiss at the hospital. But there’s no way, right? The drugs were flushed out of your system. You were of sound mind and body. Did he regret it? That is the only plausible and logical reason in your mind for his avoidance. He kissed you, regretted it, and now probably regretted having you in his house for the next three days.

You roll onto your side in the big, comfy bed. You can’t even enjoy it. Your stupid stomach is tied into knots thinking about Bruce-fucking-Wayne. You stare at the dark ceiling. OK. You can’t sleep. Fine. His home is temporarily your home. What did you do when you couldn’t sleep?

The chilly air bites your legs when you kick off the heavy, puffy covers. When the thoughts go loud, you go quiet, and focus your mind on something else. Bruce is dodging you, but at least he gave you something to do. Might as well be useful if you’re not going to be unconscious.

You’ve set up in the main parlor/sitting room/whatever-the-hell this room is with its heavy, iron lantern chandeliers and sleek, dark mahogany and bookshelf nooks. Your computer hums loudly to life on the desk and blue light spills across the woven, red tapestry rug. Behind you, the tall, cathedral-like window is sluiced with rainwater and pockets of light from Gotham below twinkle like an inverted night sky. Your files on Arkham flood the screen.

Your shoulders hunch forward, “okay, Dr. Mercer.” You mutter to yourself, “let’s see you’ve been up to.”

*********

He doesn’t know how to approach you as Bruce. He approaches you as the Bat. His cape and cowl do more than protect his identity from criminals. His mask is a shield. If he’s Batman—and not Bruce—he can do so much more. He can be more than just a man.

He watches you from the shadows. You’re hunched over your laptop, bloodshot eyes, fingers drumming on the hardwood, your face hardened and taught with concentration. You worked yourself to the bone, risked your life to save the missing girls. Not because anyone hired you to. Not because of the promise of fame or recognition Not out of ambition to try and get your old job at the Gazette back. But because you noticed a pattern. And you actually care. You brought it to Gordon, who gave what support he could within the confines of the justice system, but otherwise you worked alone. And despite the odds stacked against you, you succeeded.

If not for the tracker in your phone, he doesn’t know if he would’ve found you. Well, that’s only partially true. With the tracker, Bruce doesn’t know if he’d find you in time. But he knows – deep in whatever remains of his heart - if you were missing, he’d tear Gotham bolt-from-bolt to find you. He gingerly steps from the shadows, his cape dragging softly on the floor, and his boot intentionally hit a creaky floorboard.

You look up, eyes wide, and you don’t scream. Your throat bobs in a difficult swallow.

He says, “you weren’t at your apartment.”

“Instead of breaking and entering into my friend’s house—” Your brow pinches together, “you could have called.”

He is prepared for this conversation. The mask hides the slight lift of his brow. He steps behind you and peers over your shoulder to the computer screen. Your notes on Arkham are impressive. He doesn’t know how the ancient thing manages to hold enough memory to store it all.

“You asked me to check on him.”

“Yeah, but there wasn’t an earthquake.” You twist, turning your face toward him. A faint smell of mint toothpaste catches him off guard. The knowledge that you’ve settled into the tower, that you’ve done ordinary things like brushed your teeth and shared tea with Alfred, should scare him. But it doesn’t.

“Besides, I didn’t expect you to actually follow-through.”

He frowns. Has he already lost your trust in him?

“Why not?”

You turn back to your screen, shrugging mildly. “I saw you die.”

His breath hitches. How much pain did you endure from the moment the drug was injected? What other horrors did you see? And yet, here you are, continuing to research Arkham because he asked you to. He doesn’t deserve your loyalty. Anger rolls through his gut, hot and metallic in the back of his throat.

“You shouldn’t have gone near Falcone.” He grumbles, “I told you—”

You interrupt him. “And I told you I didn’t work for you.”

Yeah, that plan backfired magnificently. He assumed when he gave you the Arkham assignment, you’d step away from the Falcone case. He should’ve known better. Guilt, and anger, and self-loathing churn and mix like a dangerous, erratic cocktail. When you interrupted him, you turned around, and now he’s pinned like a butterfly by your gaze. Your nostrils flare gently as you stare up at him. Your eyes roam. He feels the heat of your eyes as they trail the square of jaw, the cleft of his chin, the shadowed expanse around his eyes.

“For the record, though…” You say softly, “I am glad you’re ok.”

His eyes drop to the curve of where your neck meets your shoulder. The T-shirt you’re wearing is well-loved, buttery soft from frequent washes, and a few holes peeking around neck hole hem. His frown deepens. His glove skims the edge of your collar. Your pulse leaps inside your jaw, but you don’t flinch or step away.

He hooks his index finger into the fabric and gently tugs it aside. A scatter of dark bruises splotch over your collarbone and disappear into your shoulder. Everything in him goes tight like a bowstring ready to fire. His heart is thunderously loud in his ears. His eyes cannot move away from the bruise even as he notices your breathing pattern change.

“Falcone?” He says asks, lowly, dangerously.

Your hand wraps around his wrist. “A door, actually.” You don’t pull his hand away like he expects. Your fingers glide over his glove and loosely twine over his. Your hand is much smaller than his. It’s a strange detail to notice in this moment, but it’s the only thing that’s tethering him to sanity.

“I’m fine. I promise.” Your thumb rubs across his knuckles. He cannot feel it. And for once, he’s cursing his layered and protective armor. He cautiously turns his wrist and enfolds your fingers between his. You bite your lip and look away…almost shy. This would be the perfect time to kiss you. The rain gently is pattering against the window. There are no sirens or Bat signals to pull him away. He tilts forward, preparing to drop his mouth to yours…

“I don’t think Falcone is at the top of this pyramid.” You announce abruptly. He blinks.

He responds, “what do you mean?”

You untwine your fingers from his and walk around the desk and toward the bookshelf and the window. You pace back and forth in front of it like a race car on a plastic track. Around and around. Several steps, then pivot, walk the same steps in the other direction.

“Falcone is a sleazeball and an opportunist. I know he deals in uppers. Drugs like ecstasy, drops, cocaine…” You list off, clearly finding comfort in talking your problems aloud, “they’re expensive and addictive. But the drug they gave me and the other girls…that wasn’t a party drug.”

He knows. He has a sample of your blood being tested in the Batcave.

“What’s your theory?” He tracks your pacing form with his dark, smudged eyes.

“I’m thinking about the execution of the drug and its effects. It requires a needle. It induces a panic-like state.” You shake your head in uncomfortable remembrance, “it increases body temperature and effects cognitive functions. Could it be used in a controlled environment for torture? Probably. But that doesn’t feel financially ludicrous enough to tempt someone like Falcone.”

“You think it’s a prototype.”

“Exactly!” You snap your fingers and glow from within. His eyelashes flutter at the brilliance of your smile. “See? This is why we work well together.”

He can see the threads in the air that connect one thought to the next.

“Falcone is working with someone else.” It’s not a completely debased assumption to make. Falcone has plenty of business connections.

You offer him a distracted nod. “That’s my theory.”

A notch forms between your eyebrows. Your gaze drops to the carpet, your thumb is pressing into the tempting lush shape of your lower lip. His heart careens into his ribcage in a desperate, love-struck attempt to break free. He can’t be with you as Bruce. Bruce has a secret identity, a secret life. But Batman is freedom. He’s the choice to wake up and try to make a difference. He’s fearless and fear inspiring. There’s only so few hours in the night and he can’t afford to lose them.

************

You explain, “it could be Penguin. It could be someone else. We’ll know more when Gordon has my blood report.”

It feels strangely liberating to talk this through with Batman. You can’t talk about it with Bruce—though you know he’s trustworthy, you’re not sure he’d support the…extremes…you take to uncover the truth. And you don’t want to worry him either.  Hell, there used to be a time when you never kept secrets from him. Where did all the time go.

You sigh, shoulders slumping, and cover your hands over your face. If only Bruce would stop avoiding you, then you’d talk to him! God. You hope he doesn’t wake up and find you having a midnight fireside chat with Gotham’s vigilante. That would be awkward. You smile behind your palms. It would be awkward first, then funny.

Batman says your name delicately as if he might break it on his tongue if he’s not careful. The warm, supple heat of his gloves wraps around your wrists and gently pulls your hands away from your face. You are unsurprised to see the grim, flat line of his mouth, to see the haunted echo behind his cerulean eyes.

“It wasn’t me who saved those girls.” He says, “it was you.”

You find the carpet infinitely interesting. Wow. What is that pattern? Eastern-European? Late 19th Century? Is it Dracula Chic? The detail work is fantastic. The color is so rich and textured—

He tilts your chin up, forcing you to meet his eyes again. “You made a difference.”

You must’ve fallen asleep while working on the Arkham article. There is no way this is real. There’s no way Vengeance is complimenting you. It’s surreal. It’s impossible. His gaze drops to your mouth. His thumb lightly presses into your lower lip. Yes, this is definitely a dream. Your heart is pounding harder than the rainfall against the window.

Batman leans toward you, close enough to feel the feather-whisper of his breath on your lips. His heavily lidded eyes drag from your mouth to your eyes. A low electric pulse strums through your veins. Your finger scramble for purchase on his arm guards and squeeze in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself. It could be real, it could be a dream, or it could be the side-effects of the drug.

“Is this real?” You mumble. “Because it seems like you—like you might kiss me.”

Batman’s gravelly voice responds, “I’d like to.”

You press your teeth into your lower lip. Bruce kissed you, but a kiss isn’t always pretense to a relationship. A kiss isn’t a promise to monogamy. Besides, you have your suspicions that Bruce is regretting the kiss anyway. There’s no harm in kissing Batman. You’re not betraying anyone. You touch his stubbled jaw with your fingertips and instinct pulls your eyes closed.

“Yes, you may.”

He sighs unevenly and then, his mouth is pressed into yours with surprising, desperate intensity. You clutch his face, opening your mouth beneath his, and moan softly at the first lick of his tongue against the roof of your mouth. Batman kisses you like he’ll die if he stops, like this kiss is all that stands between Gotham’s salvation, like he’s been waiting to kiss you for years. His tongue drinks in every soft, keening sound that he pulls from your throat. Your spine bumps into the window and you loop your arms around his neck. There is a feeling of complete, utter safety that envelopes you. And you melt into him.

His hands briefly move away from your face, but when they return—they are cool and calloused and firm. He cups your jaw, tilting your head back for him, and pressing the hard length of his body into yours.

He rasps, “I want to touch you.” His lips find the hollow spot of skin below your ear, “can I?” He suckles your skin, kissing his way down the side of your neck, explicitly careful of the bruises that dip below your collarbone.

“Yes, yes please.” Who knew Batboy could turn you into someone who whines?

His fingers hook around your sleep shorts and tug and—you hear and feel the fabric rip. You shiver in his arms, unafraid, and filled with nervous trepidation. Batman covers your mouth with his. You wish you could touch more skin beyond the scrape of jawline and his long, calloused fingers. His knuckles brush against the front of your clit and Batman hisses through his teeth.

Your hips eagerly shift, your blood ignited with desire, your head swimming with dizzying affection. He repeats in light, teasing strokes, back and forth, along your clit. Your finger slide for desperate purchase along the sleek, dark material of his armor. His other hand enfolds your wrists before pinning them together and lifting them over your head. Your knuckles rap lightly against the cool window.

“Ohhh,” You smile with understanding. His mouth latches onto your jaw and a soft hiss is pulled from your lips when his stubble scratches your sensitive skin. “You can touch, but I can’t?”

“Something like that.” He hums. His fingertip swirls over your swollen clit and it earns him another pitched moan from the back of your throat. His index finger glides between your folds and thank God he’s kissing you—thank God—because the sharp, ragged cry that you release would’ve woken the whole tower. He swallows your moans, relishing them. He grunts with pleasure when his finger plunges into you, covered in your arousal, and your walls flutter around him. He pumps his finger in and out of you, the sound of it slick and debauched, stoking the fire from deep within your abdomen.

“Be good and keep your hands up there.” He releases your wrists.

Out of sheer curiosity about what he’ll do next—you decide to listen. He kisses you senseless, kisses you breathless, and you’re certain it must be a distraction technique because there’s another ripping fabric sound from below your waist. Farewell, sleep shorts. You don’t mourn their loss for long because Batman plunges another finger into your wet, aching cunt. His thumb presses onto your clit and there’s something…clumsy…about the way he touches you. Unpracticed. Oddly, it’s a turn on. Batboy might wear a fancy belt, but it doesn’t look like he’s got many notches on it.

“Like that.” You breathe, rocking your hips in time with his fingers, “yes, yes, yes—" His thumb presses firmer, the concentric motion growing frantic, and your body tenses. You forget his instruction to keep your hands to yourself. You grab his face, hold him close, your lips smear messily along his cleft chin and pouty lips. You release a strangled moan when his fingers curl inside you.

“Stay quiet.” He warns with some difficulty. His eyes burn into your warm face. As if you’ve forgotten that you’re in Bruce Wayne’s study getting finger fucked by Batman. You resist the urge to roll your eyes.

You choke out, “y-yeah, I k-know.” You squeeze your eyes shut, head lolling backward, his mouth on your throat. The familiar tightening and tensing of your lower abdomen heralds the final peak of your desire.

“I’m gonna—” Your voice pitches higher, “cum. I’m gonna cum.”

Batman gives a sweet little drawl of, “please,” at the hollow of your throat.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train. You shatter around his fingers, gush over his knuckles, your fingertips like claws on his biceps. Your mouth hinges open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around his wrist. He hasn’t stopped touching you. His thumb continues to stroke your over-sensitive clit. You clamp a hand over your mouth to stifle the sounds he’s plucking from you like a trained violinist. Your body spasms, twitching, the come down of your orgasm only promising another quick release if Batman keeps toying with you.

“I want to feel you,” says Batman into the shell of your ear, “I want to feel you come on my cock.”

“Fucking hell.” You blink, dazed, and swallow roughly. “Right now?”

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you. “Yes.”

“O-okay.” You nod and are surprised your brain and vocal box can string together a single sentence. Batman turns you to face the window.  Gotham twinkles and shines, gray and bright, as rain travels like independent rivers the windowpane. You flatten your palms against the glass and flinch in surprise at the first touch of his cock near your sensitive folds. He slides his cock back and forth between your folds, not entering you, just slickening his cock with your earlier release. Your eyes roll backward into your skull. Your heart thunders loudly in your chest. Just through the sense of touch alone, you can surmise the girth and length of him. You can already imagine how he might fill you.

You arch on your tiptoes, rocking your hips into his, and whine lowly. His fingers come to settle on your waist.

He says, “stay very still for me.”

“You should know by now that I’m not very good at following directions.” You tease with a lopsided smile.

The rumbling that comes from behind you sounds suspiciously like a chuckle. But, before you can turn back and see if Batman is smiling—the tip of his cock thrusts into your cunt. The world goes white.

“Oh, fuck me!” You gasp brokenly. Batman inches himself deeper, and deeper, holding your hips firm between his strong, calloused hands. He stretches you wonderfully, fills you, and your walls squeeze around him in an instinctive, desperate attempt to garner more closeness. He bottoms out. Your stomach muscles clench. Your frantic breath fogs the glass. The seconds tick by in agonizing slowness. Your body quakes. Your fingers curl with a quiet squeak on the glass. He said stay still but didn’t give a time limit. You wrestle against the instinct to start grinding your hips, desperate for friction, desperate to satisfy the craving that’s burning inside of you.  

You look over your shoulder and Batman’s jaw is dropped open in pure, lustful awe.

You say, “please.”

His striking, blue eyes lift from your joined bodies and his upper lip glistens with sweat. He clears his throat.

“You feel…” He grunts and bows his head, “will you touch yourself for me?”

You nod. Your hand tucks between your legs and finds your swollen, slick clit. Your fingertips brush against the hard, impressive length of him buried deep inside you. Batman groans through clenched teeth. With every stroke of your fingers, your inner walls squeeze his immobile cock, and you try—you really, really do—to not move your hips and start thrusting.

You manage it for like thirty seconds. It’s not even intentional. You’re rubbing your clit, panting with soft little ‘ah ah ah’s. Next thing you know, you’re dragging your hips away, and letting out a deep, unrestrained moan at the feeling of his cock sliding along your walls.

Batman suddenly crowds you, pushing you up against the window, and your breasts squish into the cold glass. Your nipples pebble beneath your thin, old t-shirt.

“I—” You begin to explain yourself, or apologize, but the words rapidly dissolve on your tongue as Batman thrusts into you. You place your both palms on the glass to steady yourself again. At this angle, the head of his cock keeps hitting a deep, toe-curling spot inside you. A collection of stars dance and twirl in front of your vision like fairy dust.

You’ve forgotten the earlier instructions to stay quiet. Your moans punctuate each thrust and Batman doesn’t try to muffle you. At this rate—you’ll take the awkwardness of Bruce walking in if it means Batman doesn’t stop.

Through heavily lidded eyes, you watch down at Gotham as Batman – the masked vigilante, Vengeance, your partner – fucks you like it’s his last night on earth. He grunts from deep within his chest. Your walls squeeze. Your thighs shake. The side of your face presses into the glass, too tired to hold your head upright, and your cheek and flecks of saliva smudges the pristine surface. Everything pulses with white-hot heat and frenzied intensity.

You blindly reach behind you and grab hold Batman’s wrist. His hand twists beneath yours, and for a wild, panicked second, you’re worried you’ve crossed a line, you think he’s going to pull away, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t. He traps your hand under his and clutches your fingers, twining them together like a Celtic knot, squeezing the delicate bones in tandem with his eager thrusts.

“Oh, oh fuck.” You announce emphatically. Every atom, every nerve, every muscle, is wound up tight inside you like a spring-loaded weapon. Your inner legs are slick with arousal and sweat pools at the dip of your spine. The windowpane is blotched with evidence of your clawing fingertips and haggard breath. All the tension inside of you snaps. You come undone. Your walls grip around his cock. He says your name with feverous reverence, with glimmering absolution, with greedy satisfaction.

Praise drips like rainwater from his mouth, “you’re so good for me.”

In the haze beneath the din of your blissed-out cry, Batman quietly says, “it’s you - you’re - I—“ and whatever else he would’ve said is swiftly pulled into the undercurrent of his bitten-off moan. He buries himself to the hilt, pressing you flat against the window, and shudders as his cock swells and pulses inside you. His arms encircle your waist, your spine rests snug—if uncomfortable—into the hard planes of his armor.

You droop, boneless and sweating, and listen to the rapid, deep, and booming beat of your heart. Batman’s haggard breath fills your eardrums alongside the pouring rain. Your eyes gently open. You are greeted by dark, warm mahogany and weathered book spines, and a woven, expensive rug. Your laptop purrs on the desk behind you.

The room looks the same. Yet, your world has changed. Batman doesn’t move. In the muddled, rain-streaked reflection of your visages, you see Batman tilt forward and rest his forehead in the middle of your back between your shoulder blades. His warm breath slips through the fibers of your t-shirt and your skin prickles with goosebumps.

You hope he doesn’t let go (you’re gonna collapse onto the floor if he does). Your eyes slip closed again, because—what’s the point in keeping them open? You could sleep here for a few minutes. Then you’ll crawl your way to the guest room later after Batboy leaves. You loosen your grip on his fingers and sigh languidly.

If your eyes had been open, you would’ve seen the longing that ensnares his expression.

*********

He wishes he could stay here forever in the warmth of you. He’s carried the memories of you like a candle in the dark. He never imagined, never thought, that he would experience this with you. You fit him so perfectly—it’s maddening. It’s an impossible dream. He catches his reflection in the glass. He can’t forget who he is. He can’t forget his family’s legacy. He’s Vengeance. Allowing himself closer to you would only result in heartbreak. And Bruce made a promise a long time ago to protect you from any pain. This can’t happen again.

He waits until his cock softens inside of you before pulling out. You mumble something completely intelligible. His lips quirk in fondness. You are normally so eloquent—you talk fast, waving your hands in dramatic displays, and piece together missing puzzle pieces at hundred miles per hour. A sense of pride smolders in his gut. He can make you speechless. He pours water onto the ember. This won’t happen again.

He adjusts himself and collects you easily in his arms, one arm beneath the bend of your knees, the other scoops around your back.

“I can walk.” You grumble, your sweaty head falling against his shoulder, “put me down.” He doesn’t bother listening. He walks silently through the dark halls of his home. Your breathing slows and your hand slides off your stomach, dangling to the side.

He crosses the threshold into your room and lays you carefully onto the disheveled bed sheets. His fingers trail across your jaw. He selfishly drinks in the sight of you in the muted, orange glow of the bedside lamp. You are achingly lovely, and clever, and stupidly determined. Your golden lion heart will be his ruin. Your eyelashes flutter in a dream. He hopes it’s a good, happy dream. He hopes you aren’t plagued by nightmares like he is.

He draws the covers up to your chin. The back of his knuckles caress your cheek in a lingering and lonely farewell.

*********

Someone knocking on your door is what wakes you. Not your phone alarm. Not the muted, cloud-struck sunlight bleeding through the big windows. You grumble and make a noise that sounds like “come in.”

You blink in confusion at Bruce standing in the doorway. You were expecting Alfred or Dory. His dark hair lays flat against his scalp and little droplets drip from his earlobes onto his gray t-shirt. Fondly, he reminds you of a drowned rat. You smile.

“Hi.”

Bruce takes that as an invitation to walk in. Your shirt reaches an inch or so above your knee, but when sitting, it’s basically useless to cover below your waist. You adjust the bedsheets to ensure he can’t see your nakedness. You have no clue what Batman did with your shorts and underwear. Did he keep them? It’s not outside the realm of possibility, you think, for a guy who dresses up like a bat to fight crime.

The mattress sinks beneath his weight, “hi.”

He fidgets with a bulky wash towel in his hands. He meets your gaze, then avoids it, strangely skittish for the man who shoved his tongue in your mouth in a public hospital room. You open your mouth to comment on it—but he speaks before you can.

“Can I see your shoulder?” says Bruce. Your mouth snaps shut with a comical clack of your teeth. How did he know about that? Then you remember Dory. On your first night, she—due to doctor instruction—waited outside the bathroom when you showered. Her thin, wrinkled mouth pursed when she saw your bruises, but she didn’t say anything. She must’ve reported back to Bruce. You couldn’t be upset with her, though. You liked her too much.

You grin, your tone playful, “what? You want me to take my top off?”

Bruce smirks and looks away from you, sighing indulgently. Your heart melts.

You poke his thigh, “close your eyes.” You immediately register the muscled tenseness of his leg but brush it off. He’s a billionaire hermit who doesn’t skip leg day. Who would’ve guessed.  

He starts, “you don’t have to—”

“Close ‘em.”

He bites his lower lip, briefly, before shutting his eyes. You wince when you pull your old shirt over your head, but you manage without difficulty. You take the sheets pooled around your waist and tuck them under your armpits. In full light, in full view, the bruises follow the curve of your shoulder and into your collarbone. You take a minute to wonder if Falcone’s prototype drug affects blood thinness. You file the thought away for when you’ve got your results in hand.

“Okay.”

Bruce’s breath snags in his mouth. His nostrils flare. Under his scrutiny, his desperate gaze, your skin throbs dully with pain. You swallow roughly as Bruce’s fingers come close to your skin, but don’t touch you. He traces the mottled landscape with his eyes. His sooty eyelashes flutter, blinking away some errant thought, and he peers at you through his wet hair.

“How’s it feel?” He asks.

You say, “I only notice it only if I’m moving that arm.”

“You should be icing it.”

You chuckle. “You sound like Alfred.”

Bruce lifts the washcloth from his lap, “lucky for you, I brought some ice with me.” His hand hovers over the worst bruise, the part of your body that took the full, animalistic force of the door. He looks at you in silent askance. You don’t even need to think about it. You trust him. You bite your lower lip and nod.

He gently, oh-so-delicately, applies the cold compress to your injury and you inhale sharply. His gaze snaps away from your shoulder to your face, his brow furrowed.

“It’s cold.” You press your lips together.

He smiles faintly, ducking his head, and hiding the full sight of his smile from you.

“That’s the point, Silver.” He cradles your elbow in his other hand and methodically places the cold compress on the injury for a few minutes before moving to another section of your skin. His eyes remain focused on his task, only looking at you when you make a sound of discomfort. A prickle of goosebumps flush across your skin.

When the compress comes to your collarbone above your breasts, you lift your eyes to the ceiling, and the cold sensation radiates outward. You shouldn’t feel warm while Bruce is tending to your injuries. Yet, your body – treacherous as it is – hums with warmth and slow, deep throbs of desire.

Even after your…adventure…with Batman last night. It can’t erase how you feel about Bruce. He’s etched into you like the lines on your palms. Your heart has his fingerprints all over of it.  

You try to focus on other thoughts, like Falcone, or the Arkham project, but holding onto your thoughts is impossible. It’s like holding tendrils of condensation that puff in front of your face in cold mornings. It all circles back to him. His gentle hands. The smell of his shampoo. The water dripping into his eyes. The length of his eyelashes. The bridge of his nose. His steady inhale-exhale.

Bruce asks quietly, “will you tell me how it happened?”

Your brow wrinkles, and something akin to grief crawls into your throat, “it’s not a happy story, Bruce.”

His hand, chilly and familiar, caresses your throat. His thumb grazes across your pulse. “I know.”

You close your eyes. “Okay…” you take a deep breath, “it all started when I noticed a pattern of girls from the same age group going missing…”

Bruce listens to all of it. Your dead-ends at other bars and clubs. The connections you made about the girl’s being runaways or estranged from their families. The terrifying close calls with drug dealers, who either wanted to rob you or kill you, or the other criminals—who usually wanted to do worse. The little help you got from Gordon. Your eventual success in getting Falcone’s attention. The shipyard. The drugs. The hallucinations you saw, what you felt, all the terror and panic, and the worry.  

You omit the fact that Batman was there. And has been there since the beginning of your days as a freelance, reckless journalist.

You hate lying to Bruce, but the story is more believable if you say Gordon was following you and just called in the EMTs. That’s easier to explain that then ‘yeah, I work with Batman, and he installed a custom app in my phone to protect me.’

At the end of the story, he says,  “the drugs triggered what happened when we were kids.” And his words floor you. You haven’t thought about that in years. A lightbulb switches on inside your mind, bright and humming, and you gasp with delight and surprise. It wasn’t just a random hallucination. It was triggered by memory, by fear.

“Bruce! You’re a genius!” You grab your tossed aside shirt and awkwardly pull it over your head. If Bruce unintentionally sees a bit of skin, well, it won’t kill him.  

“I gotta call Gordon.” You grab Bruce’s face between your hands and plant a kiss square on his forehead. “Thank you!”

You clamber off the bed, feet nearly slipping on the hardwood, as you snatch your phone from its charging spot near the door.

Bruce says your name, freezing you momentarily.

“I thought…” He swallows, “I thought it was over with Falcone.”

You shrug, then wince. “It’s not over for me until he’s behind bars.”

He slides from the bed, approaching you, and he pins you with his gaze. “But you’re not investigating him anymore, right?”

“I can’t leave this loose end untied.” You clutch your phone tightly between your hands. “I don’t…I don’t expect you…to understand. It’s…”

Hell, you hardly understand it yourself.

“It burns me up inside, Bruce.” You say fervently, “I can’t leave a job unfinished. Yes, the girls are safe. Yes, I’m safe. But Falcone and his associates remain at large. The drugs’ location and his supplier are unknown. There’s more to this story. I can feel it.”

You pause, and consider another angle, “I promise I’ll still have time for the Arkham article.”

He holds the side of your face, his expression pained, “you think that’s what I’m worried about?”

“I don’t…” You trail off, searching his eyes, and your mouth goes dry. When did Bruce start looking at you like you were the first sight of land after days lost at sea?

“Let Gordon and the PD handle Falcone.” He whispers.

“But this is important!” You argue, clutching the front of Bruce’s soft shirt, “Gordon needs to know what the drug actually triggered.”

“Fine.” His gaze hardens but raw concern is etched across his face, “you’re going to get hurt if you keep chasing Falcone.”

You smile to yourself. “Another friend of mine said the same thing.”

“I meant what I said in the hospital, Silver.” His thumb crests over the delicate space below your eye. “I care about you. I – I don’t know what I’d do if…if….”

Your heart squeezes like a vice.

“If you’re implying what I think you’re implying, then you should know the feeling is mutual.” Your lip quivers. “But lucky for me, you’re a vitamin D deficient shut-in who is best friends with a sixty-year-old man.”

“Don’t let Alfred hear you say that.”

You laugh softly and it breaks some of the tension in Bruce’s shoulders.

“I know it looks easy from the outside. I could get a different job. I could work the Arkham article for ten years and drain the Wayne bank account dry.” You smirk, then control your expression into one of seriousness. If Bruce wants any semblance of a relationship with you, then he needs to know this. This is your non-negotiable standpoint.

You say slowly, “but…for me…this is it. This is who I am.”

“A journalist with a death wish?” There is the barest hint of dry humor in his voice.

“A journalist who believes Gotham can change. All the crime and corruption doesn’t have to be the status quo.”

Bruce sighs softly and you know you have him. He can’t argue against your valiant, golden hope for a better Gotham. A safer Gotham. You believe in this truth and nothing, not even the man who holds your heart, can shake you from that conviction.

You lean forward and nuzzle your nose along his. “Be thankful I’m not dressing up and fighting crime.”

“There’s still time.” He murmurs good-naturedly.

You hum in agreement. “Hm. Maybe next year.”

Your lips ghost over his, “I think this is the part where we kiss and make up,” you mutter.

“Is it?” He guides your face to tilt to the side.

“Mhm.”

Bruce kisses you slowly. There is a lazy Sunday afternoon, bathed in golden light, hidden somewhere inside the kiss he gives you. You’re not sure if that afternoon is the near future or the very distant. But you want to discover it. You want to hold it tenderly in your hands, the same way you are holding Bruce’s jaw, and nurture it until it blossoms into a thousand, bright orange butterflies that carry hope with each flutter of their wings.

When you pull your mouth away from his, he asks a simple, modest request, “stay.”

And you are more than persuaded to indulge him.

(Part two)

*************************

((tag list:  @imreadingrespectfully // @jotarosasscheek // @buzzfrill // @man-johnnie // @reesespieces10123 // @a-wake-and-unafraid ))

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #battison x reader #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x y/n #batman x fem!reader #battison x you #dc fic #the batman fanfic #fic: from above gotham glows

[habibite]

'it's rotten work.' "not to me. not if it's you.'

. . . . . ╰──╮╭──╯ . . . . . a collection of battison/reader drabbles for whenever i get the brain rot. no current warnings, but that could change. reader is consistently gender neutral; if that changes, there will be tags prior to the chapter. find it on ao3. if you have any ideas of requests, please feel free to shoot me a messge c: first installment is under the cut!!

you can see it.

he doesn’t think you can but—

you see it.

the stiff way his body moves when he first wakes up.

the new scars on his body each night.

the way his face will say what his mouth won’t:

it’s tender there. it hurts.

he hides it well, you give him that much. it flies very much under the radar of all of his business associates. if anyone notices it during the rare public appearances he makes, they’re far too polite to say anything. and the night of gotham? doesn’t give a damn, would hardly bat an eyelash if he died, would only miss their savior once it was too late.

your solace comes like an offering, infrequently, but in the form of the familiar dip of weight in the mattress you share.

your fingers dance across bruce’s back, a memorized dance of light steps to avoid the injury you always assume is there, a quick note to let him know you’re not asleep just yet, that you are still there.

he almost always pulls you into him then, the force of his embrace never painful, but always enough to remind you that he is a man that has lost many things. 

#batman #the batman #battison #reader insert #bruce wayne #batman x reader #bruce wayne x reader #battison x reader #fanfic #ellie writes fanfic

[ghostfacesvalentine]

Comfort - Bruce Wayne x Fem!reader

Pairing: Battinson x Fem!Reader

Warnings: Slight angst, not really, sad reader.

Type: Blurb

Request: N/A

Word Count: N/A

Prompt: Bruce kind of comforting reader after having a mood drop lol

Notes: I can’t really sleep, I’ve been having the same mood drops I thought I was over, so I just wrote this to cheer me up. If you struggle with the same thing, I hear you, here’s a little battison to hug you.

For years it seemed like it wasn’t going to get better. To say you didn’t know how to navigate through your feelings was an understatement. You weren’t really sure what was happening, or what made you feel the way you did. 

Even on the best days, sometimes these mood drops were unpredictable. Suddenly the world starts to slow down and you felt like you’re just there. 

It felt like it wasn’t a big deal, it was something you always experienced and you tended to deal with it by isolating yourself until you felt good enough to go back out. The last thing you wanted was to plague anyone with some kind of silly feelings that would go just as they came.

Though you felt crazy to assimilate your relationship this way, it seemed like that’s why you and Bruce got along so well. It wasn’t far fetched to wonder if he felt the same way. As your relationship developed with him, spending the night became religious. You were almost a stranger to your own apartment, finding warmth and safety in his bruised arms. 

Tonight, you had the same feeling crawling into you. A bitter sting tainted your veins, spreading quickly throughout your body. It seemed like over the years your body would just succumb to the sentiment. The unease caused you to shoot up from the familiar black sheets. 

Bruce was hardly a heavy sleeper, but you didn’t blame him for being a stone after the day of living a double life today. Some days it really did catch up to him, board meetings by day, beating bad guys by night. 

You had the luxury of choosing the room you wanted to hide in tonight, usually it was the study. It was warm and comforting, the hug you needed tonight. 

The room was dimly lit, scattered papers and book decorated the shelves and the fair sized desk. You crawled into the massive chair that hid behind the computer, bringing your legs up to your chest, layering a blanket over your body. 

For one reason or another, this always seemed to be a habit of yours. If you couldn’t run away from your feelings or confront them, your mind tricked you into just going to another room. Almost as if that would solve the issue, but deep down you knew it didn’t, however it seemed like your mind didn’t know any better, did it?

Bitter thoughts galloped through you, the same feeling of defeat in hand with your despair. You loved Bruce, more than anything, but because of this you told yourself you could handle this on your own.

You hated hiding from him, hiding anything from him. All it took was his eyes meeting yours, he could get anything out of you. Looking away from him was always a dead giveaway. Your hands rubbed your arms, crossing themselves in hopes of tricking yourself that you were being hugged by anyone other than yourself. Sometimes, the feeling would just push your chest downward, almost like you were completely giving up.

A thick hand appeared on your knee, your eyes followed it back to Bruce, then looking down in shame. “I can’t sleep.” You half admitted as if he was determined to get a response as to why you disappeared from him.

Again, it was useless to try to hide anything from him, it was his literal job to put clues together. However, there was a silence that felt easy, maybe it was the way he looked at you. Without any fine lines across his brows, instead almost a pout of worry. His hand never gripping you, instead offering itself to you as a sincere gesture. After spending so much time with him, it was only a matter of time to learn a few skills from him, to study him.

You lightly rubbed your bottom lip between your teeth, pursing you lip in hopes of alleviating any lingering discomfort. Your eyes couldn’t find where to look anymore, until you felt Bruces’ arms reach down to cradle your figure.

Still unwilling to look him in the eye, you looked down to your thighs as the blanket draped itself down to the carpet floor. Feeling the softest kiss on the side of your head, you closed your eyes.

“It’s not your fault this happens sweetheart.”

He murmured into your face. His voice still sleepy yet so full of patience and warmth. Did he know? Of course he knew.

Your eyes turned to anywhere but him as he walked you back over to his inviting bed, with a messy comforter as evidence of a safe and warm place to rest. He didn’t say anything else, he didn’t need to.

His fingertips rubbed against your skin in an assuring manner. You didn’t know if you wanted to cry or just go back to bed, your eyebrows knit together in frustration with yourself.

“You mean the world to me Y/N. And it pains me to see you run and hide from me.”

There was a long pause, still being held in front of the bed, you looked down to your hands, feeling the droplets coat your cheeks. Trying not to make a sound, you tucked your lips into yourself, your eyes squeezing shut in the process as the whimpering slowly approached.

“If you need time to yourself, that’s fine, but please don’t run away.” Bruce almost begged as he slowly placed you down on the edge of the bed. Your head dropped down in defeat.

“Baby.”

You flickered your lids before looking up to him, you’ve never seen him with such concern and compassion in his eyes, all across his face. He looked like he would do anything for you right then and there. Nodding, you rubbed the back of your hand across your cheeks quickly.

“I love you, okay? Let that be clear. No matter what you’re feeling or what you’re dealing with.” Bruce’s’ hand cradled the back of your head, he slowly pulled it towards him, pressing his lips against your forehead. He stood there for a moment, closing his eyes in a silly attempt to take the sadness away.

“I love you too.” You whispered just enough for him to hear. His fingertips rubbing against your locks felt like the best way to be comforted. You couldn’t imagine a safer, most loving manner to be told you were loved and cared for.

#battinson one shot #battison x reader #battinson imagine #bruce wayne x reader #Bruce Wayne imagine #Bruce Wayne one shot

[toomanyrobins2]

A Winter's Ball

Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires…a monthly letter of her academic progress.

Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

last part // series masterlist // next part

Notes: I'm finally getting around to updating this fic! If you would like to catch up and get more consistent updates to this story and others I would go to by AO3!

The grand ballroom of the Gordon residence was aglow with flickering candles, a festive atmosphere lingering in the air just days after Christmas. The Gordon family had decided to extend the holiday cheer by hosting a winter ball, and the opulent setting lent itself to a magical evening. Y/N, donned in a stunning white dress that seemed to reflect the glistening snow outside, stood amid the elegantly attired guests.

Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, and Lois Lane had been graciously invited to the celebration. Bruce had nearly had to beg his friends when he realized the opportunity had arisen for him to see Y/N again. He was beginning to regret that choice as Lois and Clark continued to terrorize him with little remarks and jabs. As Y/N twirled around the dance floor with Jimmie Gordon, the eldest son of Commissioner Gordon, Bruce watched from a distance, an unusual tension lingering in his normally composed demeanor. The sight of Y/N dancing with another man stirred a sensation he wasn't accustomed to – a twinge of jealousy.

Clark and Lois noticed Bruce's subtle discomfort and exchanged knowing glances. Lois couldn't resist teasing him as they observed Y/N's grace on the dance floor. "Well, Bruce, looks like your protégé is having a splendid time with young Jimmie. I never knew you had competition in the mentorship department."

Bruce shot Lois a glare but refrained from responding, choosing to focus on the dance floor. Y/N and Jimmie moved with an easy rhythm, laughter and joy evident in their interactions. It was clear that they had formed an easy companionship over the winter break. Bruce found himself clenching his jaw, the unease within him growing.

As the dance concluded, Bruce couldn't help but feel relieved when Jimmie escorted Y/N back to the sidelines. Seizing the opportunity, Bruce approached her, a genuine smile forming on his face. Y/N's eyes lit up as she saw him, and she greeted him with a warm hug.

"Mr. Wayne, I had no idea you would be here," Y/N exclaimed, her excitement palpable.

"The pleasure is mine, Miss Wayne. Allow me to introduce you to my friends, Clark Kent and Lois Lane," Bruce said, guiding her towards the couple. Y/N exchanged pleasantries, expressing her gratitude for the chocolates Bruce had sent her and her friends earlier in the year.

Lois, always eager to get the entire story, turned to Y/N with a mischievous glint in her eyes. "So, Miss Abbott, I'm curious. Was Mr. Wayne on his best behavior during his visit to the college. He is not always the greatest conversationalist. 

Y/N chuckled, the warmth of her laughter filling the air. "Not at all! We had a lovely time and I found no issues with his conversation. Then again, I speak so much that I do not always know if there is an awkward lapse in conversation.”

“I found no issue,” Bruce grunted. 

Clark hid his laughter at his friend’s short answer in his drink. “Bruce was telling us that you intend to be a writer. We will have to be amongst your first readers.”

As the conversation flowed, Y/N spoke about her time at the college and how she was trying to catch up and read all of the greats. Bruce, ever the literature enthusiast, recommended one of his favorite books, Gulliver's Travels. Y/N listened attentively, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm as Bruce shared his love for the classic tale.

Their conversation deepened, and Bruce found himself drawn into the conversation. Lois and Clark shared a look at how verbose their friend was being. The tension that had gripped Bruce earlier on the dance floor faded away, replaced by a genuine connection. As the winter waltz continued around them, Bruce and Y/N lost themselves in conversation, the ballroom becoming a backdrop to the growing bond between them.

As the melody of a soft waltz filled the ballroom, Clark held out his hand to Lois and gave Bruce a meaningful look. 

With an air of determination, Bruce turned to Y/N, offering a hand with a genuine smile, "May I have this dance, Miss Abbott?" he asked, the subtle warmth in his eyes contrasting with his usual stoic demeanor.

Y/N's face lit up with surprise and delight. "Of course, Mr. Wayne. I'd be honored."

They moved to the center of the ballroom, joining the other couples who were swaying gracefully to the enchanting melody. As Bruce held Y/N, their movements became a seamless blend of elegance and quiet intimacy.

The atmosphere around them seemed to shift, the world narrowing down to the gentle rise and fall of the music. Bruce's usually guarded expression softened as he focused on the person in his arms. Y/N, in her white dress, radiated a timeless beauty, and Bruce couldn't help but marvel at the sight of her.

"You look beautiful tonight, Miss Abbott," Bruce remarked, his voice carrying a rare warmth.

Y/N smiled, a warmth rising in her. "Thank you, Mr. Wayne. I must insist you call me Y/N if we are to be friends.”

“As you wish.” The dance continued in a comfortable silence for a while, the unspoken connection between them growing stronger with each shared step. The flickering candles in the ballroom created a dreamlike ambiance, casting a soft glow on their faces.

As the waltz reached its conclusion, Bruce and Y/N paused, their eyes meeting in a shared moment of quiet understanding. The music faded away, leaving them standing together in the middle of the ballroom.

"Thank you for the dance, Mr. Wayne. That was truly wonderful," Y/N said, a genuine appreciation in her eyes.

Bruce nodded, a rare smile playing on his lips. "The pleasure was mine, Y/N."

They rejoined the festivities, the dance leaving an indelible mark on the evening. The winter ball continued with laughter, music, and the shared memories of a dance.

#toomanyrobins #batman #batman imagine #batman x reader #bruce wayne #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader #dcu #dcu imagine #battison #battison imagine #battison x reader #clark kent #lois lane

[nowayhomerry]

bruce wayne rec list (battison)

let go (18+) - @allaboardthereadingrailroad

categories: smut

word count: 7.2k

summary: after unmasking batman's identity, you grow closer

into the abyss - @atlaese

categories: angst, fluff

word count: 4.8k

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 kidnapping, he feels the darkness descending on him

quite the revelation | series (18+) - @stranger-nightmare

part 1 part 2

categories: smut

word count: 39.7k (in total)

summary: you and bruce had 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...

surely, you'd burn the same | series (18+) - @jangofctts

part 1 part 2 part 3 part 4

categories: smut, smut, smut

word count: 28.8k (in total)

summary: you're stuck with the batman, and he's got a problem

something in the way (18+) - @mypoisonedvine

categories: smut, dark!bruce

word count: 4.5k

summary: you know your bestfriend well enough to know that he's keeping a secret from you, you just can't figure out what - or why. but you're about to learn a lot of new things about him that you never could've imagined

if i could share my nights with you - @mell-bell

categories: fluff

word count: 1.1k

summary: you help bruce put on his eyeliner

copper stained | series (18+) - @clints-lucky-arrow

part 1 part 2

categories: smut, hurt/comfort

word count: 5.9k

summary: there are very few people that are allowed to see bruce at hid most vulnerable

a world alone - @vigilvntes

categories: fluff

word count: 8.1k

summary: bruce makes his first public appearance since the memorial service, with you by his side

walk me home - @vigilvntes

categories: fluff

word count: 3k

summary: you get escorted home by none other than gotham's own protector

nocturnal (18+) - @distortionbobble

categories: smut

word count: 3.4k

summary: bruce wayne is a broken and bruised man. you're the sweet healing that he needs

for tomorrow to come - @wwinterwitch

categories: smutty

word count: 1.5k

summary: out of all your victims, gothem city's vigilante had to be your favorite

always been you | series (18+) - @letaliabane

part 1 part 2 part 3

categories: smut, angst, fluff

word count: 22.2k (in total)

summary: all the batman want is a information but he's a little distracted by you

all the light we cannot see (18+) - @sunkendreams

categories: smut

word count: 7.9k

summary: that hollow shell hew been living inside of, his fortress of carefully-constructed barriers, it all begins to crack. it's rather terrifying, the idea of letting someone in, but he's done for now, isn't he? the way you look at him is invigorating, its electrifying - it makes him feel less like the batman and more like a man

relationship hcs - @vigilvntes

categories: fluff

word count: 2.5k

summary: bruce wayne + romantic relationships

making headlines | series (18+) - @twinklelilstarkey

masterlist

categories: smut, angst, fluff

word count: 53.2k (in total)

summary: after your reputation is ruined over gossip and you have to clean your own name, you find the culprit of it all once more. bruce wayne

convenience | series - @imaginingmarvelandeverything

masterlist

categories: fluff, angst

word count: 37.7k (in total)

summary: after his oldest friend loses everything, bruce suggests a marriage of convenience that will benefit them both

after hours | series (18+) - @goldingwrites

masterlist

categories: smut, angst, fluff

word count: 84.3k (in total)

summary: the nights in gotham are always unforgiving, you, you strip for money, to feed tour son and to forget some of your troubles. it's easy, it's simple until vengeance appears in your night

call out my name (18+) - @honeydulcewrites

categories: smut

word count: 6.5k

summary: a terrifying savoir comes to your aide one night but it isn't the last you see of each other

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #batman #the batman #the batman x reader #robert pattinson #battison #battison x reader #the batman 2022 #dc comics #dc x reader #bruce wayne fic recs #batman fic rec #bruce wayne fluff #bruce wayne fanfiction #bruce wayne smut #batman fanfiction #batman smut #batman fluff #fic recs #rec list

[kimberly-spirits13]

Y/N and Bruce as things that have been texted in my DR

#dc x reader #dc comics #dc characters #batfam x reader #batboys x reader #batfam #headcanon #battison x reader #battinson #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x gender neutral reader #batman x (hero) reader #batman x reader #batman x y/n #batman x you #batman x batmom #batman x fem!reader

[vitchimage]

Can i get a battinson x reader where the reader is kidnapped by the riddler because the riddler is yandere for the reader. He keeps her for months and batman is trying to find the reader but can't. One day he finds the reader and batman captures her because she keeps running away from him but he needs info about the riddler. He tends to her wounds and falls in love with her and asks her to stay. Alfred becomes her dad to and just fluff of him comforting her even though she's scared a lil. TYSM!!

Really really sorry for the long wait! But it's here now <3 I hope you love it, and maybe even turn out as you expected.. :)

This idea was just *chef kiss* ISTG you all have so many beautiful and lovely ideas!

--

TW!: Very brutal and maybe a bit graphic? What I mean is breaking bones in detail, and violence if you squint. Gaslighting, manipulation, toxic and abusive "relationship", trauma/panic attack if you squint.

--

Note: It's funny I wrote 'Running up that hill' and then Stranger Things S4 came out lmao. I didn't even know about the song until ST 4 came LDAD but now I'm addicted to it.

--

ᴛʜᴇ ꜱᴀᴠɪᴏᴜʀ, ᴛʜᴇ ᴅᴇᴠɪʟ – ꜰᴀʟʟ ɪɴᴛᴏ ʜᴇʟʟ ᴛᴏɢᴇᴛʜᴇʀ ɪɴ ᴀ ʙʟɪꜱꜱ

“My dear..” his voice gave her chills. “Trying to escape again? I taught you better than this,” 

“I’m sorry..I’m sorry..” she begged and cried, “I didn’t mean to..” 

‘I just wanted to go home..I just…’ How did it even come to this? How long has it been since she has seen the outside of this bird cage?

He kneels to her eyes level, hand stroking her cheek making her flinch, “I  just wants the best for you, please know that..” 

“You made me do this, this is all for you..” It scared her how his voice was so soft, yet the malice from him was clear.

She prepared for any punishment handed out to her as she begged someone to set her free.

Anyone..

–

“Months, Alfred, months, she has been missing for months. Along with Riddler.” 

Bruce huffs frustrated, “She is a curcial key yet not once has she been seen nor found.”

“Do you really think she might be riddler’s accomplice?” Alfred puts the tea beside him.

“Riddler has no reason to kidnap a person like that, unless to mess with me. But there has been no sign of her, no hostage threats or anything – so there is a slight chance–”

“Well, commissioner Gordon might be a bit of help,”

“What?” 

“He is waiting for you upstairs, it’s about Y/N L/N.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” He chugs down the tea, quickly dashing upstairs.

“You never let me get the chance too,” Alfred sighs, following pursuit.

–

Hours has passed and all she felt was numb, tears has dried and the aches semmed to have faded.

She hugged her knees, as she was locked in the room, ankle chanied making her unable to leave. 

Maybe she was doomed to be like this forever? Was this really her fate?

The more she thought about it, the more she felt the taste of despair. But deep down, a small fuel still burned and longed for any chance to run, to get out of here. 

Maybe she should just wait, act like a good girl so he can let his guard down, and then she can strike.

Yet, the toxictiy in her minds seemed to differ. Maybe it was for the best, Gotham is indeed dangerous. She has seen it’s ugly side, and how uglier it can get. Maybe it was indeed the best for her, after all if she is good he won’t harm her. She just need to..

The sound of someone breaking through some doors, could be heard.

‘What..?’ She looks up, ‘What’s happening..?’

Her breathing quickens, it couldn’t be Edward, he was already out for business and wouldn’t come back for awhile. But what if this was some sick morbid joke to make her scared of escaping? To fear the outside, to prove how dangerous and brutal Gotham is?

The sound grew louder, and louder, closer and closer. Until it reached hers.

“Eep!” She coward for a second or two, before quickly thinking of a way to get out here.

“RIDDLER!” the voice booms from the other side. It was deep, it was stern.

“Y/N L/N!” it yells again, trying to bust down the door.

The person behind that door wasn’t riddler, no, his voice was way to deep. 

Then who could it be? 

‘Now is not the time to think about that!’ She scolded as she looked around for a way out.

Was it such a time where she wished Edward was here, just like now? 

Fear and aderline kept rising, it’s a good thing Edward made that door a tad bit stronger, or else they would have busted through that door the second they hitted it.

“...!” 

Her eyes landed on a window beside her, a sense of relief, she scanned around the empty room, looking for some sort of way to break the chains. But to her despair, there was none.

“Y/N!” A hole was made through that door, it won’t last much longer.

Panicked she tried to free herself, yanking at the chains around her ankel in hopes that it would break.

CRACK! 

The sound of a bone breaking could be heard, and she screamed in pain.

The person stopped for a moment, before they continued, much faster and stronger.

The sound of the chains breaking was like music to her ears, and she crawled back towards the window just as the door bursts opened.

The man before her was wearing some sort of suit looking like a bat, his eyes pierving through her.

Gotham is dangerous my dear, there are so many people out there seeking to harm you.

Especially the man in a batsuit.

Don’t trust him, don’t trust any of them.

They just want to harm you, they are no good for you, if only you knew their evil deeds.

It’s ok, I’ll protect you from them.

I love you.

I love you, my sweet little angel.

His sweet whispers of lies sang in her head, eyes starring terrified at the man in the batsuit.

With each steps he took closer to her, the more she back away until she felt the wall hit her back.

The man in the batsuit looked at the chains for a moment, before turning his eyes towards her.

“ Y/N L/N.” He calls out to her.

Y/N looks behind her, noticing she is right under the window, before turning her eyes towards his.

“I believe there is something we need to discuss.”

‘Discuss? is that an excuse to..--’ She didn’t want to think about the last few words.

It’s amazing what a person can do to someone just in a few months. The poison of lies being fed to your brain to the point it becomes the truth.

“I..” Words got stuck in her throat, trembling and having no other choice, she slids out of the window. Afterall she doesn’t want to be in pain anymore, and the damage of the fall will only be temporarily. At least that’s what she told herself.

“...!” The man reaches towards her, hands barely grasping as she fell further down.

“DAMN IT!” He yells, the window was obviously to small for him to slip out like she did, if so, he had to take off his suit – something he can’t afford to do. So, not having much option he dashed to get outside.

Coordinating her body right, she landed on her feets and legs, breaking both of them.

“AAGH!” tears slid down from the unbearable pain, masked with the heavy rain of Gotham.

She had landed in an allyway, and having no choice she dragged her body somewhere.

Somewhere far away from the person, from him.

And it was impressive how far she had gotten that it took a quite a while for the man to catch up until another man stood before her, gun pointing at her.

“Stand–!”

‘Ah, he must have called for back up or some sort…I’m doomed..’

Her breathing became heavy and the man seemed to lower his gun at the sight of her state. Horrified and concerned is a way to decribe his expression.

“You..” He began, but ended at that as he remained speechless as he was probably not expecting this situation, “What the hell did he do to you?”

Bruises, marks, cuts, scars and bandages decorated and littered all over her body.

“Broke me.” She answered a smile on her face despite the tears. 

She felt someone pull against them, knocking her unconscious as she tried to struuggle with all the energy she barely had left.

–

Y/N found herself on the floor as soon as she woke up, trying to crawl, to drag her body away from this unkown place.

With the stone cold walls, it looked like a cave. Yet there wasn’t any dirt nor rocks beneath her, it was actually a sturdy floor.

When she had opened her eyes seconds ago, she was sitting in a hostpital dialysis bed.

Panicked, as memories of the past with Edward kicked in, her first instinct was getting away.

She remembered it, that day when hell had just begun.

–

“Oh, you’re finally awake!” His cheery voice rang in her dizzy state.

“Where..”

“Our home!” He chriped,  Ah, my love at last, I can finally have you all for myself.”

“Nobody is going to take you away from me now...”

Gaining her concious fully she immediatly panicked. She was strapped against a bed-like chair.

“There is no need to panic, no need to fear. I’m here, and only me here..”

He stroked her hair, “And you’re safe here with me, I’ll protect you..”

In a quick movement, she bit his hand making him yank his hand back, backing away a bit.

“How dare you! After all the things I did for you!”

“For me?! How is this for me?! I don’t even know who you are!”

It was stupid the ask him to let her go, she knew it. 

As looking into his eyes, a deep sense of twisted love, no, obsession, painted them – telling her he won’t let her go. Her freedom had been stolen from a single person.

It’s scary how easy it is, with just a flick of hand.

She shut her mouth, fear kicked in at his glare.

What happened? She was so brave a moment ago, but just a gaze like this, she felt chills. 

“There is no helping it, everyone has to learn something right?” His grip around his hand tightened. And she gulped.

First day, the first punishments.

–

“Don’t move.” An icy voice rang, “Unless you want me to tie you down.”

She flinched. And the voice behind her, picked her up and placed her back on the dialysis bed.

Dark brown hair, newly shaved with dark eyeshadow and piercing blue eyes. His body language seemed like someone who is stoic and stern.

And in a weird sense of way, he was handsome. Maybe she would have thought he was more devilishly handsome hadn’t it been for him being her capture.

“Please let me go..” She whispered a plea.

“I will, once I get the information I need from you.” He tended her wounds making her hiss, “So start talking.”

“What information..?”

“About the Riddler,”

Her breathing hitched, “I.. don’t know..”

“You disappeared with him for a few months, and you’re telling me that there’s–” He stopped in mid-sentence. 

It didn’t take a genius like him to understand her expression. Horrified, frightened.

“I didn’t go with him, he..” her breathening quickened, 

‘Oh god what if he founds out I’m here? What would he do? what..’ 

“I need to go..! Please let me go!” She began screaming,

No matter where you run, I’ll always find you, we are meant to be, this is fate..

“If he finds me...if he..”

Trying to run away again? What did I say about this? What did I teach you regarding this?

“Hey, breathe!” His voice snapped her out of her thoughts.

Seeing her breathing slowing down he began, “He isn’t going to find you, you’re safe here.”

She didn’t utter a word. Tears stained her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it that way. I should have known better,”

“It’s nothing.” Her voice was flat.

His lips formd into a thin line as he continued to patch her up, without another word uttered.

–

Bruce.

Bruce Wayne was his name, hiding behind that fearful mask.

He had offered her to stay here in sake of her her safety, to which, without really knowing why. She agreed and accepted it.

Maybe because she feared what would happened if she rejected the offer, considering she was taught to accept. And accept.

But days went by, she felt hostile yet so peaceful, conflicted. 

She hadn’t felt this in awhile.

This safety, this warmth, the tender of his care. But that’s what scared her, having forgotten what it was like, used to the opposite, it didn’t feel safe either.

Y/N strolls through the garden in a wheelchair with Alfred beside her, his butler.

“You got an appointment with the physical therapist next monday.”

“Ah, right. My legs are better now, right?” Her voice was quiet, scared if it was any higher, she would be punished, but despite her wrong doings during her stay, never once was she punished, nor yelled at.

Bruce tone may have been sharp at times, yes, but it had always been like that. And after awhile his tone grew more gentle, learning quickly that sharp tones scares her.

“Sort of, but due to not having walked for days or months, walking and moving your legs would be no simple tasks.”

Y/N laughs at that, “I guess so. Sorry it was stupid.”

“Nothing is stupid, miss.”

She smiles at that, the feeling of reassurance floods in.

Something she had missed. 

Something she used to get from her dad.

But he was no longer here to fill that tasks, nor any of her family members.

In a strange sense of way, Alfred and Bruce was all that she had left now.

“Everything is going to be alright, miss..” Alfred carefully puts a hand on her shoulder.

“Thanks, Alfred..”

They strolled around for a moment, comfortable silence took place.

“It’s pretty…” Y/N suddenly spoke up.

“Do you like them?”

She smiles softly, “Yes, lilies somehow gives me comfort, especially poppies.”

Alfred didn't question it, mumbling out a,

“I see,”

And thus they both stood there in awhile admiring the flowers as the gentle breeze passes by.

–

Soon after, she grew more and more closer to them, feeling more comfortable. 

“Therapy session was great!” Y/N began to tell Bruce on how it went, not only with physical therapy, but with normal therapy as well, as they strolled down the street. Her eyes sparkling so bright, brighter than before.

Bruce felt a ting of warmth soothe through at that. At how lively she looked, at how lovely she looked. Her smile brightens his surrounding, the way her eyes shines –

His sun in life. She was his sun in life. 

And that warmth continued to grow and radiate each day.

As soon as she finishes, Bruce chuckles and ask if he could quickly excuse himself.

Y/N felt nervous, scared, her smile falter.

‘No, no..keep smiling’ He had a strong urge to say it, the thought became intense.

“I’ll be close by, and I’ll be quick.”

She fidgets not answering.

“Y/N look at me,”

“...”

“Please look at me..”

She looks up, meeting his blue orbs.

“Can you believe me when I say it’s safe?” There it was again, his tenderness.

“But what if..”

“He wouldn’t be stupid enough to do it in such a public place like this,”

“He is crazy enough,”

“Okay,” He breathes, “I won’t leave then. We’ll go there together.”

She blinked, “huh?” She didn’t expect for him to give in so easily. Usually he would discuss until earth ended. That was how stubborn he was.

Without an answer Bruce takes the wheelchair, pushing her through the street, the speed was fast.

“Bruce?”

“Bruce!”

Her laughter echoes in his ears, and yet again he felt the warmth seeping through.

He wanted this. Exactly this. Her happiness, for her to stay happy.

It felt like her happiness was also his.

If she’s happy, then so is he.

–

“Here you go,” The florist hands him a boquet of lilies.

“Who are these for?” Y/N felt a sting in her heart, the strange bitterness flooded, they replaced the bliss she just felt a moment ago.

‘Is he seeing someone? I mean he has been out a lot lately, I thought it was because of his jobs. But..what if..’

You and him aren’t meant to be, why are you so disapointed Y/N?

We are meant to be, you and me. 

His voice dugged into her ear, each word filled with venom.

“You?”

“Huh?” Y/N looks taken a back as she snaps out of her trance.

“These are for you,” he hands her the boquet,

“You didn’t know? I have always been gifting you flowers, till now.”

“I-i do, but these are different from the ones you gift me. You usually give me poppies.”

“Ah, I thought a change might do.”

Y/N became silent, and time seemed to stop. The sting and the bitterness washed away.

She felt ease, her cheeks getting warmer. She felt happy, a tender smile plastered on her face. She felt so…

“Thank you, Bruce..”

–

Days, months passes by, yet again like a flash, like a flick of a hand.

She and Bruce grew closer, closer more than anyone else. More than Alfred who filled her role as a father figure.

Her feelings are growing stronger each day, every minute with Bruce, every moments, seconds with him. 

From baking to road trips. 

From road trips to picnics, to a warm day at a beach.

To when she could finally walk. Running up that hill.

She felt so free, so alive. She felt like flying instead of falling.

Flying with him.

And without her knowing, he felt it aswell.

This, this feeling of being alive, to fly high into the sky.

And there were times.

Times where she felt like she was drowning, her past sinking her further down the ocean.

Times where she felt like flying, where she can breahte, where the cold is no longer there.

But, that was what love was – bestowing tough and hard times, but also times where happiness lurks, the feeling of bliss. Together.

Love’s ups and downs –

Together, getting through it together.

“We caught him,” Bruce states, as Y/N cleaned the cut on his cheek after a rough night for him.

“Who?”

“Riddler.”

She flinched, backing slightly away at the mentioning of Edward.

“He..he is…”

“Locked in Arkham Asylum,” Bruce looks up at her, “Are you..”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine…” She moves back, returning to clean his wounds.

“I’m sorry I should have..--”

“It’s fine, Bruce. Thank you for telling me sooner than later.”

He takes a hold of her wrists, old scratches decorated it from the past, when she used it as a coping mechanism when she was scared.

He didn’t know why he did that, he just wanted to. He wanted to..

She stops, time stops. And it just felt it was them, just them.

“What now? What do you want to do now?” He breaks the silence.

Close, they were close. If she leaned a bit in, their lips would have connected.

“I don’t know..but I want to pay him a visit.”

Silence filled the place again.

“Wait, you..”

“No,” She cuts in before he could finish, “I just want to face him, to confront him.”

‘So I can move on,

move on with you’

“And here?” He hesitates. He doesn’t want to hear her reply either, his heart was hammering way to much.

“I..” her breathing hitches.

‘I want to stay,’

You’ll just be a bother.

“I don’t know,” She gives a sad smile, “we’ll see..”

He nods, his throat tightens. 

He let’s go and she pulls away.

Both missing each others warmth.

“I can get the visit permission from them, but are you sure?” 

She packs the first aid kit, “Yeah,” Y/N puts it back on the shelf, “I want to move on. And I believe to do that I need to confront what’s standing in the way, what’s chaining me to the past.” 

She felt someone spin her around, the same warmth emitting from her waist. Calloused hands holding her tightly.

“Time.” He said, “is important when healing, when leaving the past.”

Y/N widens her eyes, stunned and flustered.

Although they were close when she was taking care of his wounds, she still felt like butterflies swarming her stomach. Getting the warmth she craved, she missed a second ago.

Him, he was the cause of this. This emotional rollercoaster,  like a drug, a drug she wanted more of.

Him, his everything, she wanted his everything, the ugly scars and his flawless ones.

“If you jump too quickly before the time, you’re bound to wound again. So I’m asking you again.” he pauses, “Are you sure about this?”

She gulps, her gaze downwards.

Memories of Edward floods in, and yet again she felt like drowning. But with his warmth she was floating again.

Head out of the water, breathing, barely.

What’s holding her back from coming on land? To safety?

She knew, deep down, to be able to swim, to get to land, she needed to let him go.

To let the past go, to confront. Running has been tiring, and it will always appear again, and again – like an evil cycle by him. And she needed to break it, to break from him. The chains, the toxins in her brain, him. 

If she does that then..

She breathes, she looks up at his piercing blue eyes, her hand around his arms.

“I’m sure.”

–

“You’re here..” he lets out like a saviour before him, “you came,”

Y/N silently sat down.

“I’ve been looking for–”

“Edward.” Her voice was cold,

His happy face fell.

“You and I..” 

We are meant to be, you and me.

“Are not meant to be.” A statement, a fact.

She wanted to get this done quickly, to get her point across.

“No, no, no..” Edward shakes his head, “you–”

“You’re delusional.” She didn’t let him finish, “All this pain, all the suffering I had to go through. Blaming myself for just wanting to survive, to live, that I clung to you for that.”

“But it’s not my fault. It’s a human nature.” a smile plastered, but not for him, not for Edward, “and he made me realize that.”

He laughs, “I’m not delusional, Y/N! Open your eyes! He doesn’t love you the way I do, the way I’d do anything to keep you by my side, the way I want you to be happy! You and him are not meant to be. You need me, Y/N, you relied on me back then, what changed? WHAT CHANGED? YOU AND HIM..” He slammed his fists onto the table, clearly the thoughts of Bruce and her was like an oil to the fire.

She shakes her head, numbed,

“You’re sick Edward. I don’t need a sick person like you, but clearly and strangely you need me.”

“Y/N..Angel you don’t understand..”

“There is a difference between doing anything to keep a person by their side and doing anything for their happiness.” She stands up,

“Burn in hell, Edward Nigma, I hope you get the taste of pain I once felt when my freedom was taken away from me.” 

She puts the phone back, leaving as Edward calls out for her.

And maybe, she was cruel to say that. But even so, even if he really was sick, it doesn’t excuse for the hell he had shown her, the hell she felt with him. 

No, it was worse than hell. She would rather be in hell than be with him. Hell was a better place.

Y/N could only wish the same pain, fell upon him as she left the Arkham Asylum, leaving the past behind, and finally moving forward, swimming.

–

Stepping outside she was greeted by the rain. Y/N looks up at the sky, before exiting to the gate.

“How do you feel?” A familiar voice rang in her ear as an umbrella hovered over her head.

She looks up at him, his blue eyes.

“Good..It will take some time, but..” She smiles, “I feel like I can finally move on..”

“That’s good, Y/N, I’m proud and happy for you” Bruce smiles back, a gentle look to him, “Let’s head back before–”

“Bruce..” She interrupts, her breathing shaky.

“Is something wrong?” he grew worried, putting a hand on her shoulder as he looks around for a moment, for any dangers.

And as soon as it seems clear and safe, his gaze went back to her.

“Y/N-” 

Y/N’s lips, wet from the rain, clashed against his dry ones – yet to be touched by the rain.

Time stilled. It was just them now, everyhting else vanished to thin air. A moment where every emotions clashed.

She pulled away, but he pulled her closer – not wanting this moment to end.

Their silence, their movements and the way their eyes said the words, they understood;

The way their heart was beating for each other.

–

Y/N flutters her eyes open as she heards the curtains open.

“Good morning you two,” Alfred greets, “It’s 12’ clock, lunch is downstairs.”

She hears Bruce groan beside her, dragging her down with him as she sat up.

“A little longer..”

“20 minutes or you’ll get leftovers.” Alfred leaves.

“He is really overprotective of you,” Bruce mumbles, “He has known me since I was a kid, yet he lectures me on how to treat you right, thinking somehow I’ll hurt you. I think my back burns everytime he sees us, or me touch you ever since yesterday.”

Y/N laughs turning to face him. Bare chested, his brown hair messy. scratches on his back from the night. He looked so good. A god prehaps? No, 

the devil. He was the devil.

“Well, good morning to you too sir,” She raises an eyebrow, teasing.

He buries his face more against her chest,

“Morning, love.”

“I personally think he is celebrating since yesterday after it was clear we were late and drenched, due to the make out session in the rain.” Y/N strokes his hair, 

“Well it doesn’t matter cause in the end, I’m pretty sure I’m not getting the leftovers, but you are.”

He laughs heartily at that. God that laugh. 

Everything about him, she fell, his laugh, his smile, his everything, 

she fell for him.

And it didn't matter if he was really the devil. She would gladly, go and fall into hell with him – together.

Y/N snakes her hands to cup his face.

“I love you,” She whispered.

“I love you too,” He responded back and kissed –

both feeling such intense bliss.

--

m.list

#batman #bruce wayne #batman x reader #battison #bruce wayne x reader #angst? #fluff #x reader #reader insert #oneshot #battinson x reader #battison x reader #battinson #riddler x reader ig #riddler

[emitheduck]

Breakfast (Bruce Wayne x Reader)

a/n: wow this was so cute and sweet it kind of hurts my teeth that’s how sweet it is

Sunlight was peeking through the curtains, causing a beam of light to shine down right on Bruce’s eyes. He groaned, haphazardly throwing his arm up and over his face to block out any of the light. “You didn’t shut the curtain all the way.” He mumbled as he rolled over to the other side of the bed, practically crashing into the girl next to him.

“You were the one who closed the window last night because of the rain. Your fault.” (Y/n) told him, reaching her hand out from under the covers to shove him away from her. “Go close it.”

“Can’t. Too tired.” He told her as he pulled the covers off of her. “You’re already not under the blanket, you do it.”

(Y/n) groaned, opening her eyes as she sat up and swung her legs off the bed. “I think I’m gonna have to kill you for this one, honestly.” She told him, rubbing the sleep from her eyes as she now was fully awake. “Or, I can just do something worse.” Instead of closing the curtains like he so desperately wanted, she flung them open, letting the room fill with sunlight.

Bruce tried his best to hide under the covers, but of course she wouldn’t let him have the satisfaction. Grabbing hold of the blankets, and with one swift pull, all the blankets were now on the floor. “Can’t you just let me sleep? I’ve had a long night.”

She shook her head, gathering all the blankets up off the floor to at least try and fold. Alfred was going to kill her, but maybe if he knew it was to get Bruce out of bed before noon, he wouldn’t be as mad. “Let’s do something that normal couples do in the morning. I’m sure we can think of something to do.”

“You want me to make breakfast?” Bruce asked through a yawn, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. He still had some eye makeup on from the night previously, and now it was even more smudged than before.

(Y/n) smiled, nodding excitedly as she went over to the bedside table to get a makeup wipe. “Oo that’s different. I don’t think you’ve ever made breakfast for me before.” She told him as she wiped down his eyes, gently making sure she didn’t pull at the skin or poke his eye out. 

Once she was done, he grabbed the wipe from her to remove the makeup from his hand that was from rubbing at his eyes. “Really? I’ve never made you breakfast?”

“Unless you have a girlfriend you’re not telling me about, and you better not, you never have.” She said as he got up from the bed, stretching to crack his back before he grabbed his shirt from the floor to put it back on. “You also are never awake at the times we eat breakfast.”

Bruce sighed, but nodded. It wasn’t like the statement was false; he always up late. When he wasn’t Batman, he was usually downstairs in the cave, watching a computer screen till his eyes burned. “You know I can’t just take a night off.”

She crossed her arms over her chest, rolling her eyes. “I’m not saying that you have to take a night off, I’m just saying that maybe once in a while, it can be good for you to wake up early.”

“Oh yeah it’s real nice.” Bruce mumbled as he peaked out the window, watching as the sun was slowly starting to disappear and darker clowds were rolling in. “Actually, I can’t remember the last time I saw the sun that bright.”

“That’s the spirit. Now lets get some coffee in you, and you’ll feel so much better.” She smiled, gabbing his hand to drag him out of the bedroom.

“Good morning Madam (Y/n)” Alfred smiled from where he sat at the kitchen table, eyes widening in shock as he saw who she was dragging behind her. “And good morning Master Bruce.”

(Y/n) leaned down and gave Alfred a quick kiss on the cheek, a gesture of affection the two had adopted now that she had moved into the manor. “Can you actually believe it? Bruce said he would make me breakfast.”

Alfred looked to be at a loss for words, watching as Bruce shuffled over to the coffee pot to pour himself a cup. “You know, I cannot believe it. Would you like any help or is this something you’ll do on your own and I’ll have to clean up later?”

Bruce glared at him from over the top of the mug, taking such a big sip he poured in more the second it was lowered from his mouth. “Actually, why don’t you go do something this morning. I’m sure I’ll be okay.”

“And I’m here to supervise.” (Y/n) told him, reaching across the table to slide the newspaper closer to the older man. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy some time off.”

Alfred chuckled, grabbing the paper and tucking it under his arm as he stood. “Just call me if you need me. The fire extinguisher is under the sink if you’re in need of that as well.”

“Thank you.” Bruce grumbled, grabbing a second coffee mug to fill, handing it to (Y/n) once it was full. “Want me to get the cream for you?”

“Oh I’m getting the full treatment. Breakfast, and my coffee made for me? I must be really special.” (Y/n) teased, watching as he started to smile, grabbing the creamer from the fridge to pour some into her mug. “So what’s on the menu this morning?”

Bruce thought for a moment. He really could figure out anything with a simple search on his phone, but that would ruin the confidence that he seemed like he knew what he was doing. “I can go savory and make an omelet, or we can go sweet and make pancakes.”

She thought for a moment, taking a sip of her coffee while she was thinking. “Let’s do pancakes. I haven’t had them in years.”

“Did you just say years?” Bruce asked while he started grabbing mixing bowls and the dry ingredients from the cabinets.

“They’re just never something I get, I’m usually a waffle person.” She told him, watching as he started to chuckle. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Would you rather I go digging in the pantry for the waffle maker we never use?” He asked her with a smirk, trying to hold back a laugh when she reached over the counter to smack his arm. 

“I’m fine with pancakes! Just as long as you don’t burn the crap out of them.” (Y/n) went to the fridge to take out the eggs, milk, and butter, setting them on the counter next to where he was starting to measure out the flour. “So did you teach yourself how to make pancakes, or were you taught by someone?”

Bruce never looked up from the measuring cup, a sad smile on his face. “It was actually my mom. She never liked anyone else cooking for her in the morning, and taught me how.”

(Y/n) returned the sad smile, watching as he looked to remembering a happy thought, but yet so sad at the same time. “I bet she was really good at it.”

“She was the best. I don’t think she ever burned a single one. She used to say it was because she cooked with love.” He told her as he started to measure out the wet ingredients.

“Well, put as much love as you can in there, I don’t want to have to use the fire extinguisher this morning.” (Y/n) told him with a smirk, watching as he laughed. Even in the moments where he was his saddest, she always knew just what to say to make him feel better. “Can we have chocolate chips in the pancakes?” She asked him, already going to the pantry to go find them.

Bruce cracked the eggs in the bowl just as she was coming back, chocolate chips now in hand. “Sweetheart, you could say you want olives in the pancakes and I would still put them in there, and choke it down for you.”

She leaned up to press a kiss to his cheek, already dumping some of the chocolate into the mixing bowl. “Now that was a correct answer if I’ve ever heard one.”

He gave her a quick kiss on the forehead before he grabbed his mixing bowl and went over to the stove. Grabbing the griddle, he turned on the heat and dropped a small pad of butter onto the metal, watching as it sizzled under the heat. “Did you want to do anything else besides breakfast today?”

(Y/n) looked out the window where the dark sky had now opened up. Heavy rain pelted Alfreds poor flowers below the window. “I feel like it might be the kind of day to stay in.”

“That’s everyday here.” He countered as he started to pour the batter into perfect circles on the griddle. 

“Maybe I’ll be nice to you and say after breakfast we can go back to bed. Or at least, you can go back to bed as a compromise.” She said as she watched him flip the pancakes; not burned in the slightest. “I must admit, you have some skill.”

Bruce chuckled, reaching in the fridge and pulling out the maple syrup, handing it to her. “I’ll have to say I learned from the best. Put this on the table please?” He asked before turning his attention back to the griddle, taking the now cooked pancakes off and placing them on a plate in a neat stack. 

(Y/n) reached in the cabinet to take out plates, reaching into the silverware drawer to grab forks and knives. After setting the table, she went into the fridge and grabbed the of bowl strawberries that Alfred had bought a few days prior, setting those down on the table next to the fresh stack of pancakes. “They look really good Honey.” She smiled as she sat down, watching as he put two on both of their plates.

“They can look as good as they want, I just hope they taste good.” He told her as he sat down, watching as she poured the syrup, cutting herself a bite and putting it in her mouth. He had to know what she thought before he even toyed with the idea of eating.

“Bruce, these are amazing.” She smiled, leaning over to give him a kiss once she had fully swallowed her bite. “I’m not saying that because I love you, I really do mean they’re perfect.”

He was grinning, leaning forward to give her another kiss. “We should have breakfast more often. Your kisses taste like maple.”

(Y/n) blushed, pulling away to cut more of her pancakes. “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold. Or we go upstairs like two horny teenagers. Whatever happens first.” 

MASTERLIST

#batman x reader #battison x reader #bruce wayne x reader #reader insert #the batman #reader #the batman x reader

[onetoomanyfandomfixations]

In Honor of My Bestie’s Birthday: What Gifts Her Comfort Characters Would Give You

Look y’all I love my best friend dearly so I wanted to do this. @ my bestie ily my dear, I can’t wait to spend another wonderful year as your friend x

ANYWHO

enjoy :)

Hiccup Haddock (HtTyD)

Some small wooden carving

He probably made it himself

It’s definitely of a dragon of some sort

Is nervous you won’t like it

Tohru Honda (FruBa)

Another one who does something homemade

Goes Above and Beyond for you

It’s probably some form of food item

Will do a whole buffet for you

Yuki Sohma (FruBa)

Small but thoughtful

Like, really significant to your relationship

Probably has been planning it for months

Like a diary/scrapbook of every time you two have hung out

Bruce Wayne/Batman

Pretty predictable but gives you money

Like, Copious amounts of money

Would also donate a Lot to charities that mean alot to you

Harley Quinn/Harleen Quinzel (Batman)

Lets be honest, she probably stole it

Okay she definitely stole it

But it is Extravagant

Probably some famous thing you’ve admired from afar

You said you liked Starry Night?

Oh great!! All yours now :))

The Scarecrow/Jonathan Crane (Batman)

Therapy

jkjk

Would take you out somewhere nice, but quiet

like therapy

Portia Devorak (The Arcana)

Would take you on a date

You do all of your favourite activities, eat all of your favourite food

Takes the day off work Just for You

Julian Devorak (The Arcana)

Tries to buy you something Ridiculous with various foreign currency

Like I’m talking a wild animal

Probably gets in trouble and ends up making you a bouquet with forest flowers

Tony Stark (MCU)

Also gives you Copious amounts of money

But makes a day out of it

You go shopping together and dine at only the finest :)

Natasha Romanoff (MCU)

“Decorative” knife

: D

It’s definitely pretty?

Bruno Madrigal (Encanto)

Another one with a homemade gift

Get the feeling he likes needlework??

Would embroider your clothes

Gets really nervous and overthinks

Peter Parker (MCU)

Lego set from something you both like

Has been saving up for this since he got the idea

Y’all spend the day making it together

Tamaki Suoh (OHSHC)

Exclusive dinner w him

Jk but he does take you on a date!!

Very classy, brings a bouquet larger than ur head

Haruhi Fujioka (OHSHC)

Chill movie marathon of ur faves

Buys all of the food

Lets you come to their house

Nice chill day

Gets you something small on the side like a nice knitted jumper

Happy birthday again dearest!! I hope you have an amazing day xxx

#hiccup haddock #hiccup httyd #mcu headcanons #mcu x reader #tony stark #tony stark x teen!reader #natasha romanoff #natasha x teen reader #batman #battison x reader #harley quinn #harley quinn x reader #fruits basket x reader #fruits basket headcanons #httyd headcanons #tohru honda #tohru honda x reader #yuki sohma #yuki sohma x reader #batman headcanon #the arcana headcanons #portia devorak #portia devorak x reader #julian devorak #julian devorak x reader #bruno madrigal #peter parker #peter parker x reader #tamaki suoh #haruhi fujioka

[scprvtty]

just think of being with battison!Bruce Wayne, he’d be so sweet even tho he’s quite timid <3

I can’t stop thinking of him and his after care he’d probs run a bubble bath and join just to have another round of soft yet filthy sex <3

#bruce wayne #the batman #the batman smut #battison #battison x reader #bruce wayne smut #smutty #Bruce can rail tf outta me any day <3 #rail me

[nuvemturquesa]

In the Darkness

PART TWO

PART THREE

PART FOUR

With each passing day, this Riddler was growing into a bigger problem. 

First, it was just some weird internet activity, something that could be written off as just someone getting too comfortable in one internet forum that promoted 'freedom of speech’. Then this activity grew into small crimes of arson being committed throughout Gotham and then cops and people who worked small jobs in the government were showing up brutally beaten with question marks carved into their skin, broken bones, and tape over their mouths and now the next step of escalation has revealed itself; on October 31st, the Mayor was killed inside his own mansion. 

'What does a lier do when he's dead?'

Bruce closed his tired eyes for the hundredth time, rewinding the footage of his lenses one more time. The fact that one person was behind all this elaborate plan to taunt the city officials was still baffling to Bruce. At first, he considered that a group of terrorists must have been behind the targeting of cops and government officials but it was too organized. It was clear that whoever was behind the Mayor's death had been carefully planning every step of the way. It must be one brain behind it all, someone taken over by hatred towards Gotham and it's citizens. 

When that little boy showed up on the screen in front of him, Bruce paused the footage. As much as he hated himself for making the comparison between himself and the boy, he hated himself even more for drawing one more parallel between the little boy and the girl imprisoned inside Batcave’s questioning room right now. 

One more orphan in Gotham City. 

His eyes, exhausted from reviewing hours and hours of footage from his patrol that night, closed against his will again. Bruce's body desperately needed some rest, since the Riddler started to show more and more brutality in his attacks, Bruce felt the need to go on patrol every single night and didn't let his wounds heal properly. Alfred thought that Bruce was injecting adrenaline every night but the truth was much darker than that; Bruce knew that his little dirty secret has a lot to do with this sudden thirst for blood and that sooner or later Alfred would find out about her. 

Mina gave him strength without even noticing. 

After the patrol, when he went down to her makeshift room to find that girl excitedly expecting him, it made all the pain go away. When she touched him, so softly like she was afraid to hurt him, or when she asked if he was hurt, her voice fogged his brain and the images of the gruesome crime scenes and the worry about Gotham’s upcoming election were gone. 

It was like a drug and he couldn't get enough of her. 

{...}

Watching her through the many cameras installed inside her makeshift room - that was previously an interrogation room, with a bulletproof door and soundproof walls - made his heart tight in his chest. 

Bruce swore to himself that he would release her with a generous sum of money after she was better but now that he had revealed his identity to her what could he do? 

While the answer didn’t come to him, he was trying to put some distance between them. He removed the chain of her ankle while she slept and watched her closely through the cameras, even getting himself a portable screen so he could watch her while in patrol.

Bruce was impressed, that despise her blindness, she could walk around the bed and into the bathroom without bumping into anything and how sometimes she sat in silence, eyes fixed on the door. He missed being able to look at her face closely; even through the grey film that clouded her eyes, there was so much she expressed through those broken windows: her kindness and innocence pulled Bruce like a magnet. 

He liked to tell himself that she sat there waiting for him.

As the days went by, the girl finally seemed to notice that the only contact she had with another human being was when Bruce Wayne stepped close to the door and pushed a tray of food and a bottle of water through a small window near the bottom of the door. By the fifth time, he came by to deliver food without entering the room, as Bruce walked back to his cave he pulled the small screen out of his pocket to be surprised and heartbroken to find the girl sitting in bed crying. He wanted to come back and hug her and kiss her tears away, but he stopped himself every time.

Watching her shower was one of the hardest parts of his day. He told himself that the only reason he was watching her was that he wanted to make sure she wouldn't slip and eventually hurt herself, but it was a lame excuse. Mina was a true beauty; now that her bones weren’t poking her skin and there was color to her face, Bruce hated himself for desiring her. Damn, how he desired her. Desired to touch and feel her skin under his fingers and make her cry out his name, look into the eyes while he took her over and over again.

When the fact that she might be a virgin crossed Bruce’s mind it made the tent inside his pants even tighter. 

He wanted to be her first and last. 

{...}

Bruce strolled through the maze, just letting his exhausted body take him. 

Part of his brain condemned him for having these dirty feelings for someone vulnerable and helpless like Mina but the other part didn’t care. Mina was the only thing that kept him going throughout these dark times that took over Gotham. If the Bat was Gotham’s only hope, Mina was his. He needed to look into her grey eyes to make all his pain and hidden fears disappear. She was the only one who could do that. 

Punching the eight digit-code into the screen on the wall, the heavy metal door opened and he quickly got inside the room, trying his best to not wake her up.  The room was dark, saving from the faint light coming from the bathroom. 

Mina hated being in the complete darkness. 

Smiling softly at the way she coddled under the fluffy blanket he had given her, he sat on the bed, carefully. Mina looked serene, innocent, and completely defenseless and his mind yelled at him for violating someone so delicate with his darkness. 

A kiss. 

That’s all he wanted. 

Bending over her, Bruce pressed their lips together. 

His heart exploded inside his chest and all the thoughts that tried to stop him went suddenly quiet. 

Mina shifted a little bit before opening her grey eyes and staring back at him. Using his finger to gently push a lock of black hair stuck to her cheek to the side, he waited for her to come back to her senses. His face was still looming over hers, his scent taking over her senses.

“Mister Wayne?” she asked, still groggy. Damn it, she was adorable. “Is there anything wrong?”

He quickly pressed another peck to her lips and then her rosy cheek before responding to her.

“Nothing's wrong. Go back to sleep, darling”

{Also posted on my AO3}

#the batman 2022 #rob pattinson #dark bruce wayne #dark fic #original character #robert pattinson #batman 2022 #yandere bruce wayne #battison x reader #oc

[nat054]

Danger danger

#bruce wayne #batman #bruce wayne x y/n #battison #battison x reader #robert patterson

[ghostfacesvalentine]

The requests in my inbox are screaming for Billy & Stu but my heart yearns for Battison

#ghostface x reader #battison x reader

[toomanyrobins2]

Mr. Bruce Wayne

Summary: An orphan all her life, Y/N is simply too old to remain at The Bowery Home any longer. That is where an anonymous patron has swooped in to send her off to college and all he requires…a monthly letter of her academic progress.

Based off the book and musical “Daddy Long Legs”

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

last part // series masterlist // next part

27th May

Bat man, Esq.

Dear Sir: I am in receipt of a letter from Mother Waller. She hopes that I am doing well in deportment and studies. Since I probably have no place to go this summer, she will let me come back to the asylum and work for my board until college opens. I HATE THE BOWERY HOME.

I'd rather die than go back.

Yours most truthfully,

Y/N Abbott

Cher homme chauve-souris(French for Batman),

Vous etes un brick!

Je suis tres heureuse d'about the farm, parsque je n'ai jamais been on a farm dans ma vie and I'd hate to retourner chez The Bowery, et wash dishes tout l'été. There would be danger of quelque chose affreuse happening, parceque j'ai perdue ma humilité d'autre fois et j'ai peur that I would just break out quelque jour et smash every cup and saucer dans la maison. Pardon brievete et paper. Je ne peux pas send des mes nouvelles parceque je suis dans French class et j'ai peur que Monsieur le Professeur is going to call on me tout de suite.

He did!

Au revoir, je vous aime beaucoup.

Y/N

Bruce was at his desk and he was laboring over the blank sheet of paper. Similar pieces were littered across his desk and all of them a similar message, and yet, sounding wrong each time.

Dear Miss Abbot,

I put pen to paper with some trepidation but with the feeling after your last letter that I really do owe you some sort of response…

With that, another piece of paper was crumpled and tossed away. Throwing himself back against his chair, Bruce groaned, “How does one say, I want to write you back, but I don't know what to say? How can I explain that I'm not really old? That I am not at all the man you have imagined and I am definitely not the one you expect?” Getting up from the desk, Bruce began to pace and gesture wildly, “Of course, I write in contravention of my own rules of engagement which forbid any sort of communication from me. But last month, I was guilty of sending you a bouquet of flowers, so perhaps the damage is already done. It's getting very hard to abstain from a response, especially as a man who loves to correspond. I am longing to interject my observations and bursting with opinions and advice.”

Clark and Alfred were sitting on the couch, watching as Bruce had a prolonged temper tantrum. The former turned to Alfred, “Do you think he remembers we are still here?”

The grey-haired man laughed, “The world may never know, Master Kent.”

“How many letters is he at now?”

“He’s started 23. He’s managed to complete 0.”

Clark hid his laughter in his coffee, “Maybe he should just give up on writing a letter and just show up.”

Bruce whirled around and pointed at his friend, “Clark, that may not be a bad idea.”

“Oh, so you do know that we are in the room.” Clark pushed off the couch and pushed Bruce into one of the chairs, “I know you’re losing it now, because you have never thought my ideas were good.”

“No, this will work! I will drive up to the college one of these afternoons and introduce myself. I may not be ideal, but I should be able to manage. Although, I'm not good at friendship–as you know–I'm not good at attachment, or family, or commitment. I roundly despise my relations but she’s met Harriet, so she will understand. After all, my uncle is the reason for my low expectations. 

Alfred stepped in to offer some advice, “Perhaps, it isn't wise to reveal yourself just yet. Why not meet Miss Abbott first as the man you really are? Why not introduce yourself as Harriet’s relation?”

“Because, it’s insane!” Clark couldn’t believe what he was hearing, “You’re going to meet your sponsee and hide your true identity all because you can’t manage to write a letter?”

“Yes!”

Clark ran a hand through his hand and turned to Alfred, “Surely you can see that this is madness.”

“Of course, but you are the one who planted the idea. Now, you will have to deal with the consequences.” The older man walked out of the study with a grin on his face.

30th May

Dear Batman,

Did you ever see this campus? (That is merely a rhetorical question. Don't let it annoy you.) It is a heavenly spot in May. All the shrubs are in blossom and the trees are the loveliest young green—even the old pines look fresh and new. The grass is dotted with yellow dandelions and hundreds of girls in blue and white and pink dresses. Everybody is joyous and care-free, for vacation's coming, and with that to look forward to, examinations don't count.

Isn't that a happy frame of mind to be in? And oh, I'm the happiest of all! Because I'm not in the orphanage anymore; and I'm not anybody's nursemaid or typewriter or bookkeeper (I should have been, you know, except for you).

I'm sorry now for all my past badnesses.

I'm sorry I was ever impertinent to Mother Waller.

I'm sorry I ever slapped Freddie Perkins.

I'm sorry I ever filled the sugar bowl with salt.

I'm sorry I ever made faces behind the Trustees' backs.

I'm going to be good and sweet and kind to everybody because I'm so happy. And this summer I'm going to write and write and write and begin to be a great author. Isn't that an exalted stand to take? Oh, I'm developing a beautiful character! It droops a bit under cold and frost, but it does grow fast when the sun shines. That's the way with everybody. I don't agree with the theory that adversity and sorrow and disappointment develop moral strength. The happy people are the ones who are bubbling over with kindliness. I have no faith in misanthropes. (Fine word! Just learned it.) You are not a misanthrope are you? I started to tell you about the campus. I wish you'd come for a little visit and let me walk you about and say:

‘That is the library. This is the gas plant. The Gothic building on your left is the gymnasium, and the Tudor Romanesque beside it is the new infirmary.' 

Oh, I'm fine at showing people about. I've done it all my life at the Bowery Home, and I’ve been doing it all day here. I have honestly. And a Man, too! That's a great experience. I never talked to a man before (except occasional Trustees, and they don't count). Pardon, Batman, I don't mean to hurt your feelings when I abuse Trustees. I don't consider that you really belong among them. You just tumbled on to the Board by chance. The Trustee, as such, is fat and pompous and benevolent. He pats one on the head and wears a gold watch chain. However—to resume:

I have been walking and talking and having tea with a man. And with a very superior man—with Mr. Bruce Wayne of one of the first Houses of Gotham. Harriet’s cousin, in short (in long, perhaps I ought to say; he's as tall as you.) She tells me that he is the last of his family. The Wayne family is one of the founding families of Gotham.  He's her father’s sister’s son, but she doesn't know him very intimately. Mr. Wayne’s mother was Harriet’s aunt. You’ll notice my use of the past term. Harriet informs me that Mr. Wayne’s family was killed when he was a child. 

I have always thought that my situation was a sad one, and yet, I find my heart breaking for Mr. Wayne. While I have no memories of my parents, he has eight years of knowing how much his parents loved him. Knowing what could have been seems more heartbreaking than not knowing at all. I can at least pretend that my parents were horrible and mean, or they died and there was no one else to take me.

Sadness aside…being in town on business, he decided to run out to the college and call on Harriet. It seems he glanced at her when she was a baby, decided he didn't like her, and has never noticed her since. I can’t say I disagree with him. Anyway, there he was, sitting in the reception room very proper with his hat and stick and gloves beside him; and Harriet and Barb with seventh-hour recitations that they couldn't cut. So Harriet dashed into my room and begged me to walk him about the campus and then deliver him to her when the seventh hour was over. I said I would, obligingly but unenthusiastically, because I didn’t think I would care much for those related to the Kanes. But he turned out to be a sweet lamb. 

He's a real human being—not a Kane at all. We had a beautiful time; I've longed for an uncle ever since. Do you mind pretending you're my uncle? I believe they're superior to grandmothers. Mr. Wayne reminded me a little of you, Batman, as you were twenty years ago. You see I know you intimately, even if we haven't ever met! He's tall and thinnish, tired eyes, and the funniest underneath smile that never quite comes through but just wrinkles up the corners of his mouth. For someone who looks so uninterested in the world, he had a way of making me feel right off as though I’d known him a long time. He's very companionable. We walked all over the campus from the quadrangle to the athletic grounds; then he said he felt weak and must have some tea. He proposed that we go to College Inn—it's just off the campus by the pine walk. I said we ought to go back for Harriet and Barbara, but he said he didn't like to have his cousins drink too much tea; it made them nervous. So, we just ran away and had tea and muffins and marmalade and ice-cream and cake at a nice little table out on the balcony. The inn was quite conveniently empty, this being the end of the month and allowances low. 

We had the jolliest time! But he had to run for his train the minute he got back and he barely saw Harriett at all. She was furious with me for taking him off; it seems he's an unusually rich and desirable uncle. It relieved my mind to find he was rich, for the tea and things cost sixty cents apiece. This morning (it's Monday now) three boxes of chocolates came by express for Harriet and Barbara and me. What do you think of that? To be getting candy from a man!

I begin to feel like a girl instead of a foundling. I wish you'd come and have tea some day and let me see if I like you. But wouldn't it be dreadful if I didn't? However, I know I should. Bien! I make you my compliments.

'Jamais je ne t'oublierai.'

Y/N

PS. I looked in the glass this morning and found a perfectly new dimple that I'd never seen before. It's very curious. Where do you suppose it came from?

Lois raised an eyebrow, “You felt weak and needed tea? You hate tea.”

Bruce refused to look up from his meal. “We walked a lot.”

“You walked a lot and felt weak?”

Bruce finally set down his utensils and rested his chin on his folded hands, looking annoyed, “Are you going to rehash every detail of the letter?”

Clark laughed, “She’s just focusing on the most amusing bits. You had tea with your sponsee while hiding your true identity. Claiming weakness, even though you are in perfect health and didn’t even visit Harriet. Oh, and let’s not forget you sent her chocolates.”

“I sent all of them chocolates.”

Lois smiled knowingly, “Only because you couldn’t send them just to her without raising suspicion.”

“Why did I agree to dinner with the two of you?”

Clark shrugged, “We are the only ones you have to talk to about this.”

“How sad for me.”

9th June

Dear Batman,

Happy day! I've just finished my last examination in Physiology. And now: Three months on a farm!

I don't know what kind of a thing a farm is. I've never been on one in my life. I've never even looked at one (except from the car window), but I know I'm going to love it, and I'm going to love being free. I am not used even yet to being outside the Bowery Home. Whenever I think of it, excited little thrills chase up and down my back. I feel as though I must run faster and faster and keep looking over my shoulder to make sure that Mother Waller isn't after me with her arm stretched out to grab me back. I don't have to mind anyone this summer, do I?

Your nominal authority doesn't annoy me in the least; you are too far away to do any harm. Mother Waller is dead forever, so far as I am concerned, and the Kents aren't expected to overlook my moral welfare, are they?”

No, I am sure not. I am entirely grown up. Hooray! I leave you now to pack a trunk, and three boxes of tea kettles and dishes and sofa cushions and books.

Yours ever,

Y/N

PS. Here is my physiology exam. Do you think you could have passed?

@inluvwithladybug

@pierres-new-spectacles

@kity-k4t

@sassymemesfanficfestival

#toomanyrobins #✉️ #Batman #Batman imagine #Batman x reader #Bruce Wayne #Bruce Wayne imagine #Bruce Wayne x reader #robert pattinson #robert pattinson x reader #robert pattinson imagine #battison #battison imagine #battison x reader #batfamily #batfamily imagine #batfamily x reader #batfam #Batman au #Bruce Wayne au #batfam imagine #dcu #dc imagine