#the batman fic

[hollandorks]

in flames

battisnon! bruce wayne x CEO! vigilante! reader

summary: The reader encounters the Batman when stealing information from a murdered man one night. The next day at a meeting to merge her business with Wayne Enterprises, she meets Bruce Wayne for the first time--and he has a cut on his face exactly like the one she gave the Batman. When sparks fly, will they go down in flames?

a/n: look it's me back with another "oneshot" in which I'm too long winded! This one's smutty and full of banter--enjoy! (and yes I do have to use this gif whenever there's something sexy in the content oops)

***not affiliated with middle of the night***

*content is NSFW. 18+*

word count: 10,497

The window opened with barely a creak. Y/n slipped through carefully, quietly, every one of her senses on high alert. 

Getting caught at an active crime scene would be a terrible look for her company, to say the least. Especially the night before a huge meeting about a potential merger. 

But that part of her that had always existed–the part that fought against injustice, no matter how big or small, the part that used her position in life for good–wouldn’t let this rest. 

A man had been murdered, after all. 

A man who was a murderer himself. A man who hurt people, repeatedly, for his own gain. 

She left the window open the barest crack in case she needed to make a quick getaway, but  still closed enough that it didn’t look like it had been tampered with. She’d learned that lesson the hard way over the years she’d been doing this. 

She waited a beat in the silence of the night to make sure nothing was stirring. 

The penthouse apartment was utterly quiet. 

She knew from a couple of hours of observation that there was only one cop posted outside the apartment door and another in the lobby. She guessed they hadn’t expected anyone to come in from the roof. And hadn’t that been how the Riddler had gotten in to kill the mayor the year before? GCPD were never going to learn. 

Y/n bit back a sigh. A year, and things in Gotham were still shit. 

Well, she was working on that. Not only did she shore up charitable donations in the city, but she also had taken notes from the Batman and decided to take matters into her own hands–in secret of course. She did good work with her money and her company by day, and a different sort of work by night in disguise. 

While she didn’t have the gadgets or physical strength like Batman did, she had her own set of skills. Namely, plenty of friends in places both low and high, willing to help her out because they all owed her favors. She dealt in secrets, and secrets were what led to real change in the city.

Not violence. Not death. Not even good, old-fashioned police work. 

Secrets from the right person leveraged in the right way wrought change with little effort.

And secrets were what she was currently after. 

The man who’d been murdered–a former city councilman who had just announced his run for Senate and his plan to eventually run for president–was scum just like all the powerful people the Riddler had murdered a year before. 

Y/n didn’t condone murder, but she did believe in bringing the darkness into the light. That part of the Riddler’s manifesto, at least, she could get behind. As fucking crazy as the guy was, she really couldn’t blame him for wanting to correct some of the shitstorm that was the city of Gotham. His methods had been all wrong, though. She didn’t hurt anybody. She merely told the truth about them. 

It was pure chance that her target had been murdered. There had been a string of robberies in the upper class neighborhood–and this time, the apartment hadn’t been empty as expected. The thieves had killed him in their surprise. It had always been her plan to rob the man, just not his valuables. She was after his secrets so she could expose him and ruin his political career. 

Now one man was dead and the thief turned murderer was in a jail cell. The city was lauding one and villainizing the other. But they didn’t know what she knew, what she was seeking to reveal to the city at large. 

Y/n knew the truth. Not only was the Senate campaign paid for with all kinds of dirty money, but that money had also been stolen from all kinds of charities–several of which y/n was directly involved with and one she had started herself. 

Even if she hadn’t been involved in the aforementioned charities, her blood would have curdled at every other secret this former councilman had hidden. The skeletons in his closet were overflowing, all clambering over each other, multiplying the more she dug. 

And apparently, the man was old fashioned and had several paper copies of his nefarious dealings hidden in a personal safe. The police had checked the other safe, the one the thief had been trying to get into when he shot the former councilman. All along there had been another, smaller, much more important safe underneath the man’s desk. 

It was this safe y/n aimed for. 

She bent underneath the desk and got to work picking the lock. 

It took nearly ten minutes, not her best work, but finally the damn thing opened with a soft click. Sadly, her informant hadn’t known the code, but y/n was adept at safe cracking and lock picking.

Every hair on the back of her neck rose. 

It was instinct born of her nightly activities, or it was the soft movement of air as someone snuck through the apartment, or maybe it was the barest sound of a shoe against the hardwood. Somehow, she very suddenly knew she wasn’t alone.

Y/n didn’t hesitate. She whirled and threw one of the many knives on her at the person sneaking up behind her. The aim was to scare, not to kill. In the same moment, she grabbed everything from the hidden safe and tucked it under her arm. 

The knife nicked the side of the Batman’s jaw as he easily stepped out of the way. 

Shit, she thought, because she had expected another thief or maybe a cop. And he was close, closer than she’d expected. 

She hadn’t expected Gotham’s favorite vigilante to be right behind. 

The Batman didn’t hesitate either. He darted forward so fast she barely saw more than a blur of shadow. With a curse out loud this time, she dodged, hip banging painfully against the corner of the desk as she moved out of the way. 

“It’s not what it looks like,” she said in a low voice.

“It’s exactly what it looks like,” the masked man said. They were both keeping as quiet as possible. She didn’t think either of them would want the cop outside knowing someone had broken into the apartment. 

He lunged. She ducked under his arm and kicked at the back of his knee. He grunted but didn’t go down. She frowned but had no time to alter course before his hand grabbed her upper arm and yanked. All of the papers she’d taken scattered across the floor. 

Y/n chopped at his elbow, hand stinging as it connected to whatever his armor was made out of. 

“Ow,” she muttered as she tried to release herself from his tight grip. Damn, he was strong. She aimed a kick towards his balls but his free hand caught her ankle. Now he had her arm and her leg. She bared her teeth at him and forced herself closer to take him off guard. He wasn’t easily fooled, though, and only held her tighter. 

“I’m not stealing, you fucker,” she hissed. Her chest pressed up against the hard planes of armor. Batman stared down at her, eyes almost blank underneath the mask. He was taller and broader than her, and showed no signs of his grip lessening. 

“Then why did you take papers out of that safe?” he asked in a gravelly baritone that made her shiver. She hadn’t realized that the Batman was…kind of hot. 

“Take a look at them and you’ll see why.” She wriggled again but he didn’t let go. 

He stared down at her for a long moment. Finally, he moved enough to bend over and gather up the papers with one hand. His other hand still had her by the wrist. 

“I’m not going to run,” she said with an annoyed sigh. “I’m doing what you do–fixing corruption.” 

The vigilante straightened and glanced at the topmost paper in his hand. He frowned. 

“Is this all true?” 

She craned her neck to see what, exactly, he was looking at. 

“Yes, it’s all true.” She gave up trying to get out of his hold. He was too strong, too fast. “That’s all I was after. I have a contact at GC1 news I was going to send it to. Make it public that this guy was a piece of shit who’s better off dead.” 

Batman simply stared at her. The cut across his jaw was shallow but bleeding steadily. 

“Then why break in?” he finally asked. 

“Why’d you break in?” she countered. His grip loosened slightly. She silently began to count down. She didn’t want this asshole taking her hard-earned information to the police or anyone else. She wanted it public and she needed the papers in his gloved hands in order to do so. 

“I’m investigating,” he said with a slight narrowing of his eyes. “And catching thieves.” 

“I’m not a thief!” 

She used his distraction to yank her hand back, grab the papers, and dart away. 

Batman caught her by the suit at the scruff of her neck. 

Rage welled up inside y/n and she struck out with her leg. In the same movement she twisted to face him. Her foot connected with his chest. He barely moved. He didn’t make a sound, either, as if she was simply an insect bothering him. 

“If you’re not a thief,” he said while blocking the blow from her fist. She kept backing up towards the window she’d left cracked, even as they exchanged a flurry of blows. “Then why did you break in? Why did you throw a knife?” 

She almost winced. “You snuck up on me, okay? You were closer than I thought. I wasn’t aiming to hit you.” 

“But you were aiming to steal.” Again, he caught her by the ankle as she tried to kick him. She growled as she was forced to hop on her other foot to remain balanced. 

“Yes, we went over this. Nothing else nefarious is going on.” She crossed her heart with her free hand for emphasis. 

Quicker than she thought possible, the Batman released her foot. It knocked her off balance and she stumbled. 

He pulled off her mask. 

Her heart stopped. She froze, panting heavily from their little bit of sparring, and stared at him in fear. 

“Don’t–” she said, but no other words would come. 

“I’m keeping this,” he said as he held up the mask. “Do what you want with those papers. Then stop breaking into places.” 

He had her mask. He was looking her dead in the eyes. She might not have been easily recognizable like other wealthy CEOs in Gotham, but if her merger with Wayne Enterprises went through the next day…her picture would be everywhere. And then he’d know who she was. 

She half-snarled and darted towards her mask. The Batman easily kept it out of her reach. 

“Give it back!” she said in a voice that was much too loud. 

They both froze as the apartment door clicked–a key in the lock. 

Shit, the cop was coming to check on them. 

She and the Batman exchanged a glance. 

Her mind tripped over itself trying to get past her fight, flight, or freeze instincts all warring for attention. She needed her mask, but if she got caught…it was over. 

Fuck it, she had to leave the mask. 

“Fucker,” she mumbled to the other vigilante as she fled for the window. He didn’t stop her. 

As she closed it behind her, she chanced a glance in the window. The Batman was gone. A cop was walking through, shining his flashlight over every shadow. 

Y/n stared for a beat longer. 

Then she scrambled up to the roof to grab her things and run like hell. 

First she had information to leak to the press. Then she had a board meeting to prepare for. At least she had the files now. 

She could get revenge against that asshole vigilante some other time. 

–

Y/n dressed carefully for her meeting the next morning. It never hurt to dress to impress, she reasoned. She needed to look strong, capable, but not dowdy. Men were simple creatures and she figured Bruce Wayne was no different. If she could impress him, the merger would go through. 

Her pantsuit was simple and black, tailored to perfectly accent her body. Underneath she wore a red silk shirt–red for power, red for purpose. Red to match her favorite lipstick. 

The news played in the background as she finished her makeup and hair. The information she’d given the news was already everywhere. She tried not to feel too smug, but it was hard. She’d taken that bastard’s reputation down, sent it to hell where it and he belonged. And now investigations were starting–investigations that would hopefully help the people he wronged. That would give money back to the charities and families he had stolen from. 

She was so focused on her triumph that she didn’t have time to be angry at the asshole vigilante who’d stolen her mask. She could get another one made–but it would take a while. It was custom made, bulletproof and made to perfectly fit her face. Maybe this time she’d request it hook to her suit, too, that way it wouldn’t be so easy to steal next time. 

She and her team were the first ones in the boardroom at Wayne Enterprises. They were early, but only by a few minutes. She shuffled her papers quietly and pulled up the current contract on her laptop. They would be discussing terms in that meeting and hopefully everyone would win. In another tab she had cost and profit projections in neat little graphs. 

Merging with Wayne Enterprises was going to change her life. Her business would thrive even more, have more reach, be able to give more to charity. She knew Bruce Wayne liked charitable giving–his parents had been philanthropists and he had started a relief. She had made sure to include all this in her pros and cons list that she’d emailed the Wayne CEO at the beginning of the merger talks. 

“Good morning,” said a member of the Wayne Enterprises board from the doorway. She and her team stood and started shaking hands. 

Bruce Wayne was the last one in the door. He didn’t shake anyone’s hand, merely went to the opposite end of the conference table from y/n. 

As they all sat, Bruce Wayne looked up and met her gaze. 

They both startled. 

Recognition flitted across his face before he could hide it. 

Her own mouth parted in shock. 

Bruce Wayne had a long cut across one side of his jaw. A cut that perfectly matched the one she’d given a certain vigilante the night before.

Bruce Wayne was the Batman. 

–

“–not saying that we shouldn’t, but after all the bad luck with the Riddler last year–” 

Bruce Wayne interrupted y/n with a growl in his voice. “Bad luck? Bad luck? He’s a psychopath who murdered people and blew up half the city! It’s not–” 

“You know what I meant!” she shot right back. 

There had been a moment, at the beginning of the meeting, where everyone was introduced and the terms of the contract were read aloud and y/n and Bruce had simply stared at each other. The moment stretched into silence, and all she could think was, Holy fucking shit. 

Bruce Wayne was the Batman. 

It had devolved from there. 

Bruce had immediately shot down several of the terms she had insisted on, which pissed her off. Her rebuttal had been appropriately angry, which had pissed him off. Every beat of her heart had her more and more worried he’d reveal her identity and she’d be fired on the spot. 

After half an hour, they’d argued about several things, and she finally started to stop worrying about him outing her. 

That didn’t mean he didn’t piss her off with every word out of his mouth. 

Now, here they were, half-shouting at each other from across the long table, both of them the only ones standing. Bruce had his hands flat on the table as he shot daggers at her with his eyes and his words. She stood with a hand on her hip, just as angry as she was. 

The worst part was, they’d been using an intermediary to even draft the contract they were there to discuss. And now he suddenly had a bunch of issues with it? It was in his fucking favor. 

There was a soft clearing of a throat that shut them both up mid bickering. 

“I think we should table this for the day,” said the intermediary. She was pretty sure he wasn’t there to act as a literal mediator. “We can reconvene at the same time tomorrow. Why don’t we have both sides draw up new proposals in the meantime.” 

Everyone was staring at them, at their behavior, and it only served to piss her off more. 

“Well I’m okay with getting this finished today,” y/n said petulantly. She glared at Bruce Wayne. 

“Let’s table it,” he said as he glared right back. She had a feeling that he was only saying that to disagree with her, not because he actually thought it was a bad idea. 

She ground her teeth together so hard she was pretty sure the whole table could hear it. “Fine, same time tomorrow.” 

She was too angry to feel embarrassed at her squabbling with the CEO of Wayne Enterprises like two rival schoolchildren. Not only had this fucker taken her mask, but he also was trying to fuck her with her company too. All this work she’d put into the contract, into the merger, and he was blowing it off like it was nothing.

She stormed out of the room without another word, headed straight for the elevator, and muttered curse words under her breath the entire way. It didn’t help her feel better, but she had to blow off some of the steam rising in her somehow or she was going to burst into angry flames and take down the whole building, his apartments included.

Inside the elevator, she took a deep breath. She’d have to rewrite the entire contract, which would probably take all night. The only thing that made her feel better was that Bruce Wayne had to do the same thing if he wanted any of his terms put up for consideration. 

She imagined him in his full Batman costume pouring over the contracts and snorted to herself. Of course, he probably just had someone do it for him and send it to him to review, but the mental image cheered her slightly. 

As if her thoughts had conjured him, a hand caught the closing elevator doors, and in stepped Bruce Wayne. 

The doors slid closed beside them. 

Y/n had to bite her lip to keep from making a rude comment. There were several of them warring to get out at once. 

“Mr. Wayne,” she said instead, but she let all of the built up anger and venom come through her words. 

He put his hands in his suit pockets and sighed. She had to admit, even as mad as he made her, he looked damn good. He was wearing a tailored dark blue suit that made his blue eyes pop. His long, dark hair was tousled as if he’d woken up right before coming to the meeting. He was tall, his shoulders broad, and his damn jawline was so sharp it looked like it had cut itself with the damage her knife had inflicted. And the cut along the jaw just made it worse–he looked mysterious, handsome, like he was full of secrets waiting to be discovered. Which, she guessed, he was. 

He stared down at her, back ramrod straight, and seemed to grow in the small space. He reached a hand out and without looking hit a button that made the elevator stop. 

She simply waited. She was pretty sure she knew what was coming. She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow. 

Bruce leaned in very close–close enough that she could smell whatever fresh scent of shampoo or deodorant he used. It was a masculine scent that made her pulse jump as he got close enough for her to feel his breath. 

“If you tell anyone,” he said in a voice that definitely dredged up all sorts of images of darkness and shadows and bat wings. It also made her think of silk sheets and shadowy beds. 

Feeling bold, y/n stepped closer. Their chests brushed now. “Is this a threat, Mr. Wayne?” 

Something flashed in his eyes and her traitorous body decided to get really, really turned on. His jaw clenched so tightly she expected to hear an audible snap. She could practically see his internal struggle not to be an asshole and it made her want to laugh. It was almost too easy to rile him up. 

He took a step back, expression suddenly vulnerable. “It would be…very bad for me, and those close to me…if you told anyone. So, please. Just don’t–please.” 

She softened a little. She hadn’t expected the please. “Hey, I’ve got a big secret too, remember? I won’t tell.” He gave a single sharp nod. “I want my mask back,” she added. 

“No,” he said as he leaned against the elevator wall. She could see their reflections in the shiny metallic ceiling. He was a blur of dark blue, she a pop of red. Opposites, of course.

“Why the fuck not?” she asked. She crossed her arms again. The softness she’d felt towards him was completely gone just like that. 

Bruce straightened and got into her space again. Granted, it might not have been on purpose since he was so tall and the elevator was small. He lowered his voice, eyes flickering to her red lips, and said, “To keep you out of trouble.” 

Y/n had no excuse for what happened next. As if possessed, she matched his step forward and let her hand slide up his chest to his shoulder. He swallowed hard, seemingly nervous. 

“I can get into all kinds of trouble without the mask,” she murmured. Her eyes traced his lips this time. 

And maybe it was because he was handsome and he was there. Maybe it was because they shared so many similarities. Or maybe she wanted to one up him somehow, and knew this would do the trick. 

No matter the reason, y/n stretched up and captured Bruce Wayne’s mouth with her own. 

He froze for a second, going unnaturally still, before he seemed to shake it off. 

She couldn’t help the small groan that escaped when his tongue traced her bottom lip or the one that slipped out when he grabbed her waist and pulled her flush against him. One of her hands slipped inside his suit jacket while the other tangled in his hair. He groaned this time, and it went straight through her like a meteor, lighting her on fire as it went. 

Her back bumped against the cold elevator wall, the railing digging into her, and she let herself be lifted so her ass sat on top of it. It was barely big enough to balance on, but provided enough leverage for Bruce to slide between her legs. She could feel his arousal press against her, right where she wanted him, and she couldn’t help the small shift of her hips. 

Bruce grabbed her tighter. 

She bit his lower lip and grinned when he jerked back. 

“That was for being a jerk earlier,” she said. 

He stared down at her. His dark hair was mussed. The blackness of his pupils had almost overtaken the bright blue. 

Y/n lifted her hips to grind against him. His breath shook, eyelids fluttering closed. He felt so good against her like this, warm and strong and solid. 

But then he let go and stepped away from her. He straightened his suit and wiped her lipstick off of his own mouth. 

“Was it something I said?” she asked, teasing to cover up the hurt that was stinging through her like small thorns. 

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said. He jabbed the same button from earlier and the elevator lurched into motion once more. 

She frowned at him. He didn’t bother looking at her. “So you’re going to leave me and my business high and dry?” 

No answer. She scoffed. “And here I thought you were different from the typical rich man.” 

His shoulders stiffened but he still didn’t say a word. Above their heads, the elevator counted down as they slowly got closer and closer to the ground floor. 

“Don’t you live in the penthouse?” she asked with another frown, distracted from her annoyance by the descending numbers. 

“Yes,” he said, but didn’t elaborate. 

“Then let’s go up there so you can give me my damn mask back.”

The elevator dinged as they reached the lobby. 

“No,” he said over his shoulder as he stepped out. 

She watched him stride away on impossibly long legs. 

“Fuck,” she said, half annoyed with him, half with herself. She wanted to chase after him and slap some sense into him. Or chase after him and kiss him again. Her whole body tingled from the adrenaline of their meeting followed by quite possibly the best kiss she’d ever had. 

And he still wouldn’t give her damn mask back. 

With another soft growl of frustration, she stepped out of the elevator. She had no choice but to head home and start working on the damn contract. That, and she had to order a replacement mask. Hopefully her supplier still had her measurements on file. 

– 

The next morning, y/n decided to do something stupid. 

She left two hours early for their makeup merger meeting and stopped at the reception desk with her most winning smile. 

“Good morning,” she said brightly. “They messed up my order this morning so I have an extra latte. Do you want it?” 

“Oh–Yeah, sure, thanks. I was running late this morning so I haven’t had time to get coffee,” the young girl said. She took the proffered coffee and inhaled deeply with a soft sound of appreciation. “You’re a lifesaver.” 

“Oh, don’t worry about it, it was free.” She smiled again. It definitely hadn’t been free and was, in fact, part of her stupid plan. “I’m just heading up to see Mr. Wayne. He forgot to give me the code to get up there. I don’t think he’s awake yet.” She winked and laughed. “We’re going over this merger contract some more before we bring all the big boys in on it.” 

She waved a file folder in the air. It was a copy of her amended contract, to be fair. And she did want to talk to Bruce about it. But she also wanted to maybe snoop around and get her mask back and maybe also find out where he hid his Batman armor. 

“Sure, no problem,” the receptionist said cheerfully. She scribbled a note with one hand and sipped her coffee with the other. Y/n relaxed. She thought for sure she’d be told a very firm no. She’d imagined Bruce being summoned from the top of the tower to come curse her out in front of all of his employees. She supposed being a CEO in her own right made it easier to get into a forbidden space. Hell, this girl probably thought she and Bruce were going to go over the contract naked. 

And wasn’t that an idea. 

Y/n thanked the girl and practically skipped to the private elevator she was directed to. It gave her no small amount of joy to get one up on Bruce again. She spent the whole long ride up to the penthouse smiling as she imagined the look on his face when she interrupted his breakfast. 

She knew it was stupid–really, she did. The merger was tentative now because of their show in the boardroom and she was sure their kiss hadn’t helped matters at all. 

She didn’t stop and question why she was doing this or what she hoped to get out of it. Mostly she wanted to bother Bruce, get her mask back, and maybe, hopefully iron out some of the kinks in the merger plan. She had a feeling they would both be better without an audience. 

The elevator made no noise as it slid to a stop and opened its doors. 

Y/n stopped in her tracks. 

Wayne Tower’s penthouse was…like the inside of a gothic church. The ceilings were tall and sweeping, full of detailed arches, sculptures, and well, a lot of dust. 

“Hello,” said a soft, accented voice. She turned and saw an aging man with a cane, his salt and pepper hair styled perfectly neat, his clothes pressed and clean. “Is Mr. Wayne…expecting you?” 

She didn’t miss the way his hand strayed to his side and the telltale bulge underneath his shirt. He was armed. His expression was polite, kind even, but there was a glint in his eyes that said he meant business. 

She held up her trusty file folder. “I came to go over some stuff about the merger. I’m y/n. I don’t know if he told you about uh…our argument in the meeting yesterday, so I’m here to apologize and smooth things over.” She shrugged as if sheepish. 

“The day you apologize is the day my father becomes mayor,” said a familiar voice. 

She turned, and there was Bruce. He was dressed in dark sweatpants and nothing else, running a towel over his damp hair. She hated that her entire body reacted to the sight of him shirtless. He was muscular. Scarred, too, but it made sense with his nightly activities. 

Her mouth was too dry to talk. Finally, she cleared her throat and said, “Well, you better get out the confetti because I really am here to say I’m sorry.” Okay, maybe it hadn’t actually been part of her plan but…she could say two little words in exchange for saving the merger. 

Bruce and the older man exchanged a look. Bruce made a dismissive wave. The man nodded once and disappeared down a hallway. 

They stared at each other in silence. Bruce slung the towel over one bare shoulder. She tried not to stare, she really did, but it was next to impossible. God, did he have to be so fucking good looking on top of everything else? 

“How’d you get in here?” Bruce finally asked. He crossed his arms, which only served to show off his biceps and pectorals. 

Stop staring! y/n mentally shouted at herself. She tore her eyes away and met his gaze. 

“I flirted with the receptionist,” she said. She was rewarded with Bruce’s shock. He opened and then abruptly closed his mouth before he schooled his expression. 

“Poor Stella,” he said after a beat. 

She couldn’t help her laugh. “I bought her coffee and told her the truth. I came to talk about the contract. And…okay, maybe I wasn’t going to apologize, but I did intend to smooth things over. That counts for something, right?” 

Bruce’s lips compressed like he was trying not to smile. “I should have let Alfred shoot you.” 

She let out a startled laugh. “I did sneak into your home, so…” 

“Well, come on then,” Bruce said, gesturing for her to follow him. 

“Where are we going?” she asked uncertainly. 

“We’re going to have breakfast and go over the damn contract.” 

“And you’re going to give in to all of my demands and grovel at my feet, right?” she said to his unfairly muscled back. 

He turned his head just enough that she could see his arched eyebrow. 

“Hey, it was worth a shot.” 

Breakfast went well, at first. She and Bruce joked together like they were old friends as they ate. He told her about the time he’d snuck out on break from college and had tried to sneak back in, only for Alfred to catch him and threaten to shoot him. 

Then the talk shifted to business, and they started arguing all over again. She shouldn’t have brought up the controversial Renewal Fund, she knew that, but it had been an accident. An accident that pissed Bruce off, apparently. 

“I’m just saying that we should have more checks and balances,” she said through gritted teeth as Alfred cleared their plates. He was Bruce’s butler, apparently, though he seemed more like an uncle or something. 

“I don’t disagree,” Bruce said. He rubbed the space between his brows with his thumb. 

“You are literally disagreeing!” She threw her hands in the air in exasperation. 

“Not about that!” 

“Then what? That the Renewal Fund wasn’t used to fund the corrupt? That it wasn’t an absolute shit show?” She tapped her pointer finger on the table with every other word. 

Bruce stared at her. “All of that is true.” 

“You are so–” She made a frustrated noise. “So fucking annoying!” 

“If you would listen to me for a moment, maybe you wouldn’t get so frustrated.” He glared at her between his fingers as he continued rubbing at what was apparently a massive headache caused by her. 

“I am listening! I don’t–I mean, come on, you run around dressed as a bat every night to try and make a goddamn difference in the city. And now suddenly your morals change?” She smacked her hand against the wood table so hard it hurt. “Of course I’m frustrated.” 

Bruce’s gaze went flat. “That has no bearing on what I do in my company,” he finally said after a long pause. 

She inhaled deeply. “Shouldn’t it, though?” 

“What are you saying?” Both of his palms were pressed flat on the table. Every line of him was rigid as if he were about to snap. 

“Jesus, if you’d chill for a second,” she muttered, then straightened. “I’m saying that my company is charitable. That’s one of our core values. We hire the underprivileged, we give back to the community, we work to build up Gotham brick by brick. And what does Wayne Enterprises do? Give to charity once or twice a year? Sometimes help with relief funds where there’s a flood caused by a psychopath?” 

“You’re saying you don’t think this will work because I’m not charitable enough?” Disbelief colored his tone even though his face remained carefully neutral. His nostrils flared though as he breathed in deep and let it out, the only sign she was truly getting under his skin. “Because I shut down the Renewal Fund?” 

“I know what you do every night. I commend it. It’s–actually pretty fucking amazing. But that’s only one thing. Bruce Wayne, CEO, can do…so much more in the light of day. Why do you think I do both, too? So all I’m saying is, maybe if we join forces….we can really make a change. At night and during the day. You understand?” 

Bruce stood abruptly and started pacing. “You shouldn’t be doing that kind of stuff.” 

“Neither should you,” she said dryly. “And that’s not stopping you.” 

Bruce paused in his pacing. He opened his mouth but she interrupted, her annoyance rising all over again. 

“I swear if you say it’s different for you, I’ll punch you so hard you’ll forget your name.” 

He closed his mouth again. 

“Seriously,” she said. She stood to better face him. “You’ve got some kind of weird savior complex going on and it’s getting on my nerves.” 

He raised one dark eyebrow. “Savior complex?” 

“Yes!” She resisted the urge to stomp her foot like a child. 

“And you’re qualified to comment on this after–” He pretended to check a watch he wasn’t wearing. “Only knowing me for about thirty-two hours?” 

“You’re not as much of a mystery as you like to think, Mr. Wayne. You run around every night and yes, you do plenty for the city. But you think you have to do it alone. I don’t know if it’s because you think you’re better than anyone else or what, but newsflash–other people want to help Gotham too.” She crossed her arms again and stared him down. His eyes narrowed. “Other people can help Gotham.” 

“It’s dangerous,” he finally said after a long minute of glaring at each other. 

“No shit, Sherlock,” she said. She couldn’t help the roll of her eyes that went along with the words. “I’m not hurting anyone. Hell, I usually wait until places are empty to steal information. That’s what I deal with–secrets and information. I’m barely in danger.”

“How do I know you won’t steal information from me?”

She grit her teeth. “Are you doing anything illegal? Other than, you know, being a vigilante, I mean. I don’t care about that.” 

“No.” His jaw flexed and he looked away. 

“Then what the fuck is your problem?” She’d been doing so well at squashing the annoyance that kept rising within her. “Are you just trying to be an asshole? You lose nothing with this merger, don’t you get that? All I’m asking is for you to use your fucking money for good. You know, I bet your dad would be so disappointed that–” 

“Get out.” The words were a growl. All at once something in him shifted and she saw a shadow of a cape and mask. Something in him was all predator now. 

She hesitated. She hadn’t meant to actually piss him off. “Bruce–”

“Get. Out.” He pointed a single, threatening finger. He seemed to loom even larger, his body taking up twice the amount of space with its anger. 

“I just meant that–” 

He took a step forward and damn it if she didn’t feel a small jolt of fear. She scrambled to grab her stuff.

“The meeting is canceled,” he said in a calmer voice. “Now get out.” 

“You’re canceling?” She paused in the process of gathering her things. “No way. I’m going to talk to your board about canceling the merger, I–” 

“Not the merger, just the meeting.” Without another word, Bruce turned and left. She imagined a shadow following him, a physical manifestation of his anger. Somewhere, a door slammed. 

Grinding her teeth, y/n grabbed all of her stuff and stomped back to the elevator. “Stupid, stubborn, asshole of a man,” she muttered the whole way. Sure, maybe she shouldn’t have brought up his dad. But she had a point and he knew it. That was why he was so pissed off. 

And canceling their meeting? What a dick. 

She stopped before hitting the button that would take her to the lobby. 

“You know what?” she said out loud. “I’m just going to wait.” She glanced around at the imitation of a spooky castle. “Hear that?” she shouted. “I’m not fucking leaving until you see sense!” 

Her voice echoed around the space. She half-expected a hoard of bats to take off from the rafters far above. She bit back an almost hysterical laugh. Maybe there were bats hiding up there. That’s probably where he got the idea from. 

She leaned back against the wall next to the elevator. 

“Am I going to have to have you arrested for trespassing?” 

Y/n jumped. Standing in the entrance to a hallway on her left was Alfred, the butler or…whatever he was. Security. Uncle. Bruce hadn’t ever actually clarified that point.

“Oh–Uh–” It was one thing to try to get back at Bruce. Alfred, frankly, intimidated her. And he seemed nice, unlike Bruce, which made her loathe to get on his nerves. “I was just–” 

“I take it the meeting didn’t go so well?” he said, letting her off the hook. 

She relaxed slightly. “Oh, it went perfectly. We yelled at each other for half an hour, debated the morality of vigilantes, and then when I accidentally brought up his dad, he kicked me out.” 

Alfred’s eyebrows practically disappeared into his hair. “Oh?” he said. 

Right. She probably wasn’t supposed to know that Bruce was Batman. “I uh…we actually met the night before last,” she said. “He stole my mask.” 

She was impressed that he didn’t show any emotion. “Did he?” 

“And I cut his face. It was an accident, but at yesterday’s meeting I noticed and…well. You probably know what I noticed.” 

Alfred hummed and relaxed his posture. “You didn’t tell anyone?” 

“Like I said, he stole my mask. I don’t give a shit what he does.” She shrugged. It was the truth. “All I want is for this merger to not only benefit our companies, but Gotham too. And for some reason the guy who runs around at all hours of the night protecting the city is suddenly waffling about using some of his buckets of cash to do some fucking good.” 

Alfred did the last thing she expected. He laughed. “Oh, I like you. Come on.” He waved her over and went to, of all things, another elevator. 

“Where are we going?” she asked, wondering if maybe there was a dungeon beneath this place that Alfred was tricking her into. “And why does this goddamn tower have so many elevators?” 

Alfred put in a code and stepped inside an elevator that was a lot…grungier than the others she’d been in inside of Wayne Tower. He pressed his thumb to a keypad and entered another code. He then hit a button labeled only B before the thing started to lower. Basement, maybe? 

“This one is only for Bruce and I.” 

“Are you taking me to the dungeon?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. 

Alfred chuckled. “You’ll see.” 

“So that’s all it takes to get into Bruce Wayne’s inner sanctum, huh?” She leaned against the side of the elevator. “Sneak into the penthouse, pick a fight, and reveal that I know his deepest secret to his…uncle?” 

“Butler,” Alfred said. He shifted grip on his cane. “And Bruce needs someone to pick a fight with him.” 

“I really feel like you’re about to lock me in a dungeon.” 

The elevator jerked to a stop. There was a gate across the opening that rattled as it parted. 

Alfred gestured for y/n to step out, so she did. She was surprised to see Alfred was staying inside. He winked at her and was gone as the elevator ascended again. 

“Is she gone?” Bruce’s voice echoed around her and a chittering noise started in its wake. 

The space around her was…dark. She was standing on a platform with steps in front of her that led down to a wide open space. The edges of the area were in deep shadow and everything echoed strangely. Her eyes lifted to the dark ceiling and–holy shit, those were bats. 

Her gaze landed next on two words carved into the stone overhand: Wayne Station. 

“No, actually, she’s not,” y/n said as she followed the stairs down to where Bruce was. He had a shirt on now, at least. He was standing at a desk with several computer screens, hunched over as he scribbled something down. All around them were tables, computers, various tools, random pieces of Batman’s suit, two motorcycles, and a car on a ramp with one of those cloth covers over it. 

Bruce whirled at the sound of her voice. “What–” 

“Alfred let me in,” she said with a triumphant grin. The pen in Bruce’s hand cracked from the force of his grip. 

Bruce growled and turned back to what he was doing, unceremoniously flinging his pen to the side. “Alfred,” he muttered as if it were a curse. 

“He said you need someone to pick a fight with you. All I did was tell him I knew your secret and poof, here we are.” She greedily took in the space around her. It was so interesting. She had a feeling she was seeing a manifestation of Bruce’s mind. There were blueprints, all kinds of gadgets in various stages of completion, and a dummy dressed in his Batman armor and mask. 

“He–” Bruce muttered something else she didn’t catch. 

“Listen, I can pick a fight if you want, or you can show me all of this cool stuff.” There was almost a giddiness rising within her. He had so many cool gadgets, things she’d never dreamed of having. No wonder he was such a good vigilante. 

Bruce glared at her for a moment before turning back to whatever it was he was doing. It looked like he was making notes on a blueprint of some sort. The drawing looked like a car. Kind of. “It isn’t stuff,” she thought she heard him mumble, but she wasn’t sure. 

“Ooh, okay, fine. Let’s pick another fight. Will you get pissed off if I start moving stuff around?” It was too easy to tease him, she thought as she reached out and lifted something that looked an awful lot like a grenade. Her fingers had barely wrapped around it when Bruce’s hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. 

“Put that down.” 

She grinned at him and obliged. “That’s a yes, then. What if I touch this?” she asked as she picked up something that looked like the armbands he wore on his wrists. It was a lot heavier than she expected. Goddamn, he wore those things every night? Her wrist felt like it was about to break just from holding it. 

He snatched it from her. 

A small laugh escaped her lips. “You’re too easy a target.” She reached blindly for something else. 

He caught both of her wrists in his hands this time. “Stop doing that.” 

“Who pissed in your wheaties this morning, huh?” she asked as he yanked her away from the tempting pile of stuff. 

“You did,” he said. He still hadn’t let her go. 

“Listen,” she said after a beat. “I didn’t mean to–bring up anything by mentioning your dad, okay? I was frustrated.” 

“Understatement of the year,” he muttered. He glanced away but didn’t let her go. 

“I’m going to let that one slide because I really am sorry.” She shrugged as best as she could from within his grip. Her eyes trailed past him, over his shoulder, and she jerked. “Hey! That’s my fucking mask!” 

She yanked hard against him but he didn’t let her go. 

“I told you, you’re not getting it back,” he said firmly. He was scowling down at her. 

“You fucker,” she said. “I already ordered a new one, anyways. Made some improvements.” 

He sighed long and loud through his nose, eyes closed as if he were trying to find inner peace or something. 

“Will you let me go?” she asked.

“Will you stop touching stuff?” he asked, eyes opening. She didn’t miss the way his pupils expanded as he continued to stare at her. 

“That depends,” she said with a bold step forward. “Is there anything I am allowed to touch?” She said it so seductively that there wasn’t a question about her meaning. She let her chest brush against his. 

Bruce said nothing but his grip loosened. 

She slid one of her hands up his chest and rested it on his shoulder. “Do I really piss you off that much?” she murmured. 

“Yes.” 

“So you don’t like me…at all?” She pressed herself closer against him. His sweatpants did nothing to hide the fact that he at least liked her some. 

“I didn’t say that.” His hands fell to her waist, his touch burning hot even through her clothes. 

“Should I get on my knees and beg for your forgiveness?” she asked in a low voice. Just imagining it turned her on so much her breath stuttered. Bruce’s fingers flexed against her and she felt the words go straight through him as his cock twitched against her stomach. “Or maybe you should get on your knees,” she murmured as her hand tangled in his hair. His eyes fluttered closed for a second. 

“Which one will make you shut up faster?” he asked after a second. His blue eyes flashed as they opened again. 

She laughed and leaned up to whisper in his ear. “Sounds like you want my mouth full.” 

Bruce stopped breathing for a split second. Then his lips were crashing against hers. Her back smacked against the nearest table. He was everywhere. The warmth of his body surrounded her and she again had a moment of thinking he was larger than he was. His hands strayed up her shirt, the calluses on his bare palms dragging a shiver from her as they scraped across her skin. 

This time he bit her lower lip and the mixture of pleasure and pain had a soft noise escaping from her before she could stop it. 

“You’re so infuriating,” he said against her lips. “You drive me crazy.” 

“Right back at you,” she said and kissed him again. 

“I mean it,” he said as his nose traced her jaw. He pressed a kiss against her pulse. She was certain he could feel the way it suddenly jumped. “I have never been so aggravated by a person before.” He kissed down her neck and sighed into her skin. “And I’ve never wanted someone so much.” 

“Then do something about it,” she said with a challenge in her voice. It didn’t come out as strong as she’d hoped though, because his lips were distracting her, and one of his thumbs had chosen that moment to brush the underside of her breast through her bra. 

In one swift movement he had rid her of her shirt. His eyes were hungry as they took her in. “You’re beautiful,” he said. 

“Finally, a compliment,” she said but the words choked off as his lips touched the top of one breast and then the other. 

“One of us has to be nice,” he said, and the way his breath brushed against her skin made her shiver. He glanced up at her through his dark, dark lashes. 

“I can be nice,” she said defensively. What she really wanted to do was demand that he touch her already, but that would defeat the purpose of her comment about being nice. 

Bruce quirked an eyebrow at her. “Oh?” 

She pulled him back to his full height and settled on her knees before him. And bless him, he had some sort of cushioned mats underneath the tables so she wasn’t on hard concrete. Her hands settled on the backs of his thighs as she leaned back enough to stare up at him. 

“I can be very nice,” she said as she tugged his sweatpants down. 

His breath and hers both caught when his cock sprang free. Her mouth practically watered at the sight. His hand caressed the back of her head encouragingly but he made no move to force her forward. He simply watched, and waited. 

She licked the underside of him slowly. Her reward was a choked noise. His hand tightened spasmodically on her head but again, he didn’t force her forward. 

She licked him again, experimental this time, letting her mouth very slowly explore him, moistening him so when she decided to, her lips would slide right over him. 

She took the head of him in her mouth first and swirled her tongue. This time he moaned out her name. The sound of it made her squeeze her thighs together. Her want was a living, breathing thing within her. She didn’t want to tease anymore. She took him into her mouth fully, swallowing him as deep as she could. 

The sound Bruce made was desperate. It echoed around them and only served to make her hungry for more. She was doing that to him. She was making him feel that good. 

Her head bobbed, his hand a gentle guide on the back of it, the noises he was making becoming more frequent the more she moved. His body trembled. She wasn’t entirely sure he was breathing, either. 

All of a sudden her mouth was empty as he jerked away from her. It was instinct to follow but he tugged gently on her hair to stop her. 

“My turn to be nice,” he said, voice deeper than she’d ever heard it. He guided her upwards and kissed her so hard it left her breathless. He palmed one of her breasts with one hand and her ass with the other. Then her bra was falling off and to the floor. 

“You?” she said on half a gasp. “Nice?” 

He grinned at her. “I can be very nice.” 

He unzipped her skirt. It puddled around her ankles. She kicked off her shoes and the skirt in anticipation. 

“Yeah?” she said as both of his hands gripped her ass and pulled her closer. She wiggled against him, his cock against her bare stomach about to drive her wild with need and they hadn’t even done anything yet. “Prove it.” 

One of his hands was between her legs before she finished speaking. He brushed a thumb against her clit through her underwear, making her squirm. He leaned down to kiss the pulse point in her neck again. 

She made a noise of complaint when he stopped touching her but all he did was lift her so she was situated on the table. 

“Spread your legs,” he said and her body instinctually obeyed without her permission. He pulled down her underwear. His eyes were hungry as he lowered himself to her knees. He was devouring her with his gaze. His lips parted as his tongue darted out. She knew that tongue was about to be on her and the anticipation was killing her. 

“This is the part where you beg for forgiveness,” she said in a breathy voice. All of her bravado went out the window as he smirked at her and traced a finger through the wetness between her legs. 

He moved teasingly slow as he continued to trace her, staying just outside where she wanted him, every other pass stopping to circle her clit. He kissed the inside of one thigh and then the other. Then he paused, staring up at her with eyes like blue flames, and lifted one of her legs to rest on his shoulder. The new position made her lean back against her hands. 

She moaned at the first touch of his lips. His tongue gently traced her clit and she squirmed all over again.

“Bruce,” she said like a plea. 

He listened to her unspoken demand and inserted a single finger into her so slowly she wanted to scream. His tongue worked her clit as his finger moved in and out of her. The sensation started to build and build and build. She reached out for an anchor with one hand, something, anything to keep her grounded. Her fingers threaded into Bruce’s hair. He hummed against her, eliciting a moan from her as the vibrations moved through her body. 

“Fuck,” she said because there was no other word for it. 

He pushed a second finger inside her. His movements started to quicken. 

Her orgasm built within her as he moved faster and faster. The sensation of his tongue on her clit coupled with two of his fingers inside her was almost too much. She couldn’t catch her breath. 

Bruce slid a third finger inside her and every muscle in her body clenched around him. 

She shuddered as the orgasm washed over her, pleasure rolling on waves throughout her body. 

When she opened her eyes, he was staring at her. Somehow, that was hotter than anything he’d done up until that point. The look in his eyes, feral and hungry, made her feel more naked than her actual nakedness. 

“How do you want me?” she asked, voice thick in the wake of her orgasm. Her body shuddered with an aftershock and Bruce’s piercing blue eyes didn’t miss any of it. He stood slowly, the bulk of him seeming to unfold little by little as he towered over her. He pulled his shirt off with one hand and somehow kept eye contact the whole time. 

He stepped between her legs and she shivered again. The air was cold but the warmth pouring from Bruce’s magnificent body was enough to keep her from feeling it. 

“How do you like it?” 

God, his fucking voice. Deep and sexy and with a hint of a growl that turned her on. 

How did she like it? Was he serious? She just wanted him inside her, she didn’t care where or how. 

“Just fuck me,” she said when she could find her voice. 

“You’re so bossy,” he said with half a smile as he bent to kiss her. 

She clutched his shoulders. “I mean it, Bruce,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster. “Fuck me. I have an IUD so we have nothing to worry about.” 

“Are you sure?” he asked after a second. He studied her face calmly as if she weren’t half-mad with lust. As if his cock wasn’t dripping for her, angled perfectly to go inside her. 

“I don’t know how I could make my consent any clearer.” She rolled her eyes. Then she realized that maybe Bruce wasn’t sure. “Are you sure?” 

“Yes,” he said against her lips, and then pushed into her so suddenly she cried out. 

She said every cuss word she knew which only served to make him laugh. The vibrations traveled between their connected bodies in a delicious way. He stayed still for a moment, letting her adjust to him, his lips moving up her neck and to her breasts and to her lips. 

“Fuck,” Bruce said as he began to move. She agreed with the sentiment. With her leaning back on the table, him between her legs, the angle was just right to immediately send shivers up and down her spine. Every thrust made her muscles clench. 

The feel of his cock within her was almost transcendent. She grabbed him tightly, pressing their bodies together, keeping him close to her as he thrust in and out. 

He slid a hand between them to circle her clit and she cried out as she came almost immediately. When she opened her eyes she expected to see that she had burst into flames. Bruce was staring at her again, his expression tight. 

“You’re beautiful when you come,” he said and the words almost made her do so again. 

“I bet you are too,” she said with a grin. She wrapped her legs around him so that their bodies were flush. The new angle made them both gasp. His big hands splayed across her back and her own hands tangled in his hair. He seemed to like it when she pulled, so pull she did. 

“Y/n…” he said into the crook of her neck. His thrusts picked up speed. She saw stars as his cock hit her just right, over and over and over. The grip she had on his hair was a lifeline now, the only thing grounding her and keeping her from exploding into a million tiny pieces. 

“Come inside me, Bruce,” she said. It wasn’t at all bossy like she’d intended it, but he groaned anyways. 

He rocked into her, harder and deeper than before, the sweat on their skin making their chests slide together. His fingers deftly swept over her clit again. Her cry echoed, almost a scream, as she came for the third time. 

Bruce wasn’t far behind. His thrusts stuttered, rhythm uneven, as his hips jerked into her. She could feel it spill out of her even as he continued to move. 

“Fuck,” he said as his hips slowly jerked to a stop. They were both panting. 

“Fuck,” she agreed. She was still clinging to him. They stayed tangled together for a minute more. Her body shivered with aftershocks every few seconds. Her mind was blissfully blank. Her limbs were warm, her body languid. She felt completely wrung out in the best way possible. 

Bruce kissed her jaw. His hands rubbed idle circles against her bare back. It was…sweet. She liked it. Usually the men she fucked pulled out and yanked their clothes back on in the same movement. 

“I had no idea Bruce Wayne was such a…generous lover,” she said, breath still heaving. 

“Now you know all of my secrets.” He toyed with her hair, his face softer than she’d ever seen it. She let her legs fall from around his waist. He stepped back, sliding out of her, and passed her a small towel from God only knew where. “It’s clean, I promise.” 

“I highly doubt I know all your secrets.” Their eyes met and they shared a smile. She cleaned herself up to the best of her ability. “I’d like to, though.” 

“Oh?” he said, and there was a vulnerability in his expression that wasn’t there before. 

“Feel free to say no, but I’d like to take you on a date.” She nudged him gently. She pulled her bra and underwear back on. 

“I’d like that. But I should pay.” He pulled up his sweatpants but left his shirt off. She couldn’t say she minded the view. 

“Oh, I only meant I was driving. You’re definitely paying.” 

He laughed, long and loud, and the sound stirred something in her gut. 

“Who knew that all you needed was to get laid to loosen up?” she teased as she gave him another playful nudge. 

“I doubt this is what Alfred had in mind when he said I needed someone to pick a fight with,” Bruce said with another slight laugh. “But it worked, didn’t it?” 

Y/n glanced around, suddenly panicked. “There aren’t security cameras in here, are there?”

Something glinted in his eyes. A playfulness, almost. “No, there aren’t.” 

She squinted at him, suspicious. “If you tell me know and I find out you’re beating off to the tape every night–” 

He laughed again, this one a short, surprised burst of sound. He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I promise there’s not.” 

She finished straightening her hair with a soft hmph. “Fine, fine. Date’s still on then, I guess.” 

Bruce leaned in and brushed a kiss to her temple. It was as if he couldn’t help it. As if the sex had softened all of his rough edges. Maybe it had softened her, too, because she couldn’t drum up an ounce of annoyance at him if she tried. In fact, she leaned into the touch. 

“Seriously,” she teased as she bent to pull her shoes back on. “It’s like you’re a different person.” 

“What can I say?” he said. He spread his hands. “You’re not all bad.” 

“Does this mean you’ll accept all my terms with the merger?” 

There was a long, long pause. “Absolutely not.” 

She snorted, and they fell into what was becoming their new routine of bickering as they went upstairs to get lunch.

#battinson x reader #batman x reader #bruce wayne x reader #the batman fic #battinson fic #bruce wayne fic #the batman 2022 #the batman #battinson #bruce wayne

[preciouslandmermaid]

from below, gotham rots (battinson x f!reader)

Note: This takes place pre-movie and is a spiritual successor/sequel to the first fic "from high above" which you can find in this series. (Part 1 here)

Safety notes/Warnings: The Kinktober prompt included "drunk/stoned/under the influence." I used some creative liberty with this one and the Reader becomes affected by a drug that heightens her senses/physical senses (think like ecstasy, I guess?) but also it makes u horny lmao. HOWEVER. Reader is also 100% into Batman so it's not like she's manipulated or anything into sleeping with him.

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. established childhood friends with Bruce. cursing/explicit language. enthusiastic consent during sexual content. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. (and yes, dr. crane is absolutely cillian murphy/nolanverse dr. crane sue me)

prompt: size kink, dirty talk, drunk/stoned/under the influence | pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Dr. Crane looks up from his notepad. His blue eyes are sharp and inquisitive behind his square frameless glasses. His light brown hair frames his face in soft moussed waves.

“I’m afraid I can’t be of much use to you. I’ve started working at Arkham only recently.”

You press your tongue to the ridged roof of your mouth. That explains why Dr. Crane was willing to speak to you. He likely hadn’t heard of your prior snooping around. No one warned him. Either he was disliked or not remarkable enough to warrant a heads-up from his colleagues. You decide to play polite and dumb. He thinks you’re a true-crime fanatic with a podcast. Besides, you need him if you’re going to reestablish your story and expose Arkham’s corruption.

“And they treat you well?” You ask with a tilt of your head. Your pen is poised above your notebook and your expression is open and earnest.

Dr. Crane smiles. It disarms you—this sudden charm that radiates from the thin, sharp-eyed doctor.

“They do.” He replies.

Your next question lies heavy on your tongue. He’ll either get defensive, you think, or he’ll play stupid. Dr. Crane is handsome and intelligent, but you’ve spent enough time around shady people to know when someone is hiding something. Dr. Crane doesn’t fidget, cover his mouth when speaking, or avoid your eye-contact. But he does keep glancing at the file cabinet in the left corner. Oh, he is careful about it. You’ll give him that credit. But you’ve caught him enough times to be suspicious.

And being suspicious is healthy in this line of work.

“And the patients?” you finally ask after a weighted pause.

“If you’re concerned,” he begins and his smile doesn’t reach his eyes, “I can give you a tour.”

Avoidance. An interesting tactic. It’s your turn to smile placidly and shake your head. You close your notebook. The universal sign of ‘we are done’.

“I’m sorry I have other appointments today,” you say.

“Another time then.” He says and now you are both lying. The way he looks at you suggests he knows it too. You zip your coat and tuck your notebook and phone away into your over-the-shoulder bag.

“I really do appreciate that you took the time to meet with me today, Dr. Crane.” You say as he walks you to the door. He opens it for you. It feels as if you haven’t learned the steps to this dance while Crane memorized the whole choreography.

“Here,” he offers you a thin, stocky business card from his wallet, “in case you think of anything else.” The text on the card is simple. The font is black and thin. It’s his name, his role, his work email address, and his telephone number. You already have all this. You take the card and slide it into your back pocket.

“Have a good afternoon, Dr. Crane.”

He says your name and farewell and shuts the office door once you step from the threshold. Your shoulders relax and you sigh. Your meeting with Crane - it’s not exactly an open door into Arkham, but it’s a cracked window. It’s a start. It’s something. You fish your keys out of your bag and walk toward the exit.

Thankfully, these hallways are brightly lit and warm-paneled with wood. It's decorated with cushioned chairs, coffee tables with magazines, and thin dark-green carpets. These offices are for families and caregivers. And – in this instance – a nosy ex-journalist with an important story to write.

You text Bruce: did you still want to get dinner tonight?

He’s been in a weird mood ever since you left a few days ago (once you had clearance from the doctors). He sulked when you told him. He kept giving you sorrowful, pleading looks shadowed by sleep deprivation. However, you’re on his payroll and can’t justify living with him on top of his generous paychecks. Besides, you want to pursue a relationship with Bruce and it’s too soon to move in together. You have to take it slow. You want to take it slow.

His response arrives when you’re getting into your car. A simple and reserved: yes.

A fluttery and giddy feeling enters your chest.

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

Bruce stares at the screen containing the analysis of your blood samples. Whatever was inside you—it’s not on the market. There are traces of hallucinogenic compounds. There are traces of medication that’s used to treat patients with Alzheimer’s and dementia. And stimulants, too. It’s a jigsaw puzzle of enzymes and chemicals.

He rubs at his bloodshot eyes with his forefinger and thumb.

“You ought to eat something, sir,” Alfred says while setting down a tray of tea and toast.

Bruce replies with a brusque tone, “I’m fine.” He realizes his mistake and corrects himself, “I’m having dinner later with a friend.”

Alfred releases a thoughtful hum. Bruce already knows what he’s thinking. His list of friends is woefully short. And there’s only one person he could go out with.

Alfred asks, “shall I iron your suit? Select some cufflinks?”

Bruce snorts, “It’s not that kind of dinner, Alfred.”

“Then a gift for the lady then?” He begins pouring tea. “You shouldn’t arrive at a date empty-handed. It’s impolite and shows a lack of forethought. Does she like flowers? I could have a bouquet arrangement made of – ah – let’s see.” Alfred mutters various flowers to himself. Bruce catches some of them. Gladiolus, red camellia, tulips. He half-listens and munches on a corner of toast while scrolling through pages upon pages of analysis.

************* 

The little Mediterranean restaurant has an ordering counter, a drink cooler, and three plastic tables. The white and blue bordered walls are plastered with framed photos of beaches in Greece. Your feet stick to the tiles when you stand in front of the drink cooler and grab a beverage.

You flip through your notepad. Dr. Mercer is dead-end. Literally. Despite being only forty-one, he died of a heart attack about two weeks after you were fired. You don’t believe in coincidences anymore. Everything in Gotham is connected. You just have to find the right thread to pull. You start at the beginning.

Dr. Mercer: Gotham University graduate. He wrote his thesis on the behavioral side effects of long-term alcohol addiction. You remember he was a soft-spoken man who genuinely believed in rehabilitation.

Dr. Mercer was your lynchpin. He was the first to express distaste about how Arkham was being run. He confessed that he was providing a substantial amount of pain medication for several of Gotham’s police without a prescription. He suspected they were selling it on the streets, but he couldn’t cut them off.

The police didn’t threaten Dr. Mercer outright, but they did sit outside his house, or remind him that his son was only 12. When Dr. Mercer went to Arkham’s administration, they told him to keep his mouth shut and provide for ‘the brave folks who protect the city’. You recall your last conversation with him and your mouth twists into a frown.

“The guilt,” Dr. Mercer said to you, his expression pained, “I think it might eat me alive, Silver. I can feel it’s teeth in my heart.”

They must have killed him. Whether it was Falcone, someone higher in the pyramid, or someone at the PD—you didn’t know for sure—but you knew Mercer’s death wasn’t accidental. Maybe Dr. Mercer was offered hush money and he couldn’t take the guilt anymore…and rather than protect himself, protect his family, he tried to do the right thing. Maybe he said no. Maybe he said he’d go and talk to the press himself. But before the whistle could blow someone took care of him. A gentle burn prickles at the back of your throat.

“Do you want to order?” The server cuts through your reverie and you blink.

“Oh – um…” You check the time. Bruce is nearly fifteen minutes late. “Uh, sure. Yeah. Please.” You figure he won’t mind if you order before him. As you wait for your food, you return to your notebook and your theories.

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

Batman drew his fist back and his knuckles connected to the thug’s jaw with a sickening, sharp crack.

“Who does Falcone work with?” He growls. “I need a name.” “I don’t know!” The thug pleads. His voice is thick and congested due to his broken nose. “I swear!”

Annoyed, frustrated, and tired of stonewalling into dead-ends, Batman tosses the injured thug onto the wet concrete. His palms slap against the stone, and he scrambles away from Vengeance toward the mouth of the alley. Batman lets him go. His stomach coiled tight like a loaded spring. He stalks back to the Batmobile like a towering shadow.

There is a text illuminated on his phone. His stomach drops.

It reads: Ouch. I waited over an hour for you, but the restaurant is about to kick me out. I’m heading home. I have work to do and then I’m getting up early to meet a contact. Talk later.

He leans his forehead against the steering wheel. He should’ve suspected this would happen. His duties as Vengeance would overlap his desires to be with you and when it came down to it—he’d choose Gotham. He had to choose Gotham. He is the only person capable of keeping the city safe. He’s the only person who can find the root of corruption and dig it out.

You deserve better than being stood up and ignored. He should’ve texted you. He should’ve sent flowers like Alfred suggested. How is that he can be a good partner to you as Batman but can’t manage it as Bruce Wayne? He slams his foot on the accelerator with more force than necessary. His thoughts whirl inside his mind in a maelstrom. His jaw clenches tight. His fingers flex on the steering wheel.

If only you had stayed at his penthouse then he wouldn’t need to worry about date nights. He wouldn’t need to worry about your safety. You would have been right down the hall. Close, safe, bringing light to the shadows of his home.

The tires screech as he takes a corner too hard, too fast. His eyes reflectively look up to the windows of the building. The colorful lights on your balcony illuminate the glass. You have news for him, a lead, and some tension loosens inside him.

(line break)

When you get home, there is a package at your front door, and it finally felt like something was going right.

It took 3 phone calls. One involved copious begging. It took all the money if your saving account. And a shady alleyway meeting with a Gotham University college drop-out. You have everything you need to tinker with your drugged-up blood samples.

You glance at the stack of manila folders on your coffee table. Your life is a proverbial juggling act. You balance coffee and energy drinks, personal interviews and internet sleuthing, and frequent trips to the library archives. You haven’t seen Vengeance in a week. This isn’t unusual, but how your abdomen clenches, whenever you think of him, is.

It feels treacherous to have a physiological reaction when you’re trying to pursue a relationship with Bruce. Although. You bite the inside of your cheek. Bruce doesn’t seem to be giving your relationship as much care and attention as you’d like. It was one date and he bailed. You’d rather have an awkward phone call with Alfred explaining his lateness than empty silence from your potential boyfriend.

In your distracted state, you misjudge the liquid component meant to react with your white blood cells and pour too much into the glass beaker.

You cough, stumbling backward as the fumes assault your nostrils, and your eyes smart with pain and fill with tears. Once the sensation of vertigo passes, you’re overwhelmed by the texture of the clothes on your skin. It’s too tight. It’s going to block your airway. You tug your shirt over your head and wrestle your bra off. You stand in your kitchen, topless, chest heaving, your skin pebbling with goosebumps from the cold. You wish your shitty fucking landlord would fix the heat.

But it’s your fault for playing Chemistry 101 in your abysmally small kitchen. You flick the switch that turns the fan on over the oven to clear away the thin, serpentine wisps of smoke.

“Ah, fuck.” You scrub both hands over your face. Your skin fizzes. It’s not a hot sensation or a cold one, but it’s as if every hair follicle on your body is alert and vibrating. You press your spine into the cool and softly textured wall. Should you call 911? And how would you explain yourself? You’re certain some of these materials are illegal. Questions would be asked. The PD might search your apartment. They could find your notes. You can’t risk it. You try closing your eyes and breathing steadily through your nostrils.

Your balcony door opens. A cool gust of air trails into the hazy kitchen before it shuts off. There’s only one person who can reach your balcony. Your body tenses with anticipation. Of course, he’d come now. Fuck Vengeance and his shitty timing. “What happened?” Batman’s voice enters through your ears and your thighs instinctively clench. A low, pulsing thrum of pure need vibrates down your spine. Oh, fuck. You’re so fucked. You’re so outrageously screwed.

“The drug.” You press one arm over your exposed breasts to cover them, though it hardly matters. He’s been inside you. You stifle a moan in the back of your throat. Nope. Do not think about it. “I was trying to neutralize it. I did something else.”

Batman’s cool, assertive gaze crawls across your throat and chest. “You’re sweating.” He observes.

“No shit.” You deadpan.

“Talk to me.” Batman steps closer and you recoil, not out of fear, but out of sheer desire mixed with embarrassment. Every neuron in your brain is firing and demanding that you crawl onto him, feel the cold, hard press of his armor against your hot skin, feel his gloved fingers in your mouth or in between your legs.

He glances at the equipment on your counter. “I didn’t realize you had experience in biochemistry.”

You laugh a high and wavering laugh, but the giddiness dissipates. You aren’t experienced in biochemistry at all. However, You have the notes of a biochemist and the tenacity of a warrior.

“I’m not hallucinating.” You manage thickly, “but I don’t think you should be here.”

His jaw clenches. “Why not?”

“Because I might do something stupid.”

“Like what?”

Like a thousand things, you want to say. Your mind flashes with about a dozen images of Batman fucking you. You stare at the plush shape of his lips.

The truth tumbles out of your mouth, “like kiss you.”

He cups your jaw firmly and your mouth opens, breath wheezing from your lungs, as you imagine him sliding his warm tongue between your teeth.

“Your pupils are dilated.”

You grab his wrist for the sake of touching him, “so are yours.”

“What do you need?” Batman’s gravelly voice is a demand. “Tell me so I can help.”

Your semi-rational thoughts of doctor’s offices or pharmacies fade like smoke. Every muscle in your body aches. Your nipples are tight and hard. Your inner walls keep gripping at thin air and your abdomen clenches at the lack of physical sensory input. You want to touch yourself. You want him to touch you.

“T-touch me. I need you to touch me.” You gasp out as if the words themselves are being ripped from your throat.

Batman releases your jaw and slides both hands down your arms. The rough texture of his gloves is sharp and deliciously grating across your sensitive skin.

“Like this?” He asks.

You shake your head.

“N-no, more.” It’s hard to string sentences together. The word is jagged and blurry. At your guidance, he drags both palms to your chest, and you stumble back into the wall when his hands squeeze your breasts. Your nipples prickle beneath his gloves, and you whimper—your eyes fluttering closed. He squeezes and pushes your breasts together with your hands laid on top his, urging and guiding, every single motion eliciting a sweet, whimpered cry from you.

“Do you want me to stop?” He asks, but you press his hands harder down against your breasts. He regards you seriously behind his dark, smudged makeup and cowl.

“No. Don’t stop. I think I might die if you stop.”

His lips twitch into a smirk.

“I’ve never heard that before.” He sounds earnest and you chuckle weakly. Batman’s thumb and forefingers encircle your hard nipples and lightly pinch. You hiss and throw your head back into the wall. The slight pain barely registers. His warm lips touch the angled tilt of your jaw. You cry out and tremble against him. Every sensation is magnified by a thousand. Batman’s lips suckle along your neck. He hums to himself when you moan out loud.

“Whatever you did to the sample,” he says while pulling away, “affects your sensitivity to physical stimulation.”

“Yeah, yeah, no shit.” You say, squeezing your fingers between his, and pushing his hand toward the waistband of your pajama shorts.

“Are you sure?” He asks and you manage a short nod. He cups your pussy with a large, gloved hand. Your eyes roll back into your skull. You need his fingers inside you. You need to clench and cum around his hand. Nothing else matters but the desire you have for him. Nothing.

“Fuck,” he hisses and elongates the word, “you’re already so fucking wet for me. So goddamn soaked.” He begins rubbing the outside of your pussy in concentric motions. He presses his body into yours. The sensation of his cold, hard planes of armor draws another breathy moan from your lips.

His kiss is pure, vibrant desire. He suckles your lower lip into his mouth and groans when you whine. His tongue strokes along yours and you writhe and something inside you starts to coil. You shouldn’t be this close so soon, but you are.

You gasp, “fuck, fuck, fucking fuck.”

“Already?” His hand in your shorts moves quicker, “what a good girl you are…cumming for me so soon, so quickly, getting your pussy nice and wet and ready for me.”

You come so hard that your teeth clack together. You’re riding the throbbing aftershocks of your orgasm when Vengeance pushes your underwear aside and sinks his index finger into your cunt.

“Oh, god, please yes—please.” You babble and desperately rock your hips into his hand. His glove creates a ridged sensation that sends sparks of pleasure down to your toes. You clutch to his armor and hike your leg up and hook it around his waist. Batman touches you with a determined purpose. You messily kiss along his jaw. Even the texture of his stubble against your smooth lips is pleasurable. You wonder if you’ll have the courage to ask him to eat you out. You want to feel his stubble on your thighs.

“You’re gonna cum again, aren’t you?” Your eyes are closed but you can hear his smirk. “If you’re a good girl and cum for me again, I’ll give you my cock. Would you like that?”

“Y-yes.”

It takes only a few thrusts before he’s stoking that white, pulsing fire in your lower stomach. You latch your mouth onto his and kiss him with every ounce of strength you have. He responds with equal fervor. A single lucid thought crosses your mind—if you hadn’t experimented with the samples would Vengeance still kiss you like this? Desire you? The lucidity is short-lived. You cry out into Batman’s open, wet mouth.

He praises, “Good, you’re so good for me.”

You sway on unsteady feet and lean against Batman’s strong frame. He carefully tugs away your shorts and underwear. He places a tender kiss on your bare shoulder. His blue eyes cut to yours—inquisitive and darkened by lust.

“I want to hear you say it.” He says, “Tell me you want me if that’s what you really want.”

“I do.” You reach forward and palm the hard bulge straining against his gear. You hold eye contact with him. You catch your reflection in his dark pupils. Your chin and lips shine with salvia and your skin glistens with sweat.

You repeat yourself since Batman hasn’t moved yet, “I do. I mean it. I want you. I want you to fuck me.” Your heart threatens to escape your ribs. Batman doesn’t move or break eye contact with you as you find his zipper and release his cock. He hisses through clenched teeth when you touch him. You smile to yourself. There’s something heady and intoxicating that you can make Batman’s breath hitch. Your fingers slicken with his pre-cum.

He sharply pulls your hand away, “That’s enough.”

“No fair.” You pout, “You touched me.”

“Next time, Quicksilver. I’ll let you touch all you want.” He grabs you by the waist and lowers you to the floor. You open your mouth to object that your bedroom isn’t that far (small apartment after all), but Batman looks at you—dark and desperate—and his chest heaves.

He rubs the head of his cock against your folds, “I need to be inside you.”

You can’t argue with that. “Okay.” He plunges into you in one swift, slick stroke. Your pussy envelopes him. The world goes blurry-white and your muscles tremble with the delicious sensation of Batman’s cock filling you.

“You take me so well,” He rasps, “I love feeling your cunt stretch and squeeze around me.” He draws his cock out of you and the thigh-guards on his armor glisten with your arousal. Your eyes roll into the back of your skull. The linoleum tile is blessedly cool against your feverish skin. Batman holds your hips, lifting you, and sheathes himself once more.

“Fuck.” His pretty eyelashes flutter.

You whine.

“I wish you could see yourself right now.” His thrusts are deep and steady, hitting some apex part of you that makes your toes curl, and your moans hiccup in your chest. “Split open, begging for me, squeezing me,” His fingers dig into the meat of your thigh, “you’re so…fucking…unbelievable.”

He lifts your legs, pressing your knees into your chest, and your hips jerk upward with a gasp. “F-fuck!”

“Is that good?” He rocks in and out of you, teetering on the edge of losing his composure, you can see it in the hard lines of his jaw and the way he squeezes your hips.

“Y-yes.” You choke out, nodding, “don’t stop. Go faster.”

“Yeah?” He nods, panting, “I want to make you cum.” And it says it like a promise. He plants his hands against the tile. You’re nearly folded in-half, surrounded by him, encased by him, his imposing and large armor almost uncomfortable as it presses into your skin. His cock drags along the ridges of your inner walls and then he’s moving into you with confidence and purpose. Your ass smacks wetly against his armor. He grunts, bearing his teeth, pumping into you with feverish desire.

You awkwardly wiggle a hand between your legs. The first touch of your fingertip to your swollen, slick clit is electrifying. Your spine arches off the floor.

“Good girl.” He growls, punctuating his words with a hard and jolting thrust that makes you gasp and tears spring to the corners of your vision. You quickly drag your fingertips across your clit. A flush of goosebumps run down your arms. Your moans echo through your tiny kitchen and reverberate through your eardrums.

“I love—” He gasps, burying himself, “the noises you make for me.”

It feels so unbelievably good that you want to scream or start crying (or both). The combination of Batman towering over you, saying all these sweet words, and the jerky movement of your fingers on your clit is dizzying.

He continues, “Take it. Take all of it. I know you can, pretty girl.” The position makes it difficult to crane your neck upward to kiss him. You settle for gripping his forearms. “Does anyone else fuck you as I do?”

“N-no.” You admit. A wave of guilt threatens to overcast your blissed-out experience, but then Batman grunts and mutters, “good. You deserve this. You’re my perfect girl.”

Your guilt vanishes and you blossom under his praise. You and Bruce haven’t discussed sexual exclusivity. Maybe it’ll be a conversation for the future once Bruce apologizes for missing your date.

“There’s that smile,” he murmurs, “such a sweet and perfect smile. I can feel you getting closer, baby. I want you to cum all over my cock.” His eyes squeeze shut. He exhales your name over and over again. Batman is desperate and panting over you.

“Cum for me, please.” He arches his head back and you seek a peek of his flushed neck, “Please cum for me.”

You scream as you clench and rhythmically pulse beneath him. Your orgasm isn’t a firework. It’s a fucking freight train. Batman fucks you through it, relentless and pounding, his pace steady and controlled. Your pussy gushes and squeezes around him. Batman buries himself and raggedly cries out your name. Your limbs go limp and useless. You release the grip you had on his forearms and your arms flop onto the tile. It takes a full minute for you to come back to earth.

“Fuck,” Batman breathes. You hardly hear him.

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

He gently moves your legs out from underneath him. Your knees and shins are irritated from where his armor dug in. Your eyelids flutter closed and panic clenches his heart. He presses his two fingers beneath your jaw and checks your pulse. It’s steady and strong. He bows his head with a relieved sigh. He hopes that whatever reaction caused by playing Walter White will wear off when you wake up.

He scoops you into his arms and carefully carries you into your bathroom. The bathwater runs weakly tepid, and Bruce mentally chastises your choice to leave his penthouse. He fills the bathtub enough to reach your waist. He removes his gloves and forearm guards. You barely stir and your head rests against the edge of the tub. He gently washes the cum from your inner thighs and the sweat from your skin.

His heart squeezes painfully. Bruce sighs a pitiful and low sound. He wants you so badly, wants to be with you, but how can he do that when he’s Vengeance? He is the only one able to keep Gotham safe. He can’t keep missing date nights or ignoring your calls. He can’t tell you who he is. He should’ve been smarter about this.

But…it’s you.

You were his first friend growing up. You are carved into him deeper than a tattoo. You’re like a transplanted organ that he needs to survive. He managed – before – without you during those cold, lonely years. He doesn’t want to do it again. He knows it’s selfish. He knows his first (and only) priority should be Gotham. Yet, a world emptied of you would be a world he couldn’t live in.

Bruce reaches over toward the towel hanging on the bar. He frowns at their plushness and strange familiarity. They look nicer than the others. Then he notices the embroidered “W” in gold at the edge of the towel.

Bruce chuckles to himself, “Thief.” He says affectionately.

He wraps you in the towel to carry you to bed. His swollen, aching heart swells with fondness. You stole a towel from Wayne Manor. He wonders if you took anything else—what other pieces of him, his home, that you brought into yours.

In the pitch dark of your bedroom, Bruce lays you on the bed and removes his cowl. His skin itches with vulnerability and fear. Bruce kneels beside your bed and cradles your hand against his face. He lightly kisses your palm and checks your pulse at the inside of your wrist.

“Sleep well, Quicksilver,” he murmurs.

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

You awoke the next day feeling groggy and sore, but otherwise fine. You would’ve stayed asleep longer if not for the incessant knocking at your front door.

“Good morning!” greeted the delivery person holding flowers under one arm, “I need your signature for this package.”

Confused, yet curious you scribble your signature onto the digital pad held by the delivery person. They pass the bouquet of flowers and a decent-sized cardboard box to you. It takes a few minutes to find something suitable to put the flowers in. But the colorful arrangement definitely brightens your small apartment.

The cardboard box contains a swanky, expensive black laptop with a note taped to the keyboard.

‘For the sake of security – please use a different password.’ – BW

You spend the rest of your morning transferring your notes from your old laptop to your new one. You do pick a new password. It’s the date you and Bruce reunited. The hours blur by in a black-and-white swarm of scanned newspaper clippings and transcribing your interview notes with Dr. Crane.

A text comes through from Bruce a little before 12:00 PM. It reads: can we get coffee? Or lunch?

A petty, vindictive part of your brain wants to leave him on read. Let him stew in your silence and suffer your indifference. But then you remember the scrappy, scrawny boy of your youth. You remember a pair of soulful, sad blue eyes. His fingers tenderly caring for your wounds after Falcone. His soft smile when you agreed to date him. It won’t solve anything to stay quiet and ignore your hurt feelings.

You text him back: as long as you’re buying. Pick the place and I’ll meet you.

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

Your stomach winds with anxiety as you walk into the little café. Bruce is already here. He’s at a corner table, back to the wall, his eyes on the entrance. You can tell he’s showered and cleaned up. Maybe even shaved. Although his dark sweater is wrinkled and his eyes are shadowed with sleep deprivation, Bruce somehow manages to look handsome. You try to not let your attraction to him fog your thoughts. You need to have a serious conversation. You square your shoulders and approach.

“Hey,” he greets with an uncomfortable shift in his chair. You know he doesn’t like leaving the penthouse. You have to give him some credit that he came out to meet you rather than asking you to come and meet him at home.

“I want to start with my apology before we get coffee,” he begins as you sit down, “I’m sorry. I got caught up in something. I know it’s not - it’s not an excuse.”

“It’s not.” You cross your arms.

He ducks into his shoulders, looking chastised, “Did you get your gift?”

“I did.” You glance around the café. There’s only one other patron inside and they’re busy wearing headphones and typing on their laptop. The employees are chatting amongst each other—barely audible over the café playlist. The journalist part of your brain wants you to dig deeper. You want to know what he was doing. You want to know why he was so ‘caught up’ that he couldn’t call or text you to reschedule. Your instincts buzz. A story is here. You can feel it. You can smell it as keenly as you smell the roasted coffee beans in the air. But you tamper down on those instincts. This is Bruce. He’s your childhood friend.

“Listen, Bruce. What you did was shitty, and it hurt my feelings and I deserve better than that.”

“You do,” he agrees.

“I understand if you don’t have time for a relationship.” You shrug, “maybe we jumped into this too quickly.”

“No.” Bruce leans forward in his seat. “I’m sorry, I should’ve called. You deserve better and I want to…I want to show you that I can be better than that.”

The awkward silence lays between you. You pick at a piece of lint on your pants. You avoid his imploring blue eyes. Your skin prickles. Batman was in your apartment last night. More than that—Batman was inside you. You’re raking Bruce over the coals for not calling when you were busy gushing over Batman’s knuckles. You rub your hands over your face.

“There’s something you should know if you want us to continue this relationship.”

“Okay.”

“I slept with someone last night.”

Your gaze flicks upward to catch Bruce’s expression. He doesn’t look as hurt as you expected. He nods. A small smirk tugs at his plush lips.

He says, “I wasn’t expecting sexual monogamy this early on.” Your shoulders relax. This is the best-case scenario: Bruce isn’t mad or hurt that you fucked someone else. Granted, you hadn’t slept with Vengeance because you were mad at him. It happened purely by accident. It was because of that drug. The back of your neck tingles with warmth. OK. Maybe that’s not entirely true. If Batman had shown interest…then…even without the drug…you might’ve still slept with him.

He asks, “Anyone I know?”

A laugh bubbled up inside your throat.

“You wouldn’t believe me even if I told you.”

Bruce raises an eyebrow, “and will you tell me?”

You shake your head, “absolutely not. I don’t kiss and tell.”

“Fair enough.”

Bruce orders a black coffee with two sugars. You split a fruit-filled pastry with him. In between bites, you tell him about your meeting with Dr. Crane and pass over your notes on Arkham and Dr. Mercer’s untimely death.

“I’m not sure how Dr. Mercer ties into Falcone, or if he does, but I’m sure Falcone has the network to murder someone.”

Bruce nods thoughtfully.

“I’ll see what Alfred and I can find.”

“We’re close, Bruce.” You admit. A tinge of excitement laces your tone and brightens it. “I can feel it. I think I can use Dr. Crane to re-interview some of Mercer’s patients. I could have my story complete within the next few weeks.”

His brow furrows, “You said you don’t trust Crane. You said he had something to hide.

“He does—but for all we know—he could have hidden dirty magazines in his filing cabinet.”

Bruce’s smile triggers an irregular heartbeat pattern in your chest.

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

You lift the bouquet of flowers from the vase to change the water. A slim, lacquered white notecard slips out from between the stems.

In beautiful calligraphy, it reads: to my perfect girl.

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

Part Three >

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #battinson imagine #batman x reader #batman x you #bruce wayne x you #dc fic #the batman fic

[the-wintershade]

withdrawals from imagined things | pattinson!batman 

series: staring into the echo | 1 | 2 | 3 pairing: pattinson!batman x reader  summary: bruce is supposed to be your partner. But now there's someone else. And now, every affection you've ever had dissolves in front of your eyes. That is, until Bruce has something to say about it.  wc: 2.3k+  genre: angsty, reader has doubts about feelings, sad, but has a happy ending (in part 3 <3)  a/n: know your worth people. know your worth.

There were many times you and Bruce narrowly escaped battles. Many times having all your limbs and a working heartbeat was a miracle. 

None of those times included Bruce staring at another woman. Such transfixed care and concern in his eyes.

Maybe it shouldn’t have bothered you. Partners didn’t typically care if their partners had other people in their lives.

But you and Bruce worked together often. Like any good professionals, you made a good team. You cared about each other, looked out for each other, and protected each other. 

You had come to depend on him. Seeing him with someone else sent a warning through your head, sent an ache through your heart. 

Bruce was starting to slip away from you. It’s as if now he drifts somewhere out of your reach, even though in a few steps you could be standing right next to him. You don’t understand what was happening between him and that woman, but you know it has nothing to do with you. It will never have anything to do with you.

A wall that you didn’t see before now appeared between you two. It wasn’t a wall you knew was there either. You didn’t come to realize the depth of your affection for Bruce until now. Until it was already too late.

Your hand itches. Only minutes ago, your clawed your way out of the debris of the collapsed building you and Bruce were in. You reach up to flick pieces of brick off your face.

You can’t help but compare it to how images of you and Bruce. Light scoffs and tenderly sealing up wounds after missions. Warm smiles. Hesitant touches on arms and hands. Breaths stopping and restarting, either from laughing or proximity. 

All of it dissolves in the grey sunlight. 

You know there wouldn’t be more moments like those. The realization coils around your chest, your throat, your tongue. Hot. Unyielding.

Saying anything to Bruce would just make everything worse. You aren’t sure you’d be able to say anything at all. Your feelings of betrayal hang heavy on your face. It pools around your eyes. It distorts your vision. 

You understand it now. It’s not that you’re partners. It’s not that you felt something for him. You’re comfortable with him. You feel safe with him.

Felt. Felt safe. The instability in your core won’t let you feel that way now.

You turn your palms up and carefully fleck the tiny pieces of brick and dirt and pebbles off your hand. They leave small, deep impressions all over your skin; all are tiny reminders of barely making it out. It feels like a part of you had collapsed too. 

Lieutenant Gordon appears in front of you. So enraptured by your hand, you don’t notice two new police cars. A blur of crimson and cobalt washes the rising ashen dust in color.

Gordon’s voice is clear and focused. It’s nice to hear, to get some organization in the rambling starting in your brain. A visualization of Bruce and the red-haired woman laughing and bumping into each other flashes across your mind. You flinch.

“You alright, officer?” Gordon’s eyes work across your dirtied uniform and messy hair. You’re positive dust and cuts cover your cheeks.

You manage a nod and studiously avoid his gaze. Gordon would see right through you. Instead, you fixate your attention on another officer helping a man to an ambulance. 

You think you catch Bruce looking over at you out of the corner of your eye. It’s likely wishful thinking.

“Fine,” you sigh. “All the wounded are cleared. The building is one cough away from caving, but there should be some people working on it.”

You feel Gordon’s quizzical eyes on the side of your face. You blink, knowing you would have to look him in the eye before he would move on. He has to really see if you’re just as fine as you claim to be.

It’s endearing and frustrating how he knew your tone could say one thing but your eyes could say another.

You lick your lips and turn toward Gordon. “How is the inner city? Did our favorite villain get that far?”

It’s Gordon’s turn to look away, eyes scanning the scene briefly. “It went about as well as it could. The bastard’s fast. But the Riddler can’t run forever.” His eyes return to your face, a gently smug look on his face. “Only so many sewers to hide in.”

You chuckle and feel some of Gordon’s scrutiny waver. You finally look toward him. Bright splotches of dust and debris cling to his jacket. “Buildings fell near you too?” You mutter, reaching out to swipe some of the powder off his clothing. 

Gordon shrugs and sighs. A new smudge lingers where your fingers had been. You rub your hands across each other as he defeatedly answered. “Just one. Unlike you and the Bat here, we were a little late.”

A little late is code for casualties. Gordon’s jaw tenses and his eyes lose a bit of their sharp focus. He’s disappointed in himself. 

You knew isn’t his fault just like it isn’t the people’s fault either. They were victims of crime and chaos. Nobody could be everywhere at once. 

You’re used to checking in on each other, but this is one of the first times that Gordon vocalized his deeper thoughts. Sharing in sadness with your lieutenant was the last thing you were expecting. It makes you feel less alone, even if your melancholy came from different places.

You press your lips in a sympathetic line. “I’m sorry, Gordon.”

“Yeah,” his voice gravels. “There was a little boy this time.” He swallows and places shaky hands on his hips. “There won’t be a next time.”

You reach out to place a hand on his shoulder and squeeze. “No, there won’t.”

His smile tinges with sorrow but gratitude floats behind it. That’s good enough for you. You let your hand fall away.

Gordon’s gloomy slouch reminds you of your own. You spare another look toward Bruce. 

His eyes flutter over to yours. Then, he’s looking back at the beautiful, small woman in front of him. Before she could turn to see who Bruce was looking at, you duck and angle yourself toward Gordon.

A weak sigh blows through your nostrils. You hate feeling this way. 

Everything is tight and tense. Your words are becoming squeezed and painful. Talking is nearly out of the question. 

You need to do some quiet work, take a shower, and go to bed early. You don’t have the energy for much else.

You watch embers and soot float down in front of you. Gordon does the same. A comfortable silence of shared blues and dissociation stretches between you.

Gordon is the first to break it. “You going back with him?” 

You look at Gordon with unfocused eyes before you notice him tilting his head in Bruce’s direction. You couldn’t hide the bittersweet expression on your face even as you attempt a smirk. “Not today. Think I’m going to head to the station to write my statement. Maybe take a shower.”

Gordon nods and hums. His quiet response only further confirms that he senses something is up between his partner-in-justice and you. 

Normally, you and Bruce would leave together. You would trade information and conclusions, swap theories and leads to follow. Alfred would help too. Tea would be made, biscuits nibbled on, and when you were ready, you and Bruce would work on smoothing over cuts with bandages and emotions with comforting words.

Not tonight. Maybe no longer. You aren’t quite ready to process what that means. What that would do to you.

“Well,” Gordon muses, “take it easy. I’m having breakfast tomorrow at the diner just off of 26th if you want to stop by.” 

Your heart warms at his invitation. 

You know he invited you because he could tell something was wrong. Gordon always tries to support you. It felt nice that he wants to be there while you sort through it all. 

At the same time, you register that he might have asked because he wanted company too. He desires what you refuse to acknowledge right now. An opportunity to process what happened with someone who understood.

Smirking, you respond, “I might just take you up on that offer. See you soon, Gordon.”

You look over your shoulder once. 

You and Bruce lock eyes. You watch as he angles his body toward you. He starts to take a step in your direction. 

Then, you looked away. Walking to a squad car, you hail a ride back to the station.

…

Filing the papers is easy. Keeping your mind focused on the work instead of Bruce’s actions is not. 

Instead of the usual hour, it takes you nearly three hours to finish your report. Every so often your eyes would drift away, focusing on some random object. In the haze, you could replay the way Bruce leaned into the woman.

Woman. That’s how Bruce must have seen her. 

As a woman, as a beautiful, tough, and delicate person that should be cared for, should be loved. 

You’re just the partner. A person who helps sort out his life and nothing more. Sure, you two probably like each other’s company. Good partnerships require it. 

But that’s all. 

When you got home, you quickly got in the shower. While the water washes away the dirt, your mind is finally able to quiet for a few moments. You take your time washing your hair. The suds collect all over your hands and up your arms before you rinse them away. 

For a time, you’re able to start sorting through how what happened in that building. As you brush your teeth, you string together explanations for how the explosions were placed, why they denoted they did, and the chaos used to overshadow the governor’s press conference.

You couldn’t figure out why certain buildings were targeted the way they were. Hopefully, Gordon would have more information in the morning. 

You throw on your pajamas and exit the steam-filled room. The towel wrapped around your head sways as you walk to the fridge to eat something. Your limbs and brain are too tired to make anything, so you decide on some cubed cheese and already washed and separated grapes.

As you eat, you looked down at your hands, finding a few scrapes. 

A few weeks ago, Bruce cradled your hand so preciously as he had applied anointment and gently pressed a bandage against a deep cut. You just narrowly avoided a knife to the face, instead catching the blade with your hands and wrestling it out of your assailant’s grasp.

Bruce tensed the entire time you told him what happened. He looked almost furious but still, he managed to be so tender with you as he cleaned and patched your injuries. It made you feel cared for and seen in a way that you hadn’t in a long time. 

It made you think you actually deserved care. You could receive care from those who actually care about you. And somehow, they would want to volunteer this care without obligation. 

That’s what you used to think. Now you couldn’t be certain Bruce’s actions don’t come without a sense of obligation.

If you were gone, Bruce would have no one who would listen to him ramble on and on about what he thought. No one would be as careful as you were while you iced bruises and placed tape over stitches. He wouldn’t have a partner anymore. That was enough for anyone to feel obligated to keep their partners safe.

The dull scar on your palm glints in the kitchen light you left on. It’s the only light on in the room.

You sigh. Even the darkness reminded you of him. 

You want to stop thinking about it all, about how your heart hurt, about how the cheese and grapes don’t taste like anything because the grief over a relationship you realized you don’t have made it taste like flavorless mush, about how the disappointment was conjuring tears to your eyes.

You need it to stop. It’s all becoming too much.

After only two handfuls of cheese and three of the grapes, you place their respective bowls back into the fridge and walk to your room, keeping the lights off. 

The click of the fridge closing mixed with the click of your bedside lamp switch. This would be the only light you’d leave on. You have to. The darkness would just bring back things you don’t want to think about.

As you burrow under your bed covers, you turn on your tv to let its mindless drawl keep you from retreating too far into your memories of Bruce. 

The recollections of patch-up jobs start to take on a different color now. Instead of the soft warm hues you remember in them, they’re fizzling into deep grays and sharp whites. It’s like your brain is removing your emotional connection to them. Dulling them to protect yourself.

It isn’t working. The gold is always still there, still lingering behind the silvery clouds, fighting through their clumps in strands of warm light.

You give up, smothering your head with a pillow and adjusting till you faced your window with city lights peeking through the blinds. If you can’t get your little flicker of hope that you’re wrong about your new perspective on Bruce to go away, maybe you could distract yourself enough to go to sleep.

And you did. You watched cars peel up and down the now rain-covered streets. People huddle under umbrellas or streak through the rain. 

It’s numbing. Your eyes unfocus and droop close. Just before sleep gives you relief from thoughts about Bruce, a white circle appears in the sky. 

You try to close your eyes and ignore it; it will only give your brain more fuel to run on. 

But you know what the circle is as quickly as your subconscious does. The bat signal colors the back of your eyelids. You scrunch your eyes firmly closed and work to count sheep to finally get to sleep.

#site #bruce wayne #bruce wayne fic #battinson fic #battinson x reader #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne/reader #s: staring into the echo #battinson angst #bruce wayne angst #battinson/reader #bruce wayne fanfiction #battinson fanfiction #the batman #the batman fic #the batman headcanon #bruce wayne headcanon #battinson headcanon #battinson imagine #bruce wayne imagine #staringintotheecho #staring into the echo

[imagine--if]

Could you do some yandere Battinson, Pleaseee? I'm thirsty for it 😩

A/N: The hell I can 😍 made relationship hcs based on it, enjoy!!

Pairing: Battinson x reader (The Batman 2022)

Warnings: Obsessive loving behaviour 🦇

• As if Bruce not being a yandere in a relationship isn’t enough already 😂

• He’s very perceptive and observant, especially with reading your expressions or moods when they’re out of the ordinary. Maybe someone upset you? You need Vengeance? Literally?? Boy’s gone.

• Bruce is naturally protective, since you’re one of the few people left that he genuinely cares for. He can’t let anyone take you away from him, and will go to drastic measures to ensure it. He lives for you, The Batman is for you… you’re his everything 🖤

• He’s a lil shy with initiating cuddle or kissing sessions, but once you start them, he doesn’t want you to stop. Your touch and affection is the warmest, most comforting feeling Bruce has had since his parents died, and he’s addicted to it.

• Bruce likes keeping tabs on where you are and isn’t very good at being subtle 😅 he might be fighting crime outside and peeking in through the windows of your room in Wayne Manor with his binoculars, and probably has cameras set up - but not so much to be controlling or anything, more to check you’re doing okay

• He has irrational fears of abandonment, like, coming home and you not being there even though there’s no chance of it happening 🥺 so being able to see you on a screen and hold your hand at home calms him instantly

• Whenever he’s dazed by what he sees and feels a bit depressed, he always comes to you for silent comfort and gets annoyed at any interruption

• Bruce Wayne as a yandere wouldn’t be so much about literally tying you up to make sure you stay safe and he could never bring himself to hurt you, and since he doesn’t kill/use guns he finds his own ways to deal with your problems.

• Yep, your problems are his 🥰

• He’s very protective and clingy in his own way, and everyone Alfred can see it clearly; it’s a good thing though, man’s in love 😍

#battinson x reader #the batman x reader #batman 2022 #the batman 2022 #robert pattinson x reader #robert pattinson bruce wayne #pattinson!batman x reader #rob pattinson batman #robert pattinson fanfiction #the batman imagine #the batman fanfic #bruce wayne headcanon #the batman headcanon #the batman fluff #the batman fic #batman x reader #batman imagine #batman fanfiction #batman hc #batman headcanon #batman fluff #battinson fluff #battinson fanfiction #battinson imagine #battinson x you #battinson x y/n #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne x reader

[lovelettersforthedamned]

WELCOME TO MY FOUR-HUNDRED FOLLOWER BASH!

first of all, thank you so much for this achievement! i'm so happy to have you guys here. whether you're new or not, i love you guys. writing is such a delight for me, and i love that you enjoy my passion!

a lot of you guys loved the prompt list, so here i present: four-hundred follower bash dialogue prompt list!!

HOW TO ASK FOR A FIC:

click on my ask box and type:

[ character from my masterlist + dialogue prompt + any other comments you want to add ]

i cannot wait to see what you guys come up with!! ok, ily bye <3

bash ends april thirteenth:)

#llftd 400 follower bash #tasm!peter x reader #peter parker x reader #joel miller x reader #the batman x reader #matt murdock x reader #din djarin x reader #the mandalorian x reader #moon knight x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #poe dameron x reader #frank castle x reader #peter parker fic #joel miller fic #the batman fic #matt murdock fic #din djarin fic #the mandalorian fanfic #moon knight fic #poe dameron fic #frank castle fic

[violetflowerswrites]

Five Minutes

Summary: Bruce Wayne reluctantly attends a fundraising gala with his lover, a former childhood friend who knows his life as the Batman. She puts up with his rich kid brattiness while he can’t wait to mark their reunion with a quickie in the library.

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Female Reader

Disclaimer: spoiled, angsty, and bratty Bruce. Soft boi Bruce and possessive Bruce. Sassy and teasing reader. Lots of kissing and touching. Fingering (female receiving). Consensual p in v sex. Public sex. 18+ for explicit smut and language.

Word Count: 3.6k

A/N: I still can’t stop thinking about Battison even though I watched it months ago. Here’s my take on what Bruce would be like with someone who understands him, especially when he doesn’t want to have to explain himself. The story is set in Gotham perhaps a year after the events of the movie. The smut is heavily inspired by the library scene from Atonement because it's hot AF. Enjoy Bruce in all his soft boi glory!

The quiet whirring of the elevator is the only sound that echoes through the underground caverns of the Batcave. You shove your hands deeper into the pockets of your coat, shivering in the cooler temperatures as you descend downwards, surrounded by black rock and concrete. Flickering lights blink a greeting to you as your heels click down the empty hallways towards the main foyer, where a medley of computer screens flash unflattering closeups and shaky videos of the Gotham public, and the occasional criminal. It’s dark and damp and uninviting, but even with the lights off in this maze of a secret lair, you can find your way around like it’s the back of your hand.

After all, you designed it.

“Hello?” you call out, your voice swallowed up by the vast space. “Bruce?”

Suddenly, a dark figure slams into you like a brick wall and you stumble backwards, narrowly falling on your backside before strong hands grip your back.

“Y/N. What are you doing here?” Bruce grumbles, his eyes practically glowing through the black of his mask.

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” you huff. Bruce was never a man of many words. “Alfred said you were probably in the Batcave so I came looking for you.”

You notice a muscle tightening in the corner of Bruce’s mouth. He always hated the nickname you gave his underground hideaway. And that’s exactly why the name stuck.

“It’s been a month.” Bruce states matter-of-factly. He stands there, unmoving.

You almost burst out into laughter. For anyone who doesn’t know Bruce, they will probably think that he is just making an observation. But you know better. This is his version of throwing a bratty little tantrum, complaining that you’ve been away too long.  

You close the distance between the two of you and wrap him in a big hug, your face pressing against the woven kevlar of his bulletproof costume.

“I know, big guy. It was a long and boring business trip. But I’m finally back home. Did you miss me?” You tease him.

Bruce says nothing, refusing to move. It’s like you’re hugging a tree. A spoiled, passive-aggressive, angsty, Bat-costume clad tree. You wait for Bruce to get over himself, and simply pull his body even closer to you, your fingertips barely able to lock behind his back.

Finally, he acknowledges you by tucking his chin down on top of your head in a wordless affirmation of yes. He did in fact miss you. A hell of a lot.

In a matter of seconds, Bruce scoops you up until your ass is comfortably resting at his waist, and your legs automatically link around his torso. Your arms cling to his neck, even though you know Bruce would never drop you.

“Am I too short for you?” You immediately grin at him.

“Need to see your face.” Bruce mumbles under his breath.

You gaze back at him, curiously looking over his mask and the black eyeshadow surrounding his eyes. It has the smallest flecks of glitter in it, and you wonder what brand he must be using. You’ll have to find one that’s more matte for him.

While you’re preoccupied with Bruce’s makeup choices, the man before you decides to finally show his affection by kissing your waiting lips.

You smile into the kiss, and return it passionately.

“You’re a big baby, you know that?” You chuckle at him. Bruce makes a non-verbal grunt. “I’ll take that as a yes.” You continue to pepper his exposed skin with kisses, pressing your soft lips to his jaw and cheek and neck.

Bruce frees up a hand to grip the side of your head, a gloved thumb rubbing your cheek tenderly.

“Did you miss me?” he asks quietly.

You bury your face in the side of his neck, an aroused flush spreading across your hot skin. “Of course. I wanted you. Every night.”

Your lover reaches his hand in between you now, tickling your collarbone, and brushing his hands across the front of your chest, just barely passing over your sensitive nipples. A shudder courses through your body at his touch.

Your lips press a hot and wanting kiss to his, your hands gripping his face. “B-Bruce, if you keep touching me…” you pant, your shallow breaths mingling with his steady ones.

“Not now.” Bruce abruptly lowers you to the ground, making sure your feet are steady before letting go of you. You brush your hair out of your face, clicking your tongue in annoyance. Bruce’s emotionless mouth tugs into the smallest of smirks. Bastard.

“I’m leaving.” He says, turning on his heel.

“The gala is in an hour, Bruce.” You remind him.

“I’ll be there. Bring my suit. Take a car.” Bruce punctuates each instruction with a steel-booted step, clanking across the concrete towards his motorcycle.

“A please would be nice!” You roll your eyes, but your comment is lost in the revving of his engine and he peels off into the night, cape flapping in the wind.

God, he’s a spoiled brat.

…

Exactly 60 minutes later, the Batman shows up out of nowhere, appearing in the headlights of your car like a silent shadow.

“Jesus Christ!” You yelp, Bruce’s large body taking up space in the tiny alley where you’re parked. “Do you have to do that every time?”

Another sneaky smirk tugs at his lips, even though the man says nothing.

With an exasperated sigh, you get to work making him gala-ready. The two of you tumble into the backseat of the luxury SUV, and you quickly flick on as many lights as you can.

“Shoes. Pants. Shirt.” You pass him each item of clothing as Bruce quickly peels off his mud-soaked costume.

“God, this is disgusting. Dump it in here.” You hold out a black plastic bag.

“It will wrinkle.” Bruce states as he looks at your outstretched hands with disdain.

“Hah! It’s covered in filth Bruce. Alfred will take care of it, and hurry up. We’re already late.” You laugh at his fussing.

Bruce stuffs his long limbs into the dress clothes, while you tie up the bag and toss it into the trunk. Then, you retrieve a box of what you dorkily call the “Batman to Bruce Transformation Box” or Triple B for short.

“Okay. Time for Triple B to do its magic.” You breathe out as you settle back into the backseat.

“A nickname. Again?” Bruce looks up at you from tying his shoes.

“Gotta find fun somewhere, right?” You grin at him, “Now give me your face.”

You grab a heavy duty makeup wipe and clean off all the eyeshadow. Then you put some product in his flattened hair and comb it back, away from his face. You tuck some loose strands behind his ears and spray it all down generously with hairspray.

Bruce sputters at the mist and you ignore him. You dab some cologne onto his neck and the man has the audacity to complain again.

“I smell like a wet dog.”

“The cologne is called “Woodland Musk” and it’s very expensive so you’re wearing it.” You tut back at him. “We gotta get you picture and people ready. This gala is a big deal Bruce.”

Bruce just looks at you with disappointment, and sighs. If you weren’t rushing to get him ready, you would have taken a picture of his pouty face. It’s a side he only shows to you. And maybe Alfred.

You take out a small velvet box and hand it to him while you brush off his suit jacket. Bruce opens it to find a shiny pair of silver cufflinks, engraved with cursive initials T.W.

“These are my father’s.” Bruce observes quietly.

“Alfred thought it would be nice. After all, you will be donating in his name tonight.” You glance back at Bruce, noticing that his eyes have turned down in sadness.

You gently take the cufflinks out of the box and fasten them to his sleeves. “I’m glad we can remember him in this way.” You pat his hand and look up at him, smiling reassuringly.

“Let’s go.”

…

Bruce’s eyes widen as he takes in the emerald green satin dress you’re wearing. You slip a $20 to the teenage boy who takes your coat, offering a small nod. He eagerly scoops up the tip and scurries away.

The material of the dress catches the light of a chandelier, making it ripple as you walk, like ocean waves gleaming in the sun.

“Bruce! Stop staring–we’re late!” You hiss at him, raising your eyebrows. Bruce snaps out of it and in two strides, catches up to you and offers you his arm. “You look good.” His compliment is almost lost in the quiet murmur of the crowd as you near the ballroom.

“I thought you said ‘not now’?” You turn to look up at him, eyes twinkling.

Bruce continues to face forward, his expression unreadable, but a little bit of pink colors the tips of his ears.

“We’ll see.”

The next few hours pass by in a flurry of small talk and a whole lot of ass-kissing. Your brain is whirling from trying to recall every big-name in Gotham and their wives and their children and of course, their net worth. You find a short reprieve at the bar, finally able to get a glass of wine to relieve your overworked mental state.

Bruce slides up next to you silently, his slightly furrowed brow the only indication of his discomfort at such a public event. You know he hates this kind of stuff with a passion.

“Ah, Mr. Wayne! And Ms. Y/L/N. You look lovely tonight, my dear.” A balding man with a large handlebar mustache and an equally large beer belly lifts his drink in greeting to you. You instantly recognize him as Luke “The Cowboy” Lawson, a ranch tycoon from Texas. Next to him was your real estate magnate of a father.

“Mr. Lawson! Thank you for making the trip all the way out here. How are you?” You greet him.  

“Lawson was just telling me about the water problems he’s been having on the ranches. The drought is really putting his business under. Not to mention all the illegals that keep coming over.” Your father interrupts.

You wince internally at his comments. He was never one to shy away from his political stances, and you try to avoid him for as much of the year as possible.

“I’m sorry to hear that. Is there anything we can do to help?” You reply sympathetically. You are quite fond of Lawson with his big laugh and cheerful demeanor. How he managed to stay friends with your father for all these years is a mystery to you.

“Lawson’s Ranches used to supply Gotham most of its beef and milk supply, but you haven’t been providing much for us in recent years. It’s because of the drought, isn’t it?” Bruce cuts in unexpectedly. You peer at him through the corner of your eye. His face is resolute, and determined. What is he thinking?

“Well, uh, yes that’s correct, Mr. Wayne.” Lawson carefully replies.

“Wayne Enterprises will sponsor Ms. Y/L/N’s engineering company to find an appropriate solution for your water crisis. In return, I would like you to allot a sizable portion of your supply to Gotham city, at a reduced price. As we are rebuilding, we have lost much, and food shortage is becoming a major issue. I’ll have my people draft up a contract by next week.” Bruce offers with an air of boredom, as if the solution is obvious.

“H-hold on, Bruce–” you try to interject, but Lawson and Bruce are already shaking hands.

“That sounds like a great plan.  I look forward to working with you Mr. Wayne.” Lawson smiles warmly at the two of you. “You two make a great team. Excuse me, while I make some calls.”

Your jaw drops slack as you watch Lawson leave.

“Bruce! I can’t believe you just–” you whip your head around to reprimand him.

“Can you not do it?” Bruce finally looks down at you.

“What? No, of course I can. We’ve been handling drought projects for years and Lawson is a good family friend so of course I would want to help him out, but –” you calculate the implications quickly aloud.

“Then it’s done.” Bruce states with decisiveness.

You stare at him and shake your head in disbelief, but a soft chuckle makes the both of you turn to the man still before you.

“Hah! Lawson is right. You two make a great team. You always have, ever since you were children playing around in that great big mansion of yours, Bruce. I’m sorry, I find it hard to call you Mr. Wayne, that was your father.” Your father wipes invisible tears from his eyes, his laughter lacking actual happiness.

“Father, it has been a while. You look well.” You greet robotically, your manners ingrained in you since you grew up in the media spotlight. Perks of growing up rich you suppose.

“Yes, yes, I’m doing fine, Y/N.” Your father waves a hand dismissively. “But you didn’t tell me that you’ve been in touch with the Waynes. I haven’t seen Bruce out in public in years.”

“Father, I think you’re misunderstanding. We’re just–” you quickly intervene, knowing what your father is thinking in his calculating mind.

“We are together. I’ve been seeing your daughter, Mr. Y/L/N.” Bruce interrupts whatever explanation you were going to say with the actual truth.

“Ah! Excellent! Well, I wish the two of you well. Welcome to the family, Bruce. Call me anytime the two of you need anything.” Your father beams greedily, knowing that having a Wayne for a son-in-law would increase his fortune by the millions. Perhaps more.

He kisses you on the cheek and shakes Bruce’s hand. “Now, you must excuse me. I have more deals to secure.”

With that, your shrewd father disappears into the crowd. Your senses finally register the unmistakable clicks and flashes from cameras as the media captures every embarrassing moment of that interaction. You know you already caused a frenzy arriving with Bruce Wayne as your date, and then to see Bruce talking to your father? You could practically hear the wedding bells ringing.

You plaster a fake smile onto your face and lift up onto your toes to whisper into Bruce’s ear.

“You have a lot of explaining to do, big boy.”

…

“What the hell was that, Bruce?” You sputter in shock, hands on your hips. “First, you make a business deal without consulting me, that’s gonna cost millions for the both of us, and then you tell my father that we’re together? It’s like you want to be on the cover of tomorrow’s tabloids!”

Your infuriating boyfriend simply peruses the bookshelves of leatherbound covers, the warm browns of the library surrounding you in a comforting glow.

“You’re mine.” Bruce simply states. “They need to know.”

“W-what?” His admission catches you off-guard.

Bruce turns and walks towards you. You inadvertently step backwards until your bare back is pressed against the shelves.

“You’re mine.” Bruce repeats, his face inches from yours. He immediately kisses your lips, and you can feel your anger melting away.

You hear the rustle of his suit jacket falling to the floor and the distinct clink of his belt becoming undone.

“B-Bruce, wait–they’re gonna know we’re gone!” You whisper into his mouth, your protests sounding very feeble. Only Bruce could make you lose the battle against lust with just a kiss.

“Five minutes.” Bruce murmurs against your chest, his lips already traveling down your body.

“You only need five minutes?” You pant at him, with a teasing tone. Your lover simply looks up at you with a raised eyebrow. He’s made you cum in far less time.

“I’m not waiting anymore.” Bruce kisses the tops of your breasts, pulling down the tiny straps of your gown off of your shoulders. You suck in a breath and your head falls back against the books.

To be honest, you’ve been aroused ever since Bruce kissed you in the Batcave. You just didn’t think he would make his move at the gala, in public no less.

But, what the Batman wants, the Batman gets.

His hot mouth finds your hard nubs and suckles gently on them.

“Gah! That feels good, Bruce.” You voice out your pleasure in a loud moan.

“Shh…” Bruce chuckles as he continues to kiss your tingling skin while palming your breasts with his strong hands.

Without further ado, Bruce lifts up your bottom and perches you precariously on the edge of a shelf. He pushes the slinky material of your dress around your waist and dips a thick finger into your folds.

“No underwear?” Bruce questions.

“This dress shows everything, Bruce.” You moan appreciatively at his touch, your mind barely registering his words.

“Mmm. Tempting.” Bruce comments with a grunt. He pushes two fingers now into your pussy, his hand quickly becoming coated with your slick.

“Oh my god!” You yelp at the invasion, the pleasure overwhelming you already. It’s been a while since anything besides your own fingers have entered your core. And Bruce’s fingers are much larger than your own.

Bruce silences your noises with another tender kiss, his fingers thrusting in and out of your hot pussy in a regular rhythm. You squirm under him, your hands gripping the back of his neck and shoulders as you try not to fall off the shelf.

Wanting to make him feel good too, you reach down and find the waistband of his dress slacks. Bruce groans against your lips as your fingers gently grip his hard member and you stroke it slowly.

“You have two more minutes,” you tease Bruce, your eyes locking with his as he presses his lips to your tender ones over and over.

Bruce grabs your wrists and wraps them on the back of his neck. He takes out his engorged cock and lines it up with your waiting pussy. You stare down at his member, your body already throbbing with anticipation.

And in the next second, you’re in ecstasy.

“Ohhhh!” Your moan elongated with lust, “Bruce, I’ve missed you.”

“I know.” Bruce replies with a moan of his own, his hips thrusting up into you. He stretches you deliciously and in return, your pussy grips him as if it was made just for his cock. He speeds up, the force of his movements making books start to fall off the shelves.

The two of you pay the mess no mind, your focus occupied only on the high you are both chasing.

You bury your face in his neck, breathing in that expensive cologne that made him smell like a wet dog, but to you it was just the unmistakable scent of Bruce Wayne.

And the scent of sex.

For the next few moments, there are only the lewd sounds of wet skin slapping together and the panting moans of the two of you as you have desperate reunion sex. It’s as if the two of you have forgotten everything except each other.

Forgetting that your father and the media is gonna go crazy about your new relationship status. Forgetting that Gotham is still half destroyed from the flood. Forgetting that Bruce puts his life in danger every night as the Batman. Forgetting the sadness and the darkness that haunts every waking minute of this city.

For the moment, you have each other, and it’s enough.

“Shit!” You burst out, Bruce’s cock hits deeper than you thought possible, and it brings you the most incredible wave of bliss. “You’re gonna make me cum, Bruce!”

“Ten seconds.” Bruce grunts as he thrusts into you, speeding up. His hair has fallen out of place despite all the hairspray and you think to yourself how sexy he looks with just a bit of his bangs falling into his eyes.

Keeping his promise, you feel his warm seed spurt into your waiting pussy just as one final push tips you over the edge into body-shaking shivers of orgasm.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you press your lips to Bruce, your moan muffled by his hot mouth. If you don’t kiss him as you cum, you know that everyone is gonna hear your screams of pleasure outside in the halls.

Five minutes was definitely enough time.

Out of breath, you silently lower your body and hop down from the shelf on shaky legs. You quickly find the strappy heels that had fallen off in the midst of sex, picking up his suit jacket as well.

You place it on his shoulders as he tucks himself back into his pants. The two of you wordlessly replace the books scattered across the carpeted floor and before long, the library looks as if no one had been there in the first place.

Your hand grips the doorknob before you hear Bruce speak.

“I love you.”

You turn, brushing his bangs back behind his ears affectionately, as you gaze into the clear eyes of your lover. Your bratty, soft little Batman.

“I know.”

#the batman #the batman 2022 #Bruce Wayne #Bruce Wayne smut #Bruce Wayne x Reader #Batman x Reader #Battinson x reader #Battinson #battinson smut #batman smut #the batman smut #The Batman x Reader #robert pattinson #robert pattinson x reader #robert pattinson fic #robert pattinson smut #batman fic #the batman fic #Bruce Wayne fic #battinson fic #battison imagine #Bruce Wayne imagine #The batman imagine #batman imagine #smut #smut writing #smut fic #atonement #atonement sex scene #atonement inspired

[barnesafterglow]

everything to me

summary: being bruce wayne's best friend comes with some unexpected surprises

pairing: pattinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

word count: 1.2k (blurb who??)

warnings: bruce is broody (ofc), implied sexual harassment (not from bruce), implied smut, best friends to lovers <3, reader is a smartass

a/n: day 2 of my sweet summer writing challenge with the prompt "you're cleaning this up, right? since this was your idea." !! dedicated to sweet @foreverindreamlandd because i know this man is everything to her 😭 this is my first time writing for bruce wayne so please be kind! i hope y'all enjoy &lt;3

main masterlist ─ challenge masterlist i no longer have a taglist, but you can follow @theafterglowlibrary and turn on post notifications to get fic updates! 🤍

When he first told you his secret, you all but laughed in his face. No, you did laugh in his face. The Bruce Wayne, billionaire recluse, was a bona fide superhero? That was like saying you were in the running to be the next mayor of Gotham. So you laughed and laughed, then looked at him - that cute little twitch of his mouth that either meant he wanted to laugh with you or throw you across the room - and then you laughed some more.

Until he led you down the long winding hallways to the basement - a cave, Bruce, you built a full fledged Batcave, you had said - and something deep in your gut told you the technology wasn’t just a rich man’s playthings.

So, cool, your best friend was the masked vigilante that no one in the city could decide if they loved or hated, and you had to be fine with that.

Which also meant, after Alfred, you were the only person he really had in his corner. So on the nights Bruce came home more than a little battered and bruised, you sent Alfred to his room and patched Bruce up yourself. Which afforded you the opportunity to get to know him better than you had before.

Even as his best - and only, you liked to tease him - friend, there was an unsurprising barrier around his vulnerability that few people ever stepped into. But there was something about you stitching up the holes in his body that caused him to open up more to you. About his fears of never doing enough, the hurt of the loss of his parents, the thought that he was disappointing them rather than making them proud with his nightly activities. 

And as those walls came crashing down around you, so did your feelings.

You wanted to laugh it off at first, the thought of having something as silly as a crush on Bruce Wayne. Until you caught the scantily clad waitress from the bar down the block sneaking out the front door one morning, you weren’t even sure Bruce was capable of sexual or romantic feelings. But the closer you got, the more you realized that you desperately wanted him to have them, for you.

The lingering touches and covert stares from the both of you were enough to balloon your hopes until it all came to a head one winter night.

Bruce had gone out on a patrol, a typical weekday night that you hoped would be quiet and he could get back home quickly and out of the below freezing temperatures. You set up your usual first aid supplies on the dining room table and very sweetly asked Alfred for help lighting the fire before he headed up to bed.

You sat in the plush armchair reading a book until you heard the tell-tale rumble of the Batmobile - don’t call it the Batmobile, Y/N, he said every time - entering the space below you.

Thinking back, maybe you should have known something was wrong. Usually it was about 20 minutes from the time you heard him arrive to the time the fortress level door just off the study opened up. Enough time for him to download any pertinent footage from the night, take his suit off, and wash away any blood that wasn’t his own.

That night though, it was less than five before you heard heavy, booted steps and the whoosh of the door. You stood abruptly, your book falling to your feet, and rounded the corner to see Bruce standing there in his full armor, save for the helmet.

He looked disheveled, more than usual, and you could only begin to imagine what horrors of the night had The Batman so rattled.

Despite the near impenetrable material that was his suit, you knew from his slight limp that it was not a calm night, and when you stepped into his personal space to try and assess the damage, he grasped your hip so hard you winced a little. His grip loosened considerably, but he still crowded you, so in your own space that you were backed up until thick wood of the dining room table dug into your spine.

“Heard them talking about you,” he said, voice low and breathy. “Scum, all of them. Talking about you like you were a piece of meat.”

You shook your head, terribly confused. Who would be talking about you to Batman? Then you remembered your coworkers - ex-coworkers, you should say - and the whole ordeal you had sworn to keep from Bruce.

Which was, men were often entitled and sometimes handsy and you were one of several women in your office to go to HR with complaints of management trying to feel up special offers, if your meaning was clear.

You hadn’t wanted to tell Bruce, knew he would do his broody and protective bit, and it was all more trouble than it was worth, in your opinion. But of course you couldn’t keep anything from him, though you had hoped you had actually gotten away within it since it had been several weeks. No such luck.

You didn’t know if he was more angry at them, or at the fact that you had kept it from him.

“I’m sorry, Bruce,” you started, wanting to stop the conversation before it really began. “I should have told you, but it’s not a big d -”

“Not a big deal?” he hissed, crowding you even more. “You’re a big deal to me. You’re- you’re everything to me.”

Well, that certainly didn’t sound like best friend talk. No, that sounded like school boy crush, draw-your-name-in-hearts talk. Coming from Bruce? To say you were baffled was an understatement.

“What?” You wanted to back up, get away for a moment, because you couldn’t think clearly with him so close, but he didn’t get you the opportunity. Instead, he swiped a hand behind you, scattering the various supplies that laid on the table onto the floor, and lifted you up so you were sitting and he was slotted between your legs.

One hand still rested on your hip, the other coming to the nape of your neck, angling your head so your foreheads pressed together.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispered again, this time with more conviction. “Tell me you want this too.”

You were too stunned to speak, so you just nodded, and that was enough for him. Lips on yours, hands everywhere, clothes scattered one by one. You were overcome with passion for him, feeling every emotion all at once, and finally, finally, as you lay sweating and dazed on the mahogany table, Bruce’s weight pressed on top of you, did you find the words to speak.

"You're cleaning this up, right?” You motioned with the hand that wasn’t laced with his to the perfectly good medical supplies that now decorated the dining room floor. “Since this was your idea."

That managed to elicit a rare Bruce Wayne smile and instead of answering, he peppered your face with kisses, moving lower down your abdomen. And, well, you weren’t inclined to stop him.

if you liked this please consider donating to my ko-fi! 🤍

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne x reader #battinson #batman #the batman #the batman fic #batman x reader #sweet summer blurbs #tiff writes #everything to me

[mylifeisfruk4ever]

Cass: We call that a traumatic event.

Cass, turning to Dick: Not a "bro moment."

Cass, turning to Jason: Not a "major L.”

Cass, turning to Tim: And not an "oof lmao.”

#batfamily #battinson #the batman fic #dc comcis #tim drake #jason todd #dick greyson #cassandra cain #incorrect quotes #incorrect quotes batfam #funny #red robin #red hood #nightwing

[majahu]

To Die on Your Lips

Chapter 3: Saturn Devouring His Son

Previous Chapter

Battinson x Reader (slow burn)

Chapter Warnings: none

Word Count: 2k

This week’s meeting of potential and current investors was to be held at Wayne Manor, a small part of a campaign by Alfred to help soften Bruce’s image.

Bruce Wayne was known for being a bit of a recluse, and while that may add some mystery and drama to his persona and certainly got the tabloids going, writers grasping for any bit of juicy information they could find, it didn’t do much to help investment opportunities. 

 People wanted to invest in companies, no, people that they trusted. People who made them feel like they could be a part of something bigger; most importantly though, people who made them feel safe. Bruce Wayne did none of these things, appearing annoyed and bored at the least in most board and investment meetings.

Alfred was slowly working on improving Bruce’s image, first with investors, then with the public. He started making sure that Bruce showed up on time to meetings, that he was dressed sharply, no hair hanging in front of his face or sunglasses covering his eyes. You had bet that Bruce had protested to these changes, but you hadn’t been there for that particular exchange.

 You liked to imagine your boss’s interactions with his butler as something akin to a tired parent dealing with an unruly, spoiled toddler.

Your stomach twisted as you drove up the drive toward Wayne Manor, the building standing out harshly against a well maintained, green lawn. Wayne Manor hardly seemed like a home and more like that of an old gothic cathedral, the facade covered in long pointed windows; as you got closer you could swear you saw a gargoyle or two peeking out from the rooftop, though you couldn’t be sure.

 The wrought iron gate creaked open in response to your approach and you couldn’t help but feel embarrassed by your twelve year old used car and how alarmingly it did not fit in with your current surroundings.

 Part of your position at Wayne Enterprises required overseeing board and investment meetings, taking notes, and providing input when necessary, though the case was rare. You eyed your laptop sitting in your passenger seat, thankful that you didn’t forget to bring the device along.

 Parking your car and twisting the key in the ignition, your vehicle rumbled to a stop. The quiet surrounding you did nothing to help your nerves, so you gathered your things in your bag before stepping out into the sunlight.

 Inhaling deeply, you struggled to compose yourself before walking up to the door of Wayne Manor, the building far more imposing than the man himself.

 Just as you were about to bring your hand up to the knocker, the tall wooden front door creaked open to reveal a rather small, white haired woman, ovular wire frames surrounding her light blue eyes.

 “You must be y/n,” she said, stepping aside to allow you to enter the building, “Alfred told me you’d be early.” 

 The inside of Wayne Manor was even more impressive than the exterior, though dreadfully depressing. 

 The many windows allowed in a surprisingly small amount of light, the vaulted ceilings serving to only further extend the shadows. Individual lantern-like lights hung from the ceiling, doing little to add any life to the rooms, the many stone pillars further adding to the cold atmosphere.

 You couldn’t help but shudder, “I feel like I’ve just stepped into a Dracula movie or something,” you said to the woman, half jokingly.

 She smiled kindly, though for a second you wondered if your words could have offended her on account of her seeming to be some house-keeper of sorts, though you doubted she had any say in the interior design of the place. 

 “I didn’t mean it wasn’t nice, I-”

 “No worries, dear. Mr. Wayne asked me to show you to the conference room. It’s just up the stairs and down the hall to the left, you shouldn’t have any trouble but I'll be right behind you just in case.”

 “Thanks…” you paused, forgetting to note if the woman had given you her name.

 The old woman chuckled, “oh, how silly of me, I forgot to introduce myself. My name’s Dory,” she said, taking your hand in hers for a moment.

 You started up the stairs, still taking in your surroundings. Artwork was printed on the ceilings and walls, recreations of famous paintings, some that you recognized, others you didn’t. You shivered at a replica of Goya’s ‘Saturn Devouring his Son’.

 “Jesus Christ, how does somebody live here?” you murmured, making a mental note to tell Alfred that an interior decorator might be useful in his campaign.

 Having the investors over to the Manor may end up doing more harm than good.

  Dory made a disapproving sound behind you, “I meant to take this down,” she said, lifting the painting off of the nail it was fastened to before turning it around to face the wall.

 “I’d better deal with this. Just down the hall and to the left, give me a shout if you get lost,” Dory said, picking up the painting and descending back down the stairs. 

 You continued up the staircase, eyes still scanning your surroundings before you came to a long hall overlooking the floor beneath you, a dark wooden banister preventing anyone from stumbling into the gaping opening. 

 Remembering Dory’s words, you headed down the hall, making a left. Seeing no meeting room, you continued further down the hallway until you came to a door, slightly cracked open, a soft glow of light shining around the corner. 

 Carefully, you opened the door further before peeking your head in. It seemed to be a library or sitting room of some sorts, an ornate rug decorating the floor, wooden bookshelves jutting out from the walls. You certainly doubted that this was the conference room, but you stepped in anyway, admiring the vast collection of literature, some of them undoubtedly first editions worth more than the total of your belongings.

 “Damn, if I had one of these books, I’d be set for life,” you said, fingers trailing across the binding of a copy of Bonaprate’s ‘American Ornithology’.

 “What are you doing here?” A voice from behind gave you a start, you turned.

 “Mr. Wayne,” you said, now facing your boss who was clad in a simple black shirt and joggers, hair hanging loosely in front of his face.

 “I’m uh, here for the meeting,” you said, scratching the back of your head.

 “I meant in this room,” he said, stepping closer to you. 

 “I may have gotten kind of lost,” you smiled, embarrassed at your current predicament, “this place is kind of like a maze…” 

 “You’re on the wrong floor,” Bruce said, reaching a hand out to briefly lie on top of your own. 

 Your face warmed at the contact, embarrassment growing even more when you realized he was reaching for the book you had been previously studying. 

 He turned the volume over in his hand, saying nothing before sliding the book back into its place on the shelf.

 “Come on,” he said, gesturing for you to follow as he exited the room.

 The two of you started back up the stairs, Bruce’s pace not allowing your eyes to wander much around the manor. Instead, you were focused on his hand trailing up the banister, the way his fingers lightly grazed the wood, how his thumb rested against the railing when he stopped for a moment to make sure you were still following behind.

 You wondered briefly how his thumb would feel across your cheek, tracing the bottom of your jawline or across your lower lip… 

 “y/n?” The man in front of you questioned. 

 You hadn’t even noticed you had come to a standstill on the stairs, Bruce now a considerable distance ahead of you.

  Pull yourself together.

 “Sorry,” you said, trying to come up with some semblance of an excuse, “I was just distracted by-” you gestured to the space around you, thinking the man was surely used to visitors being in awe at the design of the manor, if he had visitors at all.

 Bruce lead you down another hall before stopping at the entrance of a wide open room, a long wooden table at the center of it, walls covered in glass overlooking the manor’s freshly mowed lawn.

“You should probably change before the others get here,” you said, grabbing ahold of the edge of your boss’s shirt before thinking better of it. 

 Bruce Wayne stared at you for a moment, mouth slightly parted, an unreadable expression on his face. “Wouldn’t want to give the wrong impression,” you said, voice slightly more quiet than it had been before, noticing the sheer lack of proximity between you and the man before you.

 Bruce let out an annoyed huff before turning from you and walking back down the hall, leaving you to set yourself up in the conference room and wait for the meeting to begin.

 -

 The meeting was boring as usual, but Bruce made a good show of actually looking interested for once, speaking eloquently about the latest business plans and upholding his family’s legacy. Usually standoffish in business settings, this was rare form for your boss; Alfred must’ve given him a pep talk before the meeting.

 Thankful you did not have to participate in the discussion, you spent the hour and a half sipping from a lukewarm mug of coffee, fingers typing furiously at your keyboard.

 Investors, potential and current, streamed out of the room slowly, the majority of them lingering behind to make some semblance of smalltalk with the company’s heir. You sat, watching these interactions, studying your boss who looked as if he wanted to jump out of his skin.

 It must be hard, having such a public persona yet being so introverted. You thought back to your argument with Bruce in Wayne Tower:

  Do you think I chose this?

 He had said to you. If Bruce had never wanted to run Wayne Enterprises, you wondered why he had even kept up with the business. He was certainly rich enough that he didn’t need the income. You had some idea that it may have to do with the legacy he always spoke of, that and the fact that he did seem to get something out of helping the city through the company’s various branches. 

 As the last investor left the conference room, Bruce let out a sigh he seemed to have been holding in for the whole meeting, his shoulders dropping briefly before taking off his suit jacket.

 He loosened his tie slightly before leaving the room, probably to change back into the outfit you had found him in earlier, leaving just you and Alfred behind.

 You wondered if the investors thought it was odd that Bruce’s butler was always involved in business affairs, but then again you had a hunch that the man had been involved even when Thomas Wayne was running things.

 “Did you get a chance to look over the account activity I flagged?” you asked, turning 

your chair toward the butler. 

 “I did,” he said, offering a tight lipped smile, “it was nothing, but thank you for bringing it to my attention.” He said, in a way that suggested that the conversation about strange account activity was over.

 You wanted to ask more questions, a lingering strange feeling surrounding the random pattern of numbers and letters that had been showing up in the books, but you kept your mouth shut. If Alfred wasn’t concerned, then you shouldn’t be either.

 “That took a lot of energy out of him, huh?” you said, head gesturing to the empty doorway your boss had walked through just moments ago. 

 “Master Wayne isn’t quite the social creature that his parents were.”

 “I guess I can’t blame him,” you paused, “I’m sure you did a good job looking after him after…” you trailed off, not wanting to bring up the incident. Still, Alfred knew what you were implying, “but growing up in this house, with no siblings and the constant reminder of what happened… honestly, I’m surprised Mr. Wayne is a functioning adult.” 

 -

 Leaving the manor, you felt as if you were being watched; the drive down the road somewhat similar to running up dark stairs as a child, feeling that something sinister was following close behind. 

 As you drove through the iron gates and out onto the tree lined streets, you shuddered, turning up the radio in attempts to drive out the strange feeling that had come over you.

-

Tag List: @lesyeuxdebritty @rat-theghoul @withbeautyandrage @honey-im-hotdog

#battinson #batman #bruce wayne #the batman 2022 #the batman #robert pattinson #robert pattinson batman #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #edward nashton #paul dano #the riddler #batman fanfiction #the batman fanfiction #paul dano riddler #alfred pennyworth #bruce wayne fanfiction #batman fic #the batman fic #bruce wayne fic #battinson fic #batman imagine #bruce wayne imagine

[vampire-exgirlfriend]

So it's been like a year since I've opened requests and I swore I was never going to do it again, but here we are. With no planets in retrograde, and even though ya girl is exhausted with work and school, she's opening her requests! Feel free to send one or two and I'll do my best to get to them in a timely manner. Currently I'll write for Daemon Targaryen, Aemond Targaryen, Rhaenyra Targaryen, Alicent Hightower, and Helaena Targaryen. Also Eddie Munson, Battinson, Ivar Ragnarsson from Vikings, and Osferth from The Last Kingdom.

You know me, it's all intimacy and violence, so be warned lol

[ WOUND ]: upon noticing a recent injury on the receiver’s person, the sender carefully moves closer, running a thumb (or hand) across the wound in a gentle, troubled manner.

[ INHALE ]: while standing in very close quarters to the receiver, the sender shakily inhales with desire/anticipation as they realize how intimately close they are to one another.

[ DANCE ]: when alone together the sender takes the receiver’s hand, and pulls them into a graceful yet intimate dance as a spontaneous act.

[ BARE ]: as they get undressed, the sender gently places a soft, tender kiss against the receiver’s bare shoulder.

[ SCAR ]: noticing a scar on the receiver’s skin, the sender tentatively stops them from covering it up, and rests a gentle, soft kiss over it.

[ BEHIND ]: upon entering the same room as the receiver, the sender steps behind them, and winds their arms around the receiver’s waist, drawing them close against them.

[ WAIT ]: realizing the receiver is about to leave the room, the sender hastily reaches out and catches their wrist, preventing them from continuing their departure.

[ HUSH ]: while standing close to one another and hiding from pursuers, the sender reaches up and places a finger against the receiver’s lips to prevent them from speaking and revealing their location.

[ 𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐄𝐑 ] sender kisses receiver to taste the lingering flavour of what they ate or drank on their lips

[ 𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐑 ] sender bites receiver hard enough to draw blood

[ 𝐁𝐋𝐈𝐍𝐃 ] sender blindfolds receiver

[ 𝐑𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐓𝐄 ] sender and receiver see each other again after a period of being apart

[ 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐄 ] sender notices something different about receiver ( injury / haircut / tattoo / piercing / etc )

[ 𝐁𝐔𝐑𝐍 ] sender and receive watch as something burns ( candles / a building / a campfire / etc )

[ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐊 ] sender recognises receiver at a masquerade party

I borrowed these prompts from @lunememes and @soulprompts ✨

#house of the dragon fic #aemond targaryen #daemon targaryen #osferth #rhaenyra targaryen #eddie munson #the batman fic #bruce wayne #ivar ragnarsson #vikings fic #alicent hightower #my fic #prompt list

[hollandorks]

middle of the night

battinson!bruce wayne x f!reader

epilogue

summary:  y/n’s life changes immensely, starting with the Batman falling out of the sky right in front of her and ending with a promising new job at Wayne Manor. As her life intertwines with that of both Batman and Bruce Wayne, she begins to figure out that there’s more to both than meets the eye. No spoilers for the Batman movie.

a/n: I apologize for how short this is but--it wasn’t ever really intended to be an actual chapter. It’s merely meant to bridge the gap at the end of the series into the sequel. 

But...this is it. This is the end. I may still have lots more to explore in this world with these particular characters, but this is the end of this particular journey. Thank you so so much to everyone who has been on this wild ride with me--whether you were here from chapter one or before, or if you’ve only recently discovered this fic. 

It has been such an unending joy writing this story and sharing it with everyone. 

I’m so glad you have enjoyed this story with me and loved it as much as I have loved. I have so many other words to say but I’m feeling very emotional already and need to cool it down. Let’s just leave it at thank you, and I love you all. 

This chapter is NSFW. 18+. 

Song to play as the credits roll: Opalite by Martin Luke Brown

(yes I know this gif is Selina and Bruce but shhhh pretend she’s the reader) 

Series Masterlist

word count: 3375

They stayed wrapped together until the middle of the night. It was the best date she’d ever had.

The newspaper headline glared up at y/n as she tugged the piece of cloth over her face. It was the first time in a few weeks that something other than the huge drug bust and takedown of mafia crime boss, Salvatore Maroni, had graced the newspapers. 

BRUCE WAYNE TO WED

She smiled at the words as she tucked the ring safely between her breasts from where it rested on a long chain. 

It had been his mother’s. The second piece of jewelry he had given her. The pearls had been carefully cleaned of her blood and returned to her at the hospital after the gala. 

The ring had been a surprise. It was a simple band with a big diamond. Simple, understated. Just like Bruce. Perfect, like Bruce. 

Her heart squeezed happily as she remembered the moment he had presented it to her. 

He had woken from a nightmare. Kissed her senseless. Told her he loved her with his words and with his touch. Let his tears coat her skin as they moved together in the dark. It happened like that, sometimes, one of them waking in fear and needing touch in order to be reassured. 

She had made breakfast while he showered. Brought it into the bedroom–their bedroom now, no use in pretending they weren’t sleeping together. He had been in a pair of sweatpants and nothing else, water dripping from his hair, when he went to the dresser and turned around and got on one knee. 

“I wanted to do this–better,” he had said. Stuttered adorably as he continued, “I–I’m no good with saying how I feel. So all I’m going to say is that I love you and want to spend my life with you. Will you marry me?” 

She had said the words “Are you serious?” about six times before he gently reminded her that he’d asked a question. 

The answer had been yes. 

That had been a couple of months ago. She wasn’t really sure how the news had gotten wind of their engagement, but she didn’t really care. She strongly suspected that Alfred had told them. He’d beamed like a proud father and immediately gone for their most expensive bottle of champagne. Had cried when she’d asked if he’d walk her down the aisle and again when Bruce asked him to be the best man. 

Now, the ring was nestled safely near her heart while she got into the Batmobile and put the key in the ignition. 

Y/n sighed happily as it roared to life. 

“Please don’t tell me that’s what I think it is,” Bruce said in her ear. He’d promised to keep her in the loop when he went out as Batman. Just in case. 

And she sometimes came to help him. Like she was currently doing as she sped down the tunnel and out into the streets of Gotham. They had an agreement now–he trained her whenever he had time, brought her in when he needed help on cases, and had even gotten her a bulletproof vest to wear. He’d made her promise to stay disguised at all times, and even was in the process of making her a cowl of her own. That was bulletproof, too, like his, but had no bat ears. She’d also had a condition of her own–no capes. 

“Well, you’re getting your ass kicked. I’m not going to let you die before I get your last name.” As soon as she’d gotten home, she’d checked the screens and seen how surrounded he was. He was holding his own, but a little help wouldn’t hurt. 

He huffed out a laugh. “You’re impossible.” 

But he didn’t get angry, not like he used to. They’d worked together for months. She’d gotten much better at fighting. Had learned which of his weapons she liked best. Had learned she had a deep, deep love of the Batmobile while he seemed to prefer the ease of the motorcycle. Her disguise had started simple, just a hood pinned to her hair and a cloth covering the lower half of her face. Sometimes, when she wanted to be funny, she stole Bruce’s eye makeup and wore that, too. It always earned her a smile or a rolling of his eyes. 

The arrest of the mayor and the fifteen other men had created a power vacuum. All sorts of terrible criminals started appearing and making grabs for power and territory. Drops were worse than ever, despite that big drug bust. It had been a taxing six months for Gotham and for Batman, too.

Plus, the trial was set to start by the end of the year. She would be Mrs. Wayne by then. It loomed over her like a dark cloud most days. 

Minutes later, she clipped the first guy with the Batmobile as she came tearing around the corner. They were close to the Iceberg Lounge. She hadn’t ever been back, though she did see Lena and her son as frequently as she was able. She hired some of the girls part-time when she was able at her pride and joy, a restaurant she had teasingly named the Gotham Project after Bruce’s journals. It was an amalgamation of the things she loved: cooking, and helping Gotham. She also hired newly released (and carefully vetted by Wayne Enterprises finest private investigators) convicts as waiters, chefs, and hosts. People paid to come eat, or they paid it forward for someone less fortunate to enjoy a good meal. She provided supplies for the needy, too, helped by generous donations, including a very generous one from her fiance. 

Y/n leapt out of the Batmobile and hit one man in the thigh with a bolt from the crossbow. Hit the next in the face with a gloved fist. They were all wearing clown masks. 

“What the fuck?” she muttered as she took in the sight. 

“Took you long enough,” Bruce said as he appeared next to her. He blocked a blow from hitting her in the face. She shot another bolt from the crossbow over his shoulder. She still wasn’t great with the weapon, but damn did she like how cool it made her feel. And Bruce had remained insistent: if she was going to help him, she couldn’t use a gun anymore. She had learned to pick her battles with him. 

“Sorry, someone forgot to tell me they were going to get beat up by a gang of clowns tonight.” 

One of said clowns landed a punch to her kidney. Her breath left her in a huff. 

Bruce had already knocked him unconscious by the time she straightened. 

“Look out!” she said as another clown came at him with a knife. Her memory flashed to another night, another knife, blood on her hands and in the seat of the Batmobile. With a shout, she smashed the butt of the crossbow into the mask. 

The man…laughed. 

Bruce leaned over him. Grabbed him by the shirt and held him up. Ripped off the mask. Underneath, he was a normal guy. Forgettable, even. 

He smiled at them. “Boss said to tell you hi,” the guy said. 

He had something in his other hand. He lifted it. 

Y/n didn’t let him get any farther than that. She hit him in the face again and he went limp. 

A playing card fluttered to the ground. 

Bruce carefully picked it up. Flipped it over.

“A joker,” he said, showing it to her. 

She shrugged. Pointed to the men scattered around them. “Gang of clowns, joker card….really went all out on the branding. Sounds like someone else I know.” Bruce stared at her in a way that suggested he was raising an eyebrow beneath the bat cowl. She started ticking things off on her fingers, “Batman, Batmobile, bat cave, bat knife. Bat blade? Batarang.” 

He rolled his eyes. “Let’s go.” Home was the unspoken word. They were always careful what they said around each other, just in case. They didn’t want either of them to be tied to Bruce Wayne, to Wayne Manor. To each other. To Alfred. 

They took different routes home, too, always careful. 

Bruce had beaten her back. Was already scribbling fiercely in a journal, the joker card tucked between the pages. 

She yanked her hood and vest off and tossed the Batmobile keys on the table next to him. Started taking off the armor around him while he wrote. He lifted one arm, then the other, letting her work around him without interruption. 

She had read most of the journals. It had taken him a while to let her. Well, she’d actually started reading them one night while he was out. They’d fought about it when he’d caught her, and she’d come to understand how…important it was for his process. He needed to shed the skin of Batman each time he came back, and writing out his thoughts helped. It was how he figured stuff out. 

If he didn’t want her to read something, or wanted her to wait while he processed it for a bit longer, he told her. She respected it. Understood that some things were harder for him than others. Never pushed, never snooped. 

He had never written about the gala, despite her urging him to. 

Some nights were harder than others. Sometimes he would wake her in the night with his shouts. Sometimes her nightmares woke him instead. Sometimes touching wasn’t enough. Sometimes when she woke, he was gone from the bed. She always found him downstairs working those nights. Sometimes he found her in the kitchen inventing new recipes to try at the GP. 

When she finally had him out of his armor, she lightly kissed the space between his shoulder blades. There was a bruise on one side. She kissed beside it. She could tell by how his stance relaxed that he was getting to the end of his writing. 

“You’re distracting me,” Bruce murmured. She could hear the smile in his voice. She wrapped her arms around his waist. 

“Sorry,” she said as she held him close. Stayed still while he finished writing. 

“Why clowns?” she asked after he had shut the journal. He tried to turn around but she wouldn’t release him from her arms. He twisted so she was still holding him but he was facing her. 

“I…think it might have to do with that asshole I locked up. The one with the scars.” 

She frowned, remembering a journal entry from before they’d met. “That’s…not good. He’s in Arkham right?” 

Bruce hummed. She could almost hear the gears turning in his brain as he teased it all out. 

She kissed his chest. Raised up on her toes to reach the base of his neck. Slid her hands up his ribcage. 

He groaned. “You’re really distracting me,” he said again, blue eyes blazing with desire already. He was growing hard against her. 

“That’s the point,” she said, and kissed his lips. “Work is over for tonight.” She kissed him again. Traced his lower lip with her tongue.

His hands grabbed at her ass and lifted her so he was carrying her. She wrapped both legs around his waist. She clenched her thighs and was rewarded with a moan against her lips. His fingers tightened. He walked her to the elevator. Held her against him with one hand and fumbled for the button to take them upstairs with the other. 

She would never grow tired of this. Of him. Of how strong and capable he was as he held her. 

He pressed her against the wall of the elevator and kissed her hungrily. Lightly massaged one of her breasts over her shirt until she gasped. 

The elevator doors slid open. He carried her up the stairs easily. He wasn’t even breathing hard. At least, not from carrying her. She wrapped her legs more tightly around him and wiggled her hips. That earned her a gasp of breath. 

In a flash, he had her pressed against the wall of the hallway right outside their bedroom. 

He lightly bit the soft flesh of her neck and then kissed the hurt away. Her head thunked back against the wall as his lips moved against her clavicle and then back up her neck. He kissed the base of her ear. She shivered. 

“Bed,” she gasped. Tightened her legs again unconsciously. “Now.” 

“So bossy,” he said against her lips, but did as she told him. He set her down. She tried to pull him close for a kiss, but he turned her around. Pushed her so she was bending over the bed. 

Her stomach flipped in anticipation. 

He tugged at her pants with one hand and his own with the other. She loved when he was like this–bossy and insatiable and purposeful in his movements. She loved when Batman came out to play, as she’d once teasingly put it. 

Bruce moaned her name as he entered her. He felt every curve of her with his calloused hands. Kissed her shoulder blade in the same spot she had kissed him only minutes before. Her hands fisted in the blankets as he moved. She said his name once, twice. Bit her lip so hard she tasted blood. One of his hands flatted against her sternum and pulled her up against him. He traced the chain of the necklace her ring was on. He kissed the top of her shoulder. Her back arched. His free hand slid down her abdomen and teased her clit. 

God, she would never get enough of him. 

“I love you,” he said in her ear, and it was enough to make her come. 

He came a moment later with her name on his lips. 

“Oh,” she said as she twisted to lay on her back on the bed. Her breath heaved out of her. 

Bruce stared down at her for a long moment. His eyes sought out the ring where it rested against one bare breast. He leaned down abruptly and kissed her again. 

“I love you,” they said at the exact same time when he pulled away. They shared a smile. 

She stood and led him by the hand to the shower. Gently removed the makeup from his eyes while the water heated. 

As they both hurriedly washed, Bruce said, “I think we need to let Gordon in on this.” 

She sighed. “I told you work was done for the night.” 

He shot her a look. “I have a bad feeling,” was all he said. But he was right. First the ex-mayor and all of that shit they’d been through, now Maroni and the Drops business, now the man already behind bars in Arkham. Something bad was brewing in Gotham. 

She nodded. “Okay. Let’s see if he’s awake.” 

It was long past the middle of the night. They had spent the darkest hours of the night together, like they did most nights. 

Gordon was awake. He agreed to meet them at the signal tower. 

“I’m driving,” y/n said as she practically skipped to the elevator. Her entire body was pleasantly warm. Bruce tried to steal the keys from her and sighed when she darted away. She was in the driver’s seat of the Batmobile before he could get in another protest.  

It had been a while since she’d seen Gordon. They had talked on the phone a few times to prepare for the upcoming trial. Mostly the Wayne lawyer talked to her and then to him, separately. And even with the crime rates trying to rise in the wake of the arrests made after the gala, they hadn’t had much reason to bring Gordon in on anything. 

Until now. 

“Are you two partners now?” Gordon asked with raised eyebrows when they emerged from the elevator together. 

“Something like that,” y/n said. She had to be very, very careful not to touch Bruce or look at him too lovingly while near Gordon. He was a detective, after all, and he knew that she was in love with Bruce Wayne. If they weren’t careful, it wouldn’t be hard for him to fit the pieces together that she was in love with Batman, too. 

She hoped her face didn’t show what they’d just done in their bedroom. 

“Congratulations on the engagement, by the way,” Gordon said with a flash of a smile. He glanced at Bruce. “Looks like you were too slow, buddy.” 

Y/n couldn’t help it. She snorted. 

“We’re just friends, detective,” Bruce said. She could hear the amusement in his voice. 

“Lieutenant,” y/n corrected him. “Gordon got a big, fat promotion for all of the work he did to root out the corruption in Gotham.” 

Gordon looked…embarrassed. “Yeah, well, I still have lots of work to do, alright? What did you need me for?” 

“Came across a bunch of guys in clown masks,” Bruce said. He tugged something from his belt and passed it to Gordon. “Gave us a joker card.” Gordon’s eyes flashed. He had seen firsthand what the psycho in Arkham was capable of. It was one of the first big cases he and Bruce had worked together, apparently. “This, on top of Maroni and the rest of it…Something’s happening. Thought you should know to keep an eye out.”  

“Thanks,” Gordon said. “I’ll look into it and let you know what I find.” 

“Keep your eye out for a wedding invitation,” y/n said with a smile as Gordon got on the elevator. He gave her a startled look before the elevator doors closed and he disappeared from view. 

Bruce tugged her closer. “Gordon’s invited to our wedding, huh?” 

She smiled. She finally gave in and kissed him, now that Gordon was gone. “Of course he is. It’s a very exclusive event, so only our closest friends get to come. Speaking of, how many strippers can I invite?” 

Bruce laughed. She held the sound close to her heart. Bathed in his joy. She had never loved anything as fiercely as she had loved him. As she loved all of him. 

“I thought it was just Lena?” he asked skeptically. 

“Well, a few others from the Iceberg Lounge wanted to come too, I guess. Not because you’re famous, I might add. Mostly because they’re my friends.” 

Bruce sighed. Kissed her temple. “Invite as many strippers as you want.” Most of them were strippers, dancing in the Iceberg Lounge for the guests, still. But things had gotten better, they’d told her. The owner of the club, a man named Carmine Falcone with mob ties, had become much more involved since she’d left. The beatings had stopped, debts had been lowered, and things had generally improved. Lena had been quick to tell her that while the working conditions were better, the patrons were just as bad as always. They’d agreed that they couldn’t win everything. 

Y/n smiled and hummed thoughtfully. After a moment, a thought struck her. “I wish my mom could come,” she said around a sudden lump in her throat. 

“Me too,” he murmured. “And my parents. My parents would love you.” 

“My mom would have figured out faster than me that you were Batman,” y/n said. Bruce laughed again.  She let him pull her close against his side. “Have you seen the paper, by the way?” 

Bruce stilled. “No, why?” 

“Bruce Wayne’s engagement is public now,” she said. “That’s how Gordon knew, I expect.” 

Bruce was quiet for a long moment. “I just assumed you’d told him,” he finally said. “How’d the press get wind of it?” There was a certain tightness to his voice that she didn’t miss. 

She knew he hated putting her in the spotlight–hated either of them being in the spotlight–but she couldn’t help the little thrill she got thinking of the announcement being splashed across Gotham. He was hers, and now everyone knew it. 

“Oh, I have a feeling it was a certain meddlesome old man who told them.” 

They both laughed. Bruce tucked her closer and brushed his lips across her forehead. “I can’t wait to make you Mrs. Wayne,” he murmured. Her heart leapt. She couldn’t wait to be Mrs. Wayne, either. 

Hand in hand, they watched the sun rise slowly over Gotham. 

The night was over.

A new day had begun.

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#bruce wayne x reader #the batman x reader #batman x reader #battinson x reader #bruce wayne imagine #the batman imagine #batman imagine #battinson imagine #bruce wayne fic #the batman fic #batman fic #battinson fic #the batman #the batman 2022 #battinson #bruce wayne #robert pattinson #motn #middle of the night #I'm not crying you're crying #no wait I am crying #a lot of crying #if you're reading this I love you

[preciouslandmermaid]

like dead-eyed sharks, Gotham watches (battinson x f!reader)

Note: This takes place pre-movie and you can find the rest of this series. (Part 1 here) (part 2 here)

Safety notes/Warnings: The Kinktober prompt was "blood kink/i just wanna see a man all beaten up and bloody" I have never written for that before and honestly...i think this fic got like away from me tbh. so im sorry if this isn't want u wanted lmao

Additional notes: No use of Y/N. established childhood friends with Bruce. confessions. secret identity revealed. canon-violence. cursing/explicit language. explicit consent during sexual content. smut. no physical descriptors are used for the reader. (and yes, dr. crane is absolutely cillian murphy/nolanverse dr. crane sue me)

prompt: blood kink pairing: battison/f!reader | warnings: explicit sexual content/above notes. bonus: on ao3, i split it into two chapters for ease of reading. the first half is plot, the second half is smut. ;) enjoy.

( read on ao3 ) || kinktober list

You lean on the railing of your small balcony and watch the streaks of red and white lights below. The cool night air kisses your skin and tousles your clothes. Gotham’s air has a burning singe to it too malicious to be reminiscent of a campfire. It’s more akin to a cigarette lit by the gas stove combined with cheap perfume. You toy with the invitation between your fingers. The swooping, gilded text is embossed across the creamy card stock and you rub your fingers over a specific sentence: This invitation a courtesy by Johnathan Crane, M.D.

Arkham hospital is having a charity auction.It’s an opportunity. One you maybe wouldn’t have gotten while working at the paper. But what’s the catch? What purpose would Crane have to invite you?You replay your short interview with the enigmatic, intelligent doctor. The man has secrets but who in Gotham doesn’t? This charity provides an opportunity to snoop around Arkham and talk to Dr. Mercer’s co-workers who refused to meet with you earlier. Below, several cars beep at the same time and it creates a strange, dissonant melody. Youcan’t pass this up.

You wonder if Bruce will front you some cash. It’ll be easier to blend in if you can pretend to try and buy a piece of artwork or maybe a little stone statue to use as a door stopper. You chuckle to yourself at the idea and brush the idea aside. You won’t use Bruce’s money to spend on frivolous artwork and sculptures that you cannot possibly fit inside your one bedroom apartment. That settles it. You have to attend. The soft pitter patter of fresh rainfall tings against the high rise windows, railings, and roofs. From high above, Gotham is shiny chrome and long dark shadows.

You wonder if Vengeance is in those shadows tonight.

You haven’t seen Batman since your failed chemistry experiment. Your lower stomach clenches at the memory and you willfully push the lustful thoughts aside. You and Vengeance have little reason to see each other right now. It’s been nothing but dead ends since Falcone avoided arrest. According to Gordon, the evidence locker was recently flooded due to a pipe burst and the analysis of your blood samples—containing whatever Falcone did to you—were destroyed.

So, you’ve been busy working on re-writing your Arkham article under Bruce’s employ. Your time as a vigilante journalist has dwindled. Yes, there are other stories in Gotham that need your attention, but none are as urgent as reviving the Arkham story. Plus your instincts keep telling you that it’s connected: Falcone. Dr. Mercer’s death. Arkham. The mysterious drugs.

There’s a thread here. You just have to find the right one to pull.

You flick your thumb against the card’s corner. You should tell him. Batman needs to know about this. If you want your plan to snoop around Arkham to succeed—you’re going to need Batman’s gadgets. You bend down, the wind and rainwater tickling the delicate skin at your temples, and click on the multi-colored lights that frame the balcony window. Your own secret call to the Bat.

You return inside, leave the sliding door unlocked and wait.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Bruce gets a call from Alfred while driving down fourth street. His voice crackles warmly over the headphone inside Bruce’s ear, “she’s got her lights on.” Alfred knows to periodically check the security cameras they installed across the street of your apartment and Bruce is grateful for his vigilance.

He pivots his motorcycle and takes a sharp turn through an alleyway as a shortcut. Someone on the sidewalk shouts profanities at him.

The rainwater ricochets off his helmet and spins like a hyped-up Ferris wheel around the tires. He’s seen you a handful of times for coffee dates or short walks in the park. Never lingering. Never doing more than kissing you. No matter how badly he wants to. It’s stupid. He’s fucked you twice as Batman, felt your walls quiver around his fingers and cock, listened to your sweet cries and watched your pretty eyes roll back into your skull. And yet...

It’s Batman who you call for in the middle of the night. He suspects that Bruce—in your mind—is at home, maybe asleep, maybe pacing his study, maybe watching some black-and-white foreign film. He wishes he could invite you over, sleep next to you, show you how he feels about youwith slow kisses buried between your thighs, but he can’t. The night is for him. For Vengeance. Gotham never sleeps so why should he? He needs to be awake and on the prowl. He needs to be ready for anything and that includes answering your silent and iridescent call.

He stows his motorcycle in the usual safe spot within the alleyway and uses his grappling hook to ascend to your floor without entering the building. His heart pounds as it always does when you’re in close proximity. Like his heart is trying to escape his chest and offer itself to you.

He sucks in a breath before sliding open the door. One of your downstairs neighbors is boiling cabbage, there’s a pair of wet socks on your radiator, and a candle on your coffee table flickers with the influx of air from the balcony door. The sight and smells of your apartment are achingly familiar. He prefers it—this tiny, homey space—compared to his large and extravagant penthouse. But then again, he prefers anywhere where you are.

He wishes he could remove his cowl and lay his head in your lap, but he folds his arms across his chest and says, “what did you find?”

“Take a look.” You toss a card onto the coffee table and the laptop illuminates your face in a blue-white glow. “I’m rubbing elbows with the right people it seems.”

“Crane?” He mutters to himself while examining the fancy, expensive card stock. A charity at Arkham. It’s strange that they’re hosting at the hospital instead of a fancy hotel. He makes a mental note to check the guest list.

“Several of Dr. Mercer’s co-workers talked to me before Mercer died. And now they won’t talk to me. That means someone or all of them are dirty and in someone’s pocket.” You explain and your eyes are lit furiously from within, “I hoped I could use Dr. Crane to reach the other employees of Arkham and this is my chance.”

“Do you think Falcone is involved?”

You shrug, “if not him then it’s another one of Gotham’s criminals.”

Bruce considers this information. It’s a decent lead. You aren’t looking at him. Your eyes are glued to the computer screen as your fingers move across the keyboard in quick, precise strokes. He could watch you for hours but those are hours he doesn’t have. Gotham needs him. As much as he wants to linger in your presence and kiss you—those are luxuries he cannot afford despite his generational wealth. He sets the invitation back onto the table.

“What’s your plan?” He asks.

“It’s simple. I go to the charity, talk to anyone that I think is involved, then we meet up during the auction itself.” Your eyes flick up and down, but he gets the distinct sensation that you’re not sizing him up in a flirtatious manner. Your expression, your tone, and body language is cool and professional. It reminds him of the early days working together...before he kissed you and pressed you against the windows of the Wayne penthouse.

“I assume you’ve got a way to enter Arkham without being noticed.” You return your attention to the screen, “we can snoop through their offices.”

“They’re likely to increase security during the event.”

You wave a hand, “that’s why I’m telling you now. It gives us time to prepare.”

He clenches his jaw. You are an unstoppable force when a story is involved. Your safety might not matter to yourself, but it matters to him. He can do this alone. He can visit Arkham while the charity takes place and discover whatever Crane or Dr. Mercer’s associates are up to. You don’t need to put yourself at risk. Even the small risk of arrest makes his heart squeeze painfully inside his chest. He can’t protect Gotham and you at the same time.

He says, “I’ll go alone.”

“And do what?” Your nostrils flare, “punch some confessions out of doctors? No way, Batboy. I’m not letting you try and take this one from me. This is my story.”

“All you need is evidence.” He counters, “I can get that for you.” You stand from the couch and place your hands on your hips. You’re shorter but you glare up at him with the heat and intensity of a car lit by a Molotov cocktail. He holds your gaze and cherishes the burn he feels prickle across his skin.

“I need firsthand accounts.” You say, your voice firm and unyielding, “you could rifle through their paperwork and take pictures of every record available and it would take us months to find what we’re looking for. And who knows! Maybe Arkham will smarten up and wipe everything clean before I have the chance to publish.”

“You think people will talk to you at the auction?”

He watches your chest rise a little with your inhale. The way your eyelashes flutter close. You always closed your eyes before saying ‘yes’ to him. He wonders if you ever notice this little tell of yours—if it ever registers that the boy you scraped knees with and the man standing before you in black armor are the same.

“Yes,” You reply while opening your eyes, “I do.”

“Fine.” He bites out. Arguing with you is akin to arguing with a brick wall. “But, I’m not sending you in there without protection.” He won’t let what happened with you and Falcone happen ever again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You toy with the little black bracelet on your wrist. A gift from Vengeance. It’s simple and straightforward. All it takes is one little press of a button near your wristbone and it releases an electric shock more painful and debilitating than your average taser. He explained that he wanted you to have something in case anyone got ‘too close’. Honestly, you hope you don’t have to use it.

Arkham’s charity event is being held in the new wing of the hospital. There are currently no patients, but it’s the perfect location for the chairmen and board members to show off the latest technology, the new rooms, and convince Gotham’s rich and powerful to make donations.

You let out a small breath of relief as you take in the freshly painted walls and large windows covered by thin, latticed metal. At least it’s spacious.Some of the other wings within Arkham State Hospital tended to trigger your claustrophobia. The murmurs of conversation float through the circular room above the music of stringed instruments by the door. The windows within the high ceilings look down at you like large black eyes as they reflect Gotham’s dark skies.You think, they should’ve made this a daytime event. It would’ve been more remarkable.

The pamphlet in your left hand boasts about the ‘benefits of natural light while providing safety, comfort and security for our patients’. In other words—Arkham has patients that can’t go outside due to the security risk and this newly built wing is their solution.

The two other exits lead into hallways but those doors are closed and guarded by security. A sign is posted nearby that reads: For Private Tours – Inquire with Director Susan S.

“I was wondering if you received my invite,” a smooth voice says from your right side. You turn to see Dr. Crane wearing a tuxedo, his brown hair slicked away from his angular face and shining beneath the warm florescent light bulbs.

“Did your secretary not pass along my RSVP?”

“She didn’t,” His sharp blue eyes drop to your shoes and then rise to your face, his look appraising and yet distant, “but she’s new and you look gorgeous so I’ll let it go.” Dr. Crane offers you his elbow and you politely take it, sliding your hand into the crook of his arm and allowing him to lead you through the swarm of well-dressed and perfumed bodies.

Youdon’t know how Bruce stomached these events. His parents were socialites and humanitarians who believed in a brighter future for Gotham.Youwonder what they’d say about Arkham's recent addition.

Crane passes you a flute of champagne and you use the opportunity to ask him how he’s settling into Arkham. His lips tug into a smile that feels secretive. He bows his head toward you and his breath ghosts along your cheek and neck.

“Some of my co-workers dislike me,” says Crane, “but I don’t take it personally. Every place has their hazing routines, their cliques, and established loyalties.”

You notice the discreet looks being tossed your way. Bored, inquisitive, jealous, and others are outright scandalized. You suspect that someone’s told Crane who you actually are by now which means he invited you for a reason. Time to find a thread to pull, you think.

You ask, “did you invite me as your plus one to disrupt those routines and loyalties?”

His eyes glimmer, “I did.”

“I’m honored.” You press the rim of your champagne glass to your lips, then lower it, watching Crane’s gaze as they follow your every movement. “Why me, though?”

“I see myself in you,” Crane guides you to the middle of the room where some of the guests are dancing in slow waltzes and whispering business deals to each other. The dark sky of Gotham—light pollution never allows for twinkling stars—peers down at you like the eyes of a shark. You can guess where this is going. The music and conversation provides enough white noise to muffle your conversation as long as you and Crane continue to whisper. You set your champagne glass on a nearby tray.

Crane gently takes your hand and your black bracelet slides on your wrist. “I’ve done my homework after our first meeting.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t do research prior to our first meeting.” You chastise as one of your hands settle on his slim shoulder, “I gave your secretary my real name.”

“A mistake I intend to never repeat.” He leads the dance. It’s a simple box step that doesn’t require much effort nor skill, “thank you for that lesson.”

You smile. “The first one is free.”

His hand slides to your lower back as he nudges you closer, “you really are determined to uncover Arkham’s secrets, aren’t you?” He whispers into the shell of your ear. You glance around the room, ensuring no one is watching—and if they are—well, all they’ll see is Dr. Crane getting close to an attractive woman. He’s good at this. Something in your gut urges you to be careful and play it safe.

“I’m here for the auction, Crane.”

“You’re here for more than that.”

You avoid his keen perception and change tactics.

“You said I remind you of yourself. That’s a bold statement considering we’ve spoken once.” You narrow your eyes over his shoulder at a familiar face. A part-time nurse named Jessica who refused to speak to you after Dr. Mercer’s death. The color of her dress washes out her complexion and the necklace around her throat sparkles like freshly fallen snow. Crane pivots and you lose sight of her.

“I’m a good judge of character,” he replies without missing a step. “In fact, you and Dr. Jacobs...”

Dr. Jacobs. He was on your list as one of Dr. Mercer’s associates, but you never had the chance to interview him. In fact, you planned on following up with Dr. Jacobs after Mercer’s death, but the man wouldn’t return any of your calls. You chalked it up to grief. But now...

Crane continues, “you both have an inner fire that cannot be understated.” He slows his step and tilts his head back to meet your eyes—steady and true. Dr. Crane looks at you as if he’s gazing into a house fire. You swallow.

“They called you ‘quicksilver’ didn’t they? At the Gotham Gazette?” You sense his questions are rhetorical. “I found that fascinating. They named you after a chemical element, a Roman God, because you--” he says your name “—are a force to be reckoned with.”

He leans in, speaking low, “and I pity anyone who underestimates you.”

You comb through his compliments, his lingering looks, and piece together your response. His hand on your lower back threatens to burn through the fabric of your clothing. What will Crane gain by helping you? Does he know that Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer knew each other? And if he’s not helping then he’s...merely pointing out that he sees your ambitious nature...and signaling that he’s the same.

You reply, “maybe I’ll talk to Dr. Jacobs tonight and find out if we’re as similar as you say.”

“I’m afraid he’s not here.” Dr. Crane sighs, “I believe he mentioned a family obligation conflicted with this event.”

Good. His office will be clear to search.

“That’s too bad.”

Dr. Crane smirks lightly, “indeed.” He leads you to the edge of the circle, “I believe I’ve monopolized enough of your time tonight.” He took your co-joined hands and pressed a polite, chaste kiss against your knuckles. Your gaze darts away from him. “I need to speak with a few of my colleagues.”

Finally! The sooner you can snoop the sooner you can leave Arkham.

“Of course,” You step aside and try to not let your eagerness show on your face, “I should go to the ladies room before the bidding begins.”

“I’ll save you a seat.” Dr. Crane says.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Arkham’s security is not without its flaws. He and Alfred decided it would be more useful and less disruptive to hack into the system and program the cameras to play a loop of footage rather than try and disable the system from the outside. Thankfully, you needed access to the doctor’s offices which were far less patrolled and monitored than the area where Arkham housed its full-time patients.

An alert pings on his device. That’s his cue. He cuts through the skylight with a thin, blue laser. Then, using a handle with a glass-safe suction cup, he pulls the glass free and carefully sets it aside. Ideally, he’ll return through this skylight once the job is done.

He stands from his crouched position by the window and tests the tension in his repel line.It feels good, secure. He drops into Arkham State Hospital with a faint ‘zzzziiippp’ sound and lands behind you.

“You made it.” You whisper, relieved.

“Worried I wouldn’t?”

“More worried someone would catch me wandering the halls.” You smile a little and his heart squeezes, “I can only use the ‘I’m drunk’ excuse so many times before it gets suspicious.”

“We’ll be quick.” He checks the time, “Alfred said the camera feed will give us an hour, but we should plan for less.”

You set off toward the offices while holding up the flashlight on your phone, “we need to check out Dr. Jacobs’ office.”

The wood-paneled hallways are dimly lit and the only light source is the exit signs glowing red above doorways. The thin dark green carpet helps to muffle your footsteps. He takes a moment to appreciate you walking in front of him. He loves how efficient you are, how fearless, even when it threatens to give him a heart attack. And your ass looks incredible.

You stop in front of the metal double doors. A key card reader glows a muted yellow on the wall.

“Okay, your turn.”

“Why Dr. Jacobs?” He asks while approaching the key reader. He inserts a featureless key card into the slot. It’s attached to a device in his hand by a wide and thin wire and several numbers rapidly scan across the screen and illuminate his jaw in a greenish glow.

“Crane mentioned him.” Your rub your hands over your upper arms, “he said that Dr. Jacobs and I are similar because we’re ambitious. I don’t know. Crane doesn’t strike me as the type of person to say something without it meaning anything. He’s too smart for that.”

Bruce ignores the twinge of jealousy in his stomach. You aren’t interested in Crane. He knows that. You’re using Crane. But it still feels strange to hear you mention another man with a hint of admiration in your tone. He clenches his jaw. Crane isn’t that smart.

Bruce doesn’t look up from the device. “And you think he’s involved in Mercer’s death?”

“Mercer and Jacobs worked together and I never had the chance to interview him before Mercer died.” You lean in to watch the gadget in his palms, “I figured we would search the most likely suspects instead of digging through everyone’s desk.”

You continue, “we start with Jacobs, then Crane, and lastly Haywood.”

He mentally reflects on your files and notes. He should have known that you wouldn’t remove Crane from your list of suspects. Just because Crane wasn’t at Arkham at the same time as Mercer didn’t mean he was off the hook. You regarded everyone at Arkham with a low-level of suspicion. It didn’t matter if they were a groundskeeper, security, or head of the boardroom. Falcone’s payroll is the greatest mystery and it served to err on the side of caution when dealing with a dangerous criminal.

“Jessica Haywood?”

“Mhm.” The device beeps, the light turns green, and the doors click unlocked. “The jewelry she’s wearing tonight is well above the pay grade of a Per Diem nurse.”

Bruce unhooks the device from the reader and opens the door for you. You slip past him and for a brief second—the air lingers with your scent. His eyelashes flutter. It’s getting harder and harder to be this close. He pushes the thoughts from his mind and follow you into the personal offices of the doctors.

He says, “if Haywood is a part-time nurse, then she won’t have an office.”

“We’ll check HR for pay stubs and the nurse’s station log to see which floors and patients she’s worked with.”

Bruce grunts.

“You’ve thought of everything haven’t you?”

Your smile threatens to topple the walls inside his heart and drag his loyalty Gotham into the ocean.

“Mostly.”

Dr. Jacob’s office smells like cigarettes. Together you meticulously comb through his files, check under seat cushions, and search for false walls. Bruce plugs a USB into the ancient computer desktop. In ten minutes, he’s obtained the contents of Dr. Jacobs hard-drive and sent it to Alfred for decryption.

On the way to Crane’s office, he asks, “are you still going to re-interview Mercer’s patients?”

“Assuming my relationship to Crane allows me access then yes.”

His heart ignites, burning hot inside his chest, and he exhales sharp through his nostrils.What happened tonight between you and him?He clears his throat and says, “relationship?”

You laugh quietly. “Professional relationship, Batman. Like us.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You realize how silly your words are the second they leave your mouth. Batman stops short and pins his steely blue gaze on you. You shouldn’t have compared you and Crane to you and Batman. They are completely different. Your relationship to Batman almost borders on friendship. Or maybe it’s more like...co-workers who never dated, but did hook up and now have underlying sexual tension.

“Okay, not like that.” You lift your hands, “I’m not out fighting crime with Dr. Crane.”

Some of the tension in Batman’s jaw lessens. “We don’t fight crime together.”

“Well, that’s because you haven’t taught me to fight.” You wiggle your bracelet wrist, “and honestly you’ve been overprotective lately.”

“You’re a civilian.” He counters gruffly.

“So are you.” You lean your shoulder against the wall as Batman crouches at Crane’s door to pick the lock. “Unless you’ve recently been hired by the PD?”

Batman looks up at you and all that dark makeup around his light blue eyes highlights their color and depth. Your skin prickles, hot and sharp and painfully—painfully aware of what those eyes look like during the throes of desperate and sweaty sex. You want to kick yourself. You’re loyal to Bruce, you want to be with Bruce, but that doesn’t erase the attraction you feel towards Vengeance. His eyes drop back to the doorknob and he leaves your question unanswered.

Dr. Crane’s office doesn’t smell like anything which is a relief to your nostrils after the toxic and cloying scent of stale cigarettes in Dr. Jacobs. There isn’t a desktop in Crane’s office which leads you to assume that he takes his laptop home with him. You start with the filing cabinet that Crane glanced at during your interview with him. Batman searches his desk. And you work in comfortable silence. The anticipation gnaws at your stomach.

Come on, Crane.You need something tangible so you can start putting pressure on the doctors and nurses who are involved. Yourfirst article proved that the corruption within Arkham travels all the way to the administration. Mercer said they were powerful which means other doctors are involved. They have to be. So what did Jacobs do? Why did Crane mention him?

You step from the filing cabinet and pace the small office with your arms crossed.

“Dr. Mercer was afraid. He didn’t want to keep giving the police drugs and administration told him to stay quiet. His patients spoke highly of him. His co-workers liked him. Mercer dislike how the administration ran things.” You repeat the story to yourself in the hopes that you’ll find the piece you missed.

“Then, he dies two weeks after I present my article and the Gazette fires me. That’s not a coincidence.”

Batman opens one of the filing cabinet drawers. You let him continue his work as you talk yourself through the file details. There were plenty of co-workers of Dr. Mercer that have issues with Arkham but they were typical standard labor complaints—not enough holiday time, staffing issues, or personality clashes with other doctors. Who else could you talk to?

“I can try Jessica. She stopped talking to me after his death, but I know she idolized Dr. Mercer. Maybe I can appeal to her. Find the humanity.” You pause and press your fist against your lips.

There’s no way she could afford that necklace. Either she has a very wealthy partner or she’s accepted a bribe to stay quiet. But why? What does she know? Or are they just afraid of anyone who MIGHT talk?

A low ‘thump’ noise comes from Batman’s corner of the room.

Batman asks, “what’s Dr. Jacobs title?”

“Chief Psychiatrist.”

You hear him move closer and you turn to meet his stormy eyes. “Quicksilver, you need to see this.” The filing cabinet drawer is open, but a hidden inner compartment is unhinged and Batman grips a thick manila folder.

He opens the folder on Crane’s empty desk. Your heart bottoms out into your shoes and you clamp your fingers over your mouth to muffle your gasp.

“Holy shit!” you breathe.

The file spills out with evidence of experimental trials on patients. Experiments aren’t uncommon at Arkham. Sometimes drug companies and Arkham will partner up to test treatments, but it goes through a whole process of licensing and legal clearance. But this--? You steady one palm against the desk and your knees threaten to collapse from under you. The experiments involved sedating the patients with experimental manufactured opioids and then exposing them to high-stress situations—like torture—to see if their bodies and minds could withstand the pressure while on the experimental pain medication.

“Dr. Mercer…” His name glares in black ink like a gallows noose tightening around your neck. He was involved in this?!

You recall his final words to you before his death, “The guilt,” Dr. Mercer said, his expression pained, “I think it might eat me alive, Silver. I can feel it’s teeth in my heart.”

Your fingers tremble as you lift your phone to take photos of the files. The tests, the results, the sign offs of two prominent doctors: Dr. Jacobs and Dr. Mercer. Your eyes scan through the dates. Eventually, Dr. Mercer’s name stopped appearing. The files shift into another direction. The pain medication is no longer the focal point. Instead, the abstract of the experiment is: ‘To discover the effects of hallucinogens on recovery and behavioral control.’

“Wait,” you flip the pages and count the dates, “what happened to the pain medication trials?”

“It looks like they started a new project.” Batman’s hard and armored shoulder brushes against your body and you tremble for an entirely different reason. You bite your lip and refocus your attention.

“Why didn’t Dr. Mercer tell me? He said he was giving drugs to cops not--” You let out a frustrated sigh, “subjecting mentally ill patients to torture and experimental off-market drugs.”

Gotham, even on her worst days, manages to surprise you. Youbelieved Mercer was one of the good ones. He wanted people to get better. He wanted to help. How could this get so twisted?

“Why does Crane have all this?” he grumbles.

“What do you mean? It’s obvious.”

Batman turns his head toward you, his eyes questioning, and you close your eyes.

“Dr. Jacobs has some big skeletons in his closet. There’s no saving his reputation from this. Arkham will have no choice but to fire him to save face and claim they knew nothing about this. And an internal investigation will likely take place after Jacobs is fired.” You gesture to the files on the desk. “That means Crane, the new blood of Arkham, has the perfect opportunity to apply for his position.”

You recall Crane’s secretive smile, his perceptive gaze, and deliberate and careful words. His glances at this cabinet during your first meeting were planned. He curated this moment from the start.

“He doesn’t want to be the one to blow the whistle on Arkham.”

“Because it would impact his chance at the job,” Batman guesses. It’s a fair enough assumption. You’d bet money on it if you were a betting woman.

You reply earnestly, “no one likes the person who reveals the truth.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Batman places his gloved hand over yours and gently squeezes your fingers, “Gotham needs people like you, Silver.”

Your lips shift into a grateful yet embarrassed smile.

“I know.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

ARKHAM’S CORRUPTION BROUGHT TO LIGHT. The bold text slams across the headline with a grainy, colored photo Dr. Jacobs being arrested outside the hospital.

Every news outlet whether newspaper or television is reporting the story you wrote. The story secretly bankrolled by Bruce Wayne. Your childhood friend and sort-of boyfriend (you haven’t discussed labels yet). The article was published with an independent paper outside of Gotham. It spread like wildfire online and took Gotham by storm. The rest of the media vultures were forced to scramble to keep up.

And—it wouldn’t have been possible without Gotham’s caped crusader. Vengeance. The Bat. He cross-engineered the pain medication and it matched the drugs on the streets. Then, in a surprise twist, he revealed to Gordon that the ongoing hallucinogenic trial had components that matched your blood sample from your time with Falcone. Was it a little weird knowing Batman had your blood samples somewhere? Yes. But it led to the greater good so you chose to accept the weirdness.

The complied evidence encouraged Gordon to look into it. He obtained a warrant to search Dr. Jacobs home and office. His hard-drive contained copies of patient medical history and backups of all of his unethical experiments. ‘Sadly, the documents we found at his office were only the tip of the iceberg when it came to Jacobs little pet projects’, you think.

However, the search for his co-conspirators is in process. It’s likely that Dr. Jacobs provided Falcone with the drugs he used on you and the other girls, but you’re doubtful Falcone will face any justice for it. Falcone is too slippery and influential. It’ll take something big to take him down.

Everything was connected just not in the way you imagined.

You click away from the news article.

Arkham’s official statement is “we are saddened to hear that our chief psychiatrist took advantage of our patients and staff. His actions were never sanctioned by our hospital and our thoughts are with the families of the patients at this time.” A rather magnanimous statement considering they’re scrambling for any good PR coverage lately.

You grab your coat from the edge of the couch and check your phone.

The text from Bruce reads: I’m outside.

You haven’t processed everything that’s happened in the span of a week. Gotham Gazette offered you a job with a pay raise and corner office. Dr. Crane mailed you a thank you note for attending the charity auction. The words were typed, concise, and polite. But you see it for what it truly is—Thank you for taking out the competition. Dr. Mercer’s involvement in the experiments is a tender sore on your heart. You never uncovered if Falcone or someone else killed him and now it’s over. You wish you could have put Falcone and his associates behind bars. But you’re forced to settle for shutting down Falcone’s drug connection.

It’s a victory. Victories are rare in Gotham especially for those on the side of justice. You try to remember that.

Arkham will move on. Gotham will move on.

And you have to move on too. There are other stories to be written, truths to bring into the light. You have a date tonight with Bruce and you’re determined to enjoy it.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You loop your arm around Bruce’s elbow as you walk down the sidewalk toward his car.

“I appreciate that you came out, you know.” You say with fondness laced through your tone. “I know you prefer staying in.”

He’s a recluse, but he comes out to meet you every time you ask. You’re grateful the paparazzi are too swept up in the Dr. Jacobs story to care about the enigmatic Bruce Wayne. You know how he feels about being in the public eye and you don’t want any unnecessary strain added to this new, budding relationship. Life feels almost normal when you’re like this…There’s no lead to chase, no witnesses to interview, no late night sleuthing through the library archives.

His lips twitch upward. “I don’t mind it.” His clear blue eyes glance sidelong toward you, his sooty eyelashes flutter against his pale cheeks, “as long as it’s with you.”

“Hmm?” You lean closer into his side and let the expensive woolly warmth of his jacket seep into your elbow and arm. “Sounds like you’ve got a soft spot for me, Brucie.” You use the nickname from your youth and Bruce reflexively cringes.

“Maybe,” he teases, “but can you blame me?” He suddenly draws to a stop and cradles your cheek with one hand. You lean into the familiar mounds of his palm, the curve of his fingers. The chilly air of Gotham drifts through your legs and curls around your ankles. Every nerve in your body sings with joy at his closeness. Who knew you’d go from childhood friends, to strangers, to this? The tender display of public affection is enough to send your heart into overdrive and your pulse throbs inside your ears.

He gazes at you, pupils dilated, lips softly parted. You think he might kiss you at any moment. Bruce tends to get this look before kissing you—like he can’t believe it, like he thinks he’s dreaming. Your faces draw imperceptibly closer as if pulled by an invisible string. His breath is warm on your lips. It’s a delightful contrast to the chilled wind that tugs at your coat and sneaks cold kisses behind your ears. Your eyes slip shut.

“Oof!” Bruce exclaims. A blunt pain ricochets into your side. Your eyes spring open. You have barely enough time to throw your hands out and catch yourself as you’re knocked sideways and onto the hard and uneven asphalt. You wince as your skin scrapes against the ground. Bruce is on his hands and knees, his eyes wide, hair falling in dark strands in front of his face. A masked assailant towers above him with a wooden baseball bat. Oh God. Oh God.

“Story should’ve stayed dead, bitch!” Someone shouts before their boot stomps into your lower spine and pins you to the asphalt. Instinct takes over. Fear overrides logic. Your breath comes out in haggard puffs. The dark bracelet from Batman glimmers in your peripheral vision. You just need to get close enough. The boot lifts from your back. Someone grunts. The sound of shoes scuffling on the pavement reverberates in your head. Now is your chance! The boot returns with a swift, hard kick into your rib cage.

The air is forced from your lungs in a pained exhale. Everything feels raw. Your throat constricts. Another kick. The world blurs with tears. Your body instinctively curls like a wounded creature. One arm wraps around your stomach and the other to your head. The bracelet dangles like a cherished heirloom in front of your eyes. Batman showed you how to use it, but you can’t activate it from this position, can you? You need your hands free. The next kick hits your shinbone. The pain is acute and travels up your knee. You squeeze your eyes shut. What about Bruce?! You hate this stupid parking lot. You hate that no one is stopping to help or intervene. You hate that you can’t think and that your body is tense and trembling in preparation of the next blow. You hate the helpless feeling that’s building inside your chest and shaking salty tears from your lashes.

Someone is laughing. A slurred, drunk sound. “This one’s got some fight in him!”

“Whadda you think we should we do with him?”

“Just knock him out!” The one above you yells, “we’re here for her. Not him.”

Three. Three voices. There’s three of them. The next kick hits your shoulder and your forced onto your back. There’s no time to prepare, no time to cry out, as the boot presses into your throat. Fuck! You glance quickly to where Bruce was and see that he’s fighting—you gurgle as your assailant applies pressure to your neck and glares down at you through the holes in his ski-mask. A ski mask? What a cliché. An unexpected, hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. You flail and scratch your nails against his denim covered leg.

“This is what happens to nosy journalists in Gotham,” he sneers from above, “you should have just kept your pretty mouth shut and wrote stories about missing puppies and shit.” Several white dots dance around your vision.

Bruce grunts in pain. Your worry for his safety abruptly overrides your fear and hysteria. You don’t care if these guys are here to kill you or scare you, but you aren’t going to let them keep hurting Bruce. His only crime was being close to you. If he wasn’t here with you...then this never would’ve happened. You aren’t powerless. You aren’t helpless.

You release your hands from the thug’s leg and grab your bracelet. Muscle memory takes over. You presses into the spot near your wristbone and the bracelet hums to life. Two prongs like a spider’s fangs eject from the edge of the bracelet near the back of your hand. You slam the fangs into your assailant’s leg. They easily bite through the fabric of his jeans. The electric shock throws him off-balance and he convulses with a screech of pain. Your lungs rapidly expand as if to greedily swallow the air you were denied. You roll onto your stomach, onto your hands and knees, before pulling yourself upright. The scene comes to you in broken, jagged pieces.

The leader in the ski mask is on the ground sprawled out and twitching. If he’s dead then good riddance even though you’d like to know who sent him. The other two thugs are on the ground and Bruce is standing over them—chest heaving, his dark hair in disarray, his bloodied fists clenched at his sides, his chin smeared with blood from a split lip.

You exhale, “Bruce.” It’s unclear who moves first: you or him. Your arms encircle his middle and he clutches you to his chest like you’re going to fade into smoke.

“You’re okay?” His voice is raw and trembling, he strokes the sides of your face, your arms, your shoulders with desperate and careful motions, his eyes roam every inch of you, “you’re okay?”

You manage to nod. It’s surreal. You’re no stranger to violence in Gotham. You’ve run from drug dealers, used pepper spray on someone trying to steal your car, veered off the road due to a high speed chance, and not to mention your time with Falcone—your investigative journalism is a high risk occupation. But you’ve never been scared like this before. You can’t help but wonder if it’s because Bruce was involved. You feared for his safety. You refused to entertain the thought of losing him.

“Let’s go—let’s go.” He urges, pulling you by the elbow to his car, “c’mon, Silver.”

“I’m sorry,” you say, “I’m so sorry.” It’s your fault. Bruce paid for the story, but you’ll pay the price of exposing Arkham for the rest of your life. “I’m sorry...”

Bruce shakes his head.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You don’t recall the drive to Wayne Penthouse. You sat in the passenger seat with your eyes closed, your hands cupped around your head between your knees, forcing air into your lungs and exhaling slowly until your heart regulated. Bruce is painfully quiet. You don’t register anything until the purring car engine shuts off.

“Bruce,” you begin, lifting your head, “I’m so sorry.” Bruce is staring straight ahead at the concrete wall of his garage, raw knuckles clenched around the steering wheel, his eyes closed. His expression pained and closed-off. Your feel your heart drag across razor blades. He fought for you, bled for you. You’re relieved he could hold his own and grateful that the thugs didn’t bring any weapons besides wooden baseball bats and bare fists. You don’t want to think about what could’ve happened if any of them had a gun.

He rasps, “Don’t.”

You unbuckle and angle yourself toward him. Your bruised skin bristles with pain at the twist of your spine and shift of your hips. You need to explain. You need to help him see. This is an unfortunate part of the life you lead. He once joked that you were a ‘journalist with a death wish’. It’s not true, of course. You have no desire to die. But you have and will continue to suffer for the sake of Gotham’s truth. When you pursue influential people and start airing their dirty laundry, they will use their power, wealth, and any illegal or legal resources to try and scare you away.

Unfortunately for them, you aren’t easily cowed. What was it Falcone said? You’ve got Gotham in your blood. Gotham raised you. She taught you how to read people, and be resourceful, and hungry for truth.

“Bruce—they wanted me. They wanted to punish me for the Arkham article.”

“I know.”

“If you weren’t with me…” You trail off and look at the center dashboard of his expensive designer car. The guilt gnaws at your bones, threatening to break them. Bruce grabs your chin. His grip isn’t painful—it never is—but it is pointed, urgent, and he yanks your face toward his.

His lips press into yours without warning. Your mouth opens for him and a faint taste of copper bites your tongue. You’ve kissed Bruce more than a dozen times. But never like this.

His tongue moves in desperate, messy strokes and each movement sends a hot and powerful spark to your core. He groans loudly into your mouth, cupping the back of your skull, keeping you close, not even allowing you to break away to breath. You inhale raggedly through your nostrils and push your fingers up along his chest. Something fragile and tenuous shatters between you. He’s alive. You’re alive. It was a harrowing experience—but you are here. Together.

“I need you,” He gasps, “please.” He presses his forehead against yours and his sweet blue eyes bleed into yours. Up close, you can see the reddish-purple swell of a bruise forming on his cheekbone. His lips are raw, bloody, the split lip likely re-opened and aggravated from kissing. You close your eyes to collect your thoughts. You know Bruce. You know him like the lines on the sidewalk outside your childhood home. You know him like the curved handle of your favorite coffee mug. You know Bruce isn’t lying when he tells you he needs you and you know he’s not exaggerating either. You’ve wanted him for years. Ached for him. And this moment might not be perfect, it might not be what you imagined, but God—you’re not going to turn him away. Not when you need him just as desperately as he needs you.

“Okay,” You swipe your thumb across his bloodied lip, “yes, Bruce. Yes.”

Bruce’s expression crumples with relief and he presses his lips to yours. The kiss is slower this time. You take a moment to savor it. Your fingers card through his silky, dark hair and he sucks your lower lip into his mouth with an appreciative hum.

His cool and calloused hand pushes along your upper thigh.

“Right here?” You guess.

“Right here.” He adjusts and grabs your hips to pull you over the center console and into his lap. Your ass bumps against the steering wheel. At least it’s private, you smile at the thought. No one is going to come wandering into Wayne’s personal garage. Except for maybe Alfred? But you assume the old man has enough sense to give you and Bruce plenty of space. Bruce’s lips travel down your jaw to your throat and you angle your neck back to allow him more space to explore. His kisses are light and exploratory, slightly roughed by the dryness of his mouth and gentle scrape of his stubble. It feels better than you could’ve imagined.

Bruce exhales, his voice pitched low and gravely, “I’ve wanted you for so long,” his mouth closes over your collarbone. Your heart leaps at his words, at the implication, at the idea that maybe...just maybe...you weren’t the only one yearning and hoping for years on end.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

His body is sore. He forgot how much things can hurt when he’s not in the suit. But nothing is going to tear him away from this moment with you. He’s careful where he touches. He knows that low-life got more than a few kicks onto your perfect body and if he had been alone then he would’ve broken every bone in that man’s body as recompense. His anger threatens to boil to the forefront of his mind, but Bruce wrestles it back. Now isn’t the time.

He tugs your dress off your shoulders and his cock twitches at the sound of your pleased sigh. Your breasts are perfect. Perfect shape. And at this angle? The perfect height for him to bury his face between them and trail kisses across your skin. He’s never had the opportunity to worship you like this. To press his lips and tongue against your skin, taste your sweat, feel your heartbeat against his nose. His lips enclose around one of your nipples and you cry out, your fingers entangling in his hair to pull him closer, and he flicks his tongue against the hardened nub.

“Fuck,” he moans, his hot breath pants against your skin, before he cups the breast in his hand and holds it while his tongue and mouth lavishes across your nipple over and over again. Your hips cant into his, seeking friction and release, and he trembles as your clothed cunt grinds into his hard cock.

“I’ll give you what you want, Quicksilver.” He promises and you whimper in reply to his words, “Shh.” His bloodied knuckles shine in the light as he kneads your other breast beneath his palm. “I’ll take care of you.”

He wants to make this memorable. He wants it to mean something. He’s outside the shadows with you for the first time. He isn’t hiding behind the cowl, behind his loyalty to Gotham. He is raw, and bloodied, and trembling with anticipation. Your fingers fumble with the hem of his long-sleeved dark shirt and yank it upwards in a graceless motion. He winces as he leans back, his arms overhead, and the shirt is tossed to the passenger side.

“Oh, fuck, Bruce!” You blurt and place your hand above his right pectoral. He winces again at the pressure, but gently places his hand on your wrist. His heart swells with pride and appreciation at his bracelet dangling from your wrist. It saved you when he couldn’t.

“It’s okay,” He looks toward the cut. It’s shallow. Superficial. It likely won’t scar. “Hey, hey, look at me.” He guides your chin, meeting your eyes, and his heart capsizes at the concern pouring from your gaze. “I’m okay, Silver. I promise.”

He holds your chin and kisses you before you have the chance to apologize again. It’s not your fault. It’s his. He got complacent after the article was released. He made a grievous error through his lack of vigilance. He should’ve been more careful, should’ve had Alfred checking the footage to see if you were being tailed, should’ve suggested you stay at the penthouse for a few days until the dust settled. People at Arkham and people connected to Jacobs and Falcone are going to try and settle the score.

He won’t let that happen, though. He feels you relax beneath his touch, feels your lips move urgently against his, how your body arches into him and your hardened nipples press into his bare chest. Bruce shivers. God, it feels so good to be skin to skin with you. He is wholly without armor in both the physical and metaphorical sense and it’s terrifying and electrifying.

He wonders if you know how you affect him. His hands cup your backside, squeezing, pressing you closer into him and pressing his agonizingly hard length between your legs. You make a sweet, soft sound and Bruce swallows back his groan. Everything you do is intoxicating to him.

“I’d like to do this again after we’re inside,” he says to the hollow of your throat, “properly.”

“Properly?” your laughter runs like a vein through your voice, “like with candles and roses?”

“Something like that,” he bunches the bottom of your dress until its hiked up in a ruffled heap around your hips and his gaze snags on the bruises on your ribs. “I’ll leave it to your imagination.” He says with a small grin.

“Ohh, a surprise.”

“Mm.”

He pushes his hand between your legs and discovers the dampened fabric of your underwear. Fuck. You’re always so wet for him. Bruce’s eyes roll back into his skull and he hisses through his teeth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You were worried the sight of Bruce’s injuries would be a deterrent, but it isn’t. His bloodied lip, swollen cheekbone, and the bleeding cut on his chest are proof that he lived. A little scuffed up, but whole and alive and touching you with comfortable ease. You whimper at the first touch of his thumb across your swollen clit. Your body thrums with frustrated desire. He’s already made the tempting promise to continue once you’re inside the penthouse and quite frankly—you want to two things: for Bruce to be inside of you and then to see what he has planned in the comfort and luxury of his home.

“Bruce, please,” Your fingernails dig into his shoulders, “don’t make me wait.”

He buries his face between your breasts, his kisses sloppy, and mumbles, “I want you to come first.”

Always a goddamn gentleman!

He arches his neck, leaning his head back against the headrest of his seat, and gazes up at you with fervent adoration. You open your mouth to quip at him, to tell him the car is cramped and you’re feeling impatient, but then the concentric motion of his fingers tightens, adding pressure, and the effect is dizzying. Your mouth lets out a garbled “please” instead of articulating any of the other thoughts inside of your head. You lean forward to kiss him, feeling his nose press into yours and the coppery taste of his kiss blossoms on your tongue. Your hips thrust and chase the movements of his hand.

Your hands glide across his chest, his arms—which are surprisingly sinewy—and your fingertips catch along ridges and bumps that can only be attributed to scars. But scars from what? Before the thought can form, Bruce’s index and middle fingers plunge into your wet cunt and your spine convulses and your walls clench around his digits. The world goes muted and soft. Gotham narrows into two souls in an expensive, black car within a private garage beneath a penthouse.

You pant into Bruce’s mouth, sweat collecting on your temples, as he strokes and coaxes the fire burning low and hot in your lower belly.

Bruce says, “you’re so beautiful.” His words are quiet, bashful. And your neck prickles at the compliment. It means more coming from him than anyone else in the world. You hide your face in the crook of Bruce’s warm neck and pepper kisses along his jaw and the side of his face. The windows fog. The sound of his fingers moving slick and fast between your legs fills your eardrums. Your thighs shake.

“F-fuck.” You choke out, “close.”

“That’s it,” he whispers, “that’s my perfect girl. It’s okay. I’ve got you.”

The orgasm hits you slow and serene and drawn-out. Your neck arches and your chin rests on Bruce’s forehead as the quakes tremble through your body in throbs of heat and euphoria. Bruce keeps his hand there, poised within as your walls rhythmically squeeze around his fingers, and he doesn’t pull away until your head drops against his shoulder and pant onto his damp, bruised skin.

He kisses your temple. “Are you ready for me?”

“Yes.”

It’s awkward. You lift your hips and your arms tremble as you hold yourself steady. He struggles to unzip his pants. You only get a brief glance of his cock before he positions himself between your legs and motions with his other hand for you to lower yourself. You brace yourself on his shoulders and Bruce looks up, holding your eye-contact, and is unwavering as the tip of his cock slips between your folds.

His teeth bare into a snarl, “Oh, fuck.”

The blue of his eyes are nearly swallowed whole by his pupils. He moans your name like it’s being ripped from his soul. You let out a breathy chuckle, allowing yourself to close your eyes, letting the sensation wash over you as Bruce sinks into you inch by inch. It feels so good you don’t want to move. You rock your hips back and forth instead of thrusting and it creates a deep and wonderful sensation that travels from your head to your toes. He fits perfect. His mouth travels hungrily across your chest and neck and jaw. His tongue licks glistening stripes of sweat from your skin. His hands knead and squeeze your ass. You feel as if Bruce is trying to melt your bodies together, consume you, and you find yourself copying his motions. You kiss him, bloodied lips and all, and drink in his low and deep groans. Your hands, even as they smear with the blood from his cut, travel across the muscled expanse of his pale chest and your fingertips occasionally dig in when he thrusts up into you. You’ve passed the threshold of your earlier desperate frenzy to touch and be touched, to feel alive and safe together.

These movements, these gestures, speak to the deep cavern of tenderness that is shared between you. Your throat tightens. Bruce’s fingertips trail along your spine and he turns his head to whisper your name into your ear.

Time doesn’t move. It melts. It shapes condensation on the windows. It pools at the dip between Bruce’s collarbones. It glistens where your bodies are joined.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Afterwards, you cradle his face between your hands and touch sweaty forehead to sweaty forehead. Your heart is pounding. Your dress is crumpled around your hips and stuck to your skin. Your bruises pulsate with muted pain. Bruce’s dried blood peeks between your fingers. And yet you’ve never felt more at peace.

He says, “stay with me.”

“W-what?”

“Stay with me,” he repeats, unfazed by your confusion, “for a few days. Maybe a week.”

You swallow. Okay, stay calm. He’s not asking you to move in. Your smile breaks across your face and Bruce’s eyes widen at the sight of it. As if bearing witness to your joy is a privilege and not something he’s earned.

“We’re having this conversation now?”

“Silver,” he chuckles dryly and your smile widens. It’s so wonderful to hear Bruce laugh. “Someday, I’d like to ask you a question and get a straight answer.”

“I’m a journalist.” You roll your eyes, “asking follow-up questions is my forte.”

Bruce takes your hand between his and intertwines your fingers, “and you’re the best journalist Gotham has.” He meets your eyes, “so, will you stay?”

You should tell Bruce ‘no’ from time to time. It’ll be good for his pride. Today, however, is not the day.

“Yes, Bruce. I’ll stay.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

You wake during the night. Bruce’s bedroom is cozily lit from the bedside table lamp and you reach across his back to shut it off. Your hand freezes in mid-air. They are scars. After you and Bruce left the garage, you meant to ask him about it, but his hands and mouth were...too distracting...and you lost all train of thought. You sit up and analyze the serpentine shape of his spine, the moles totting his skin, the curve of his shoulder blades, the cream colored sheets wrapped around his slim waist.

You resist the temptation to trail your fingers across the scars. You don’t want to wake him.

You hope that those thugs didn’t leave him with any scars. He claimed the one on his chest would heal fine. But, how does he know? He isn’t a doctor. You shift and sit upright. Your instincts flare. A gut reaction hits you like a punch to the throat. There’s blood in the water. There’s bones under the soil. A story. Another thread to pull. You carefully climb out of bed and grab a few pieces of blank paper from Bruce’s desk.

You start with today—it’s fresh in your mind.

The bracelet. Bruce didn’t notice or make comments when you first began wearing it. He didn’t ask any questions after seeing the bracelet electrocute someone into unconsciousness. Okay. A little odd, right? But there’s a few possible answers. Maybe he didn’t see it happen. Maybe he assumed you used a standard taser.

You write ‘why didn’t Batman come for me?’ on the page and stare at the letters. Batboy always has a knack for knowing when you’re in trouble. He didn’t show today. You know you aren’t his first priority. You know he’s got an entire city to look out for. But…

You write ‘Security’ on the page. Alfred told you that the Wayne home has ‘top of the line’ security. How the hell did Batman break-in without tripping any of the alarms? You’re certain that Bruce or Alfred would’ve mentioned something if they were worried about the security of the home.

You write ‘Falcone’. You sketch out the timeline out of instinct. Falcone is well-known around Gotham, but when you and Bruce reconnected, you never explicitly told him you were investigating Falcone. It was better to keep that sort of thing under wraps. It’s safer that way.

After you were released from the hospital, Bruce said something like ‘Falcone can’t hurt you’ right? You rub your hand over your jaw and frown. This is a long shot. You grab your phone and text Gordon the following message: ‘Hey, did you tell Bruce that I was drugged by Falcone?’

You scribble onto the page and let your mind wander. You doodle a little flower. And the memory hits like a freight train. Bruce’s flowers. They said ‘to my perfect girl’. Never in your time together had Bruce used that nickname. Batman, however, did. Your heart leaps inside your throat and your phone buzzes in your hand.

Gordon replies: God, kid. What are you doing awake at this hour? To answer your question, no. When I called Mr. Wayne, I informed him that you were caught in the middle of an active investigation and dosed with an unknown drug. I might have mentioned Falcone while ya’ll were together in the room, but I never directly stated that Falcone harmed or drugged you. Now get some sleep!

You reply a quick thanks and set your phone down. This is crazy. Bruce is Batman? He’s Vengeance? You press your fingertips into your tired eyes and your thoughts circle like sharks. And if he is then why didn’t he tell you? You huff and stare at your quick notes scribbled on various pieces of paper scattered on the carpet.

It isn’t so unusual, is it? He’s grossly wealthy, intelligent, and without a social life which gives him lots of free time. And you recently learned that Bruce can fight! Those scars of his aren’t from kitchen mishaps or car accidents.

“What’re you doing?” Bruce’s groggy voice lifts from the frumpy bed sheets.

Well, it’s now or never. There’s no way you’re going back to sleep with this question hanging like an anvil over your head.

“Are you Batman?”

Bruce sits up.

“Or Vengeance? Whatever you like to go by, I suppose.”

He rubs his hand down the length of his face. His shoulders are stiff. You watch as he swings his legs and clambers off the bed with clumsy grace. His boxer briefs hang low on his hips and as he stands before you in the light of his bedroom you can’t help but notice the scars on his chest.

His eyes scan the disorganized and chaotic papers on the floor. His expression is unreadable. You lay your palms on your knees and wait for his reply. Although you think his silence is answer enough.

“Silver…” He says with a minute shake of his head, “can this wait until morning?”

“No.” You deadpan, “I won’t be able to sleep without knowing.”

Bruce slowly lowers himself to sit across from you on the floor. Suddenly, you are eight years old again and having a sleep-over party at the Wayne’s. His mother is downstairs making popcorn. You both won’t stop arguing over which movie to watch. Your heart clenches. You blink away the memory. Once upon a time, you called Bruce Wayne your best friend.

He sighs.

“Bruce,” you wait until he meets your gaze and you hold it, “I want the truth.”

“I know.” He drags his fingers through his messy dark hair.

“Is that something you can give me?” You swallow the lump in your throat. If he can’t be honest, if he brushes it off or refuses to reply, then you know this relationship—hell, your rekindled friendship—is dead in the water. Even your partnership to Batman will be forced to end. He peers at you through the strands of his hair falling in front of his forehead. You wait. He can agonize over his response all he wants. The truth, as always, is the only thing that matters.

He finally says, “yes.”

“Yes as in you’re Batman? Or yes as in you can tell me the truth?”

“Both.”

You tap two fingers against your papers on the floor, “ha! Knew it.” You scoot closer to Bruce and his eyes widen.

“Why didn’t you tell me?��� You gaze up at the high ceiling, your brow furrowed in thought. You slept with Batman—Bruce – twice and he never thought about revealing his secret? Would he have just continued to live a secret double life while dating? Did he seriously expect that you wouldn’t figure it out someday?

“I wanted to keep you safe.”

“After today,” you chuckle, “I think I have more enemies than Batman does.”

Bruce says your name softly, “This is only the beginning for me, Silver.” His hands curl into a fist, “Gotham needs me.”

“Gotham needs me too, you dork. You said so yourself!” You smile. “None of these other freelance journalists have the courage to take down the big fish. We both are driven by our love for this city. We both take risks. If you can continue to do your job and I can continue to do mine then I don’t see any issue.”

He stares at you and his lips part in awe.

“I thought if you knew...” says Bruce quietly, “you’d leave.”

You reach out and wrap your fingers around his curled fist. “Bruce, I – well—I endured several years without you and you know what? Those years sucked.” You smile, a timid and gentle smile, and more vulnerable than you’ve ever given him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Bruce. I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

Bruce leans in and rests his forehead on your bare shoulder.

He murmurs, “I don’t want to be anywhere else either.”

“Then it’s settled. We stay together and fight crime and change Gotham for the better.”

Bruce lifts his head and levels you with a serious look, “you are not fighting.”

You tease, “okay, you say that now, but I’m already work-shopping costume ideas and team names.” You cup the side of his face, “The Silver Bat? Mercury and Vengeance? Batboy and Journalist Gal?” You ramble off your ideas until Bruce’s serious expression melts away and his lips twitch in a begrudging smirk.

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #happy halloween #battinson imagine #batman x reader #batman x you #dc fic #the batman fic #bruce wayne x you #battinson x you #fic: from above gotham glows #kinktober 2022

[imagine--if]

okay so-i just saw your post about the 'The Batman fluff prompt event', and i was wondering that if i will make it into the sumbissions, could i do the prompt 12 (character saying) with battinson? also if that's okay, could the reader be gender neutral? :> if you don't want ot take up this submission, that's okay!

A/N: Of course I can, enjoy 🖤

Pairing: Battinson x reader (The Batman 2022)

Prompt: “I live to protect you, and I won’t have it any other way.”

Words: 119

“You’re always so tired…”

Bruce lies contentedly on your lap, his dark locks tangling in your fingers as you play with it gently. His eyes are closed, faded smudges of dark eye makeup still around his face from his halfhearted attempt at cleaning it off earlier.

“Vengeance doesn’t sleep,” is Bruce’s soft response, and you smile slightly.

“But Bruce Wayne does. I know you’re the city’s protector, but you’ve gotta look out for yourself, too. Can’t just be me and Alfred.”

He scoffs in mild amusement at the comment, nestling deeper in lap as you stroke his hair away from his forehead.

“I don’t need protecting. You do.”

“Oh, right, because I’m an absolutely reckless-“

“Stop it,” he scolds you playfully, opening his deep eyes a little. “Even if you could take care of yourself, I live to protect you, and I won’t have it any other way.”

Your smile grows, and your hands leave his hair to hold his hands, fingers interlocking.

“Well, you’re doing an amazing job, Bruce.”

Bruce’s naturally beautiful smile reveals itself for a moment, and calloused thumbs rub the backs of your hands.

“Good.”

#battinson x reader #the batman x reader #the batman imagine #the batman fluff #the batman fanfic #the batman 2022 #batman 2022 #battinson imagine #battinson fluff #battinson fanfiction #the batman fic #the batman movie #robert pattinson x reader #robert pattinson fanfiction #robert pattinson bruce wayne #robert pattinson batman #pattinson!batman x reader #pattinson!bruce wayne #pattinson!batman #bruce wayne x reader #batman x reader #batman fluff #bruce wayne fluff #bruce wayne imagine #batman imagine #battinson

[mywritings-stuff]

you're not who you are to anyone. [edward nashton]

warnings: fights (yelling, calling someone psycho, pointing fingers), really big problems with communication, break up, twisted views about society

author's note: this is heavily inspired by good looking by suki waterhouse. yes I was supposed to write for my series but ended up writing a 1.3k blurb.

"i'm going to take a shower" edward announced and y/n only nod continuing to do whatever task she was doing.

as soon as he closed the door and the sound of water was present, she got up from the couch and ran to their room.

where was it? did he take it with him? no, she would've seen it... did he hide it? but it would've only make things worse!

her shoulders relaxed as she finally found it. now she just needed the password, their anniversary? maybe her birthday?

it ended up being their cat's birthday, but she passed through that and pretended to not feel a little hurt and she did her best to check everything quickly before he got out of the shower.

she knew she looked crazy going over her boyfriend's phone but can you judge her when edward has been acting so weird? coming late every day, never paying attention to her, always busy and working extra hours...

"they were by the beach, sitting on rocks, looking at the serene ocean and the purplish sky. listening to the small waves and birds chirping. 

"do you remember how life was before us?" edward whispered to y/n. and it felt like one of those moments when you realize you're not gonna forget the other person's answer.

"i don't even think i want to remember a time without you, edward." she smiled at him, not curious about the beauty of the ocean or the sky, but far more interested in edward's eyes and his little grin.

"well, do you?" she asked and her heart skipped a beat, anxious for the answer.

he shook his head and put his arms around her shoulder, and edward smiled while he thought how stupid it would be to put their love in words. as if something so sacred and pure could have any words capable of describing it."

"hey! what the fuck are you doing?" edward yelled behind her and she jumped, he had his towel on his waist and wet hair, clearly he has just gotten out of the shower.

she had his phone in her hand, looking at him with a wide-eyed gaze, mentally cursing herself for being caught.

"it's nothing!" her voice went a tone higher than usual, trying her best to defend herself even if she knew that she had already dug her own grave. maybe that was it, the last straw. the end of everything.

"nothing? i turn my back for a second and when i come back my psycho girlfriend is looking at my phone? god, y/n, have you gone insane!" he shouted as he got his face close to her, tapping her in the head on the last sentence.

"sometimes i wonder if we're the same person." edward said in y/n's ear as they read a book together, to be honest, he wouldn't even be able to say what the book was about, he was far more intrigued in watching the way her eyes moved around the page and how she looked at him waiting for a signal that meant it was okay to go to the next page.

the thought was completely random, as he was taking in her presence he realized he must've imagined her, there was no way another human being was capable of making him feel the calmness he only gets when he's truly alone.

"shut up, i'm trying to read" she giggled and playfully rolled her eyes."

"oh please! you act as if i'm the only crazy one! you are the one that makes me like this edward!" she yelled while pointing her finger at him.

"don't you fucking dare to blame me!" from there it all just felt like a competition: who yells louder wins! of course, edward easily won, he was not the one looking into his girlfriend's phone. 

so she went to sleep without him, on the couch. she knew she was in the wrong but that doesn't mean he was in the right. she cried herself to sleep with the memories of the old relationship they had and to think that not long ago edward would hug her and say they should never sleep being angry with each other and now he was peacefully sleeping on the other room not caring about the eventual whimpers she would let out.

"it's for luck" edward winked at her while rolling the dice on her thighs, she only shook her head laughing at how ridiculous it was, and continued chatting with her friends.

"hell yeah!" edward and the boys clapped, apparently rolling dice on his girlfriend's thighs actually gave him luck as he won a stupid board game.

"told you, you are my lucky charm." he gave her a pack on the lips and continued to play whatever game was next."

the morning after the fight they didn't say anything to each other, only eating in silence. y/n blatantly stared at him, trying to figure out what the hell happened to her eddie, the one she fell in love with, not the one that left her crying in a cold room.

"who are you?" she whispered to him, catching his attention. he looked at her with teary eyes.

"i could ask you the same thing."

----

she was up late waiting for him again. she made a whole dinner, got dressed up, and he even texted her saying he would be there in no time. 

well, if no time meant never showing up he was correct. 

so she sat on the couch and forced herself to stay awake until he came home after his job if that was even where he was. 

"oh honey, what are you doing awake? 's so late..." edward said as he was taking off his shoe, rushing to the couch to hug y/n that was clearly fighting to keep her eyes open.

"waiting for you, eddie." and she sighed as she realized it was probably the first time she felt his hug in months. 

"you don't need to do that..." he said while trying to pick her up and put her on their bed but she stopped him.

"edward, we have to talk" and he knew what she meant. he knew what she wanted to talk about, but it was too soon for him to tell her the truth if he was ever going to.

either way, he sat beside her and waited for her to say whatever it is that has been keeping her awake at night, "edward, you've been coming home late every day..." 

he tried to pay attention to what she said, he truly did. but the past few months had been such a blur to him. with all the pressure on him to do everything right, to make all those riddles, to kill all those people, to expose all the lies. 

as the riddler he genuinely had a pretty busy life, it was getting hard to keep mundane things like his job or even his girlfriend.

"edward are you even listening?"

if she could only give him time to think... he could tell her but it would be against his plans. plans that took years, practically his whole life. no, he couldn't just throw it out. 

"edward nashton! can you pay attention to me at least once? we can't keep doing this if we don't communicate."

even if you don't understand, he is doing you a favor. cleaning the city so someone like you can live in peace. it infuriated him that you couldn't see what he was doing. how noble of him to expose all those rats.

"you're right. we can't keep this."

it broke his heart, but it was for the best. he was protecting you. from all the dirt that lay on that town, he was going to cleanse it all, and at the end you were going to be grateful.

#the riddler x reader #paul dano x y/n #paul dano x reader #ria.ink #danonation #the batman fic

[punchdrunkdoc]

Just Breathe - Ch.3

Summary: Six months after the events in Gotham Square Garden, Bruce is struggling to find balance between his role as Batman and his responsibilities as Bruce Wayne. His life is made even more complicated when he learns that someone knows his secret identity.

Notes: This is a multi-chapter, slow-burn Battinson/original female character story with romance, angst, and crime solving!

Also available on AO3

Masterlist

Reference pics and stuff

“In another unexpected public sighting - the second this year - Bruce Wayne was seen visiting the office of Mayor Bella Real. According to the Mayor’s spokeswoman, the billionaire businessman was discussing allocation options for the new and improved Renewal Fund.”

Beth had only been partially paying attention to the news as she ate her lunch. The small TV in her office helped serve as an early warning system, alerting to her to any deaths that might be crossing her desk in the near future - or, more accurately, crossing her autopsy table. But at the mention of ‘Bruce Wayne’, her head popped up from her salad and she focused on the screen.

“The Wayne heir has been famously reclusive for the past 10 years, but he seems to be re-emerging into Gotham society. The first sign was his attendance at the former Mayor’s funeral last year. A couple of months ago he attended a board meeting at Wayne Enterprises, which served to boost the share value of the company…”

She tuned out the words and focussed on the accompanying photographs - one was from the funeral, which caught him half in profile as he entered the church; the other was of him emerging from the Mayor’s office, the cut of his suit much more flattering.

The news bulletin ended and the pictures disappeared before she had a chance to finish studying them, so she woke up her computer and found the online versions. His dark hair was shorter and more styled in the recent pictures, and it was brushed off his face, allowing the photographer to capture his pale blue eyes.

The haircut and the suit made it seem as if he was making an effort to appear as the put-together, powerful Wayne heir that the public expected.

She flicked back to the older photos from the funeral. His appearance was scruffier, and his eyes were guarded. He looked uncomfortable and out of place…and she had a feeling that this was the real Bruce, and the newer version was nothing but an act.

Or maybe neither of them were real. Maybe the man under the cape and cowl - the imposing, confident crimefighter - was the real man.

She remember her fleeting wish during their first encounter to discover his secret identity. She figured once she unearthed the name under the mask, her curiosity would be satisfied…but she was even more fascinated now.

And she was becoming a bit obsessed.

She followed Batman’s exploits like a rabid fan. Part of it was concern for his safety; it was like that apocryphal quote "save a life and you are responsible for it”. She felt protective of him. And she worried about him. So she followed him - via news reports and social media posts - to make sure he was alive at the end of every night, and breathed a sigh of relief when it was confirmed.

A larger part of her attentiveness was the desire to understand him.

He was an orphan, like her. And while she didn’t know how her parents had died, the whole world knew the story of the Waynes and their tragic ending. He’d been just a boy when he’d witnessed their brutal murders. She could imagine the craving for justice that experience would awaken; but there were so many avenues open to a literal billionaire to achieve that kind of aim. He could have become a lawyer; he could have devoted his fortune to tackling the root causes of Gotham’s crimes; he could have run for office…but he chose to shut himself away from the world and emerge only in the dark to fight criminals on their own turf.

So her obsession stemmed from concern, fascination…and there was a small, superficial part of her that just found him handsome as hell. His face lived up to the promise of that sculpted, impossibly sharp jawline that had first caught her eye in the mortuary.

She was drawn to him…

But he belonged to another…

She quickly shut down that line of thinking and threw away the remnants of her lunch.

It was time to get back to work.

———

Several hours later, back in her office after completing the afternoon’s autopsies, Beth stared at the blood results from one of her recent cases. The deceased was Jessica Harlow, a 38-year old prosecuting attorney from a well-to-do family. She was married to a GCPD detective, whom she’d met on one of her first cases out of Law School when he’d been a rookie cop. She was ambitious, and appeared to be on the career track for elected office.

Until she was found dead in her townhouse three days ago, apparently of natural causes.

Jessica had type I diabetes and the tests showed that her insulin levels were too high. On paper, it looked very much like she’d died of low blood sugar due to poor insulin control.  She’d passed away in her sleep, and was found in the morning by the housekeeper. Her husband was on an overnight stakeout, which provided his alibi.

It all looked very non-suspicious.

But Jessica had been living with her disease for more than 20 years and, by all accounts, her understanding of her condition, adherence to medication and glycaemic control was excellent.

It didn’t make sense.

A knock at the door interrupted Beth’s musings. It was one of the admin staff. “Detective Harlow is here to collect his wife’s belongings. You said you wanted to be informed when he arrived?”

“That’s right. Thanks, Camila. I’ll be out in a second.”

Beth steeled herself for what was to come. She didn’t use her ‘gift’ often at work - It was useless on the dead, after all. But occasionally she utilised it to get a read on a family member when she suspected something was awry.

Like now.

She tucked her bare hands in the pockets of her white coat and went out to greet Jessica’s husband.

“Detective Harlow?” she called to the man waiting by the reception desk. He looked haggard, and his lifeless eyes were red and sunken. He was the picture of devastation.

Maybe she was wrong…

There was only one way to find out.

“My name is Dr Carraway, I’m the pathologist looking after your wife. I’m very sorry for your loss.” As she approached him, she held out her hand in greeting. He slipped his own bare hand into hers and returned the handshake.

And her abilities sprang to life…

She saw him receiving the phone call from the housekeeper. So, it’s done

She saw him kissing Jessica at their wedding. I’m the luckiest man alive

But then the fighting. The silences. When did she turn into such a bitch?

The signature on the documents. “In the event of Mrs Harlow’s death…”

Bottles of insulin in the bathroom cupboard, a hand reaching for them. Which one?

A young blond in a hotel room. “We’ll be together soon, baby.”

A plane ticket and a packed suitcase. Soon…

The chaotic, disordered montage flicked through her mind in seconds, but it was enough to confirm her suspicions.

Detective Harlow had killed his wife.

“Thank you, Doctor,” he said, oblivious to what had transpired between them. “Do you have any updates on what happened to her? To my Jessica?”

She gave him credit for his acting abilities - he’d have easily fooled anyone else with this grieving persona.  She tried to cover her disgust as she gave the answer he was expecting. “It looks like she miscalculated her insulin dosage. It can happen with diabetics, unfortunately. Has anything like that occurred in the past?”

He bowed his head and sighed. “Yes, a few times. Especially when she was stressed. She would take her insulin but forget to eat, or she’d choose the wrong dosage. And she was so stressed these last few weeks with a big case…”

“I see,” she replied, nodding in understanding.

Playing along.

But inside she was boiling with anger. This selfish, monstrous man had taken the life of the woman he had pledged to love and honour. He had turned her own condition against her and cut short her promising life…all so he could run away with his mistress and cash in the life insurance.

The banality of the motive did nothing to lessen the tragedy.

She needed to do something. Tell someone.

But who?

The few times she’d done this in the past, she’d been able to convey her suspicions - subtly and vaguely - to the police…but this time it was one of their own who was guilty. Even if there was a non-corrupt cop on the force willing to investigate, there was no evidence. Jessica had been alone in the house and had administered the fatal dose herself, not realising that her husband had tampered with the vials.

There was no way to catch him…unless he confessed.  

And she could think of only one man scary enough to make that happen. One man not constrained by the rules of law enforcement.

Batman.

She felt a pang of guilt at the thought. Not about involving him in this case - wasn’t this why he put on the mask in the first place? To punish the guilty and avenge the innocent?

No, her guilt stemmed from what she would have to do to get this information to him.

She couldn’t go through Gordon - this needed to be done anonymously, otherwise too many questions would be asked about how she knew what Harlow had done.

Instead, she would have to use Batman’s secret identity - the one she’d obtained against his will and without his knowledge.

She would have to contact Bruce Wayne.

———

Bruce read the note for what felt like the hundredth time:

To The Batman,

Last week, Detective John Harlow of GCPD tampered with his wife’s diabetic medication, causing Jessica Harlow to die of an insulin overdose. He is planning to leave the country in three days time - to ‘grieve’ with family overseas - but will in fact be met in Belize by his long-time mistress, Maria Simpson. He is set to benefit substantially from his wife’s life insurance policy. I have no way of proving this, but it is all true. He needs to be brought to justice.

Please help Jessica.

Yours, in good faith

A concerned citizen.

There were no clues as to the sender. The paper was nondescript, and the words were typed in generic ink. The letter had apparently been dropped off in person to Wayne Tower, but the culprit wasn’t detected on any security cameras.

It was made clear on the front of the envelope that the contents were for Bruce Wayne’s eyes ONLY, so at least the sender was trying to preserve Bruce’s anonymity to an extent. Luckily, the only person who opened his mail was Alfred, and not some unsuspecting secretary.

Did that mean the sender had no intention of revealing his identity to the wider public? Or was this the first step in an escalating series of correspondences that would end with blackmail and the threat of exposure?

He scrunched the paper into his fist, angry at the sender…but more at himself. How had he been found out? He was always so careful. He traveled back and forth from the tower in disguise; none of the equipment he’d purchased could be traced to his bank accounts; there was no chance of fingerprints or DNA being left at scenes, no one had seen his face…

How had they found him out?

Forcing that question to the back of his mind, he concentrated on the time-sensitive issue of what to do about Detective Harlow. A cursory internet search confirmed that a Jessica Harlow did indeed die late last week, and that she was the wife of a policeman. But the news article also said that the post mortem examination revealed natural causes.

So that’s where he would start.

And he tried to ignore the small part of him that was glad he’d been given a reason to meet with Beth Carraway again.

———

The night after dropping off the letter to Batman, Beth stayed late in her office trying to distract herself with work. She knew that if she went home, she’d spend the rest of the evening worrying herself sick about things she couldn’t control.

Like whether he’d received her message.

Or whether someone other than Bruce Wayne had read it, and she’d inadvertently spilled his secret.

And whether he was going to act on the information, or ignore it as the ramblings of a crazy person…

She sighed. Work was obviously not distracting her enough.

She switched off her microscope and pushed her chair back, stretching as she did so.  Then she shoved her headphones on and propped her feet up on the desk. If work wasn’t doing the trick, she’d let music drown out the thoughts swirling in her head.

She pressed play and cranked up the volume. The randomly selected track turned out to be a pounding, drum-heavy number from one of her favourite singers.

Perfect.

She rested her head against the high back of her chair and closed her eyes, letting the music take her away from reality.

———

And that’s how Bruce found her.

Realising that she was not in her apartment, he’d made his way to the Medical Examiner’s office and found her Camaro in the staff car park. It was the only vehicle left, and it matched the solitary office light glowing from a first floor window. He entered the facility through the roof and made his way downstairs, where he found the hallways dark and empty. He felt a prickling of unease at the thought of her being alone and unprotected here.

Especially when she was clearly not paying attention to her surroundings.

He stood in the doorway of her cluttered office and watched her nod her head along to her music, completely oblivious to the figure lurking a few feet away. He could hear the tinny echo of the song playing in her ears, and it was a heavy, thrashing tune, not the kind of music he thought she would listen to.

Just as he was about to announce his presence, she started singing out loud…and he finally got to hear the voice he’d only been able to imagine for the past few weeks.

The clear, melodic alto rang through the office and he found himself responding to the sweet, rich tone. He was all of a sudden loathe to interrupt this moment…but the alternative was her opening her eyes and catching him spying.

He rapped his gloved hand against the glass panel of her office door.

The effect was almost comical. Her eyes flew open and she jerked in her seat; the movement dislodged her feet and they slid off the desk, catching the computer keyboard on the way down.

“Shit,” she exclaimed as the equipment clattered to the floor. She jumped to her feet, whipped her headphones off with one hand and pressed the other against her chest, glaring at him the whole time. “You scared the crap out of me!”

He worked hard to suppress his smile, both at her little slap-stick display and that glimpse of the fiery defiance he’d seen from her before. “Sorry,” he said.

She eyed him nervously. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to you about something.”

She bit her lip. She looked…worried…and not just because he’d surprised her with his presence. “What is it?”

“I’ve been asked to investigate a death. There’s a suspicion of homicide, so I wanted your professional opinion.”

She exhaled, looking almost relieved…and he couldn’t figure out why. Unless…did she think he was here to discuss their last encounter, when she’d saved his life? But why would she be nervous about that?

“Oh. Okay. Which death?”

Her question pulled him back to the matter at hand. “A woman named Jessica Harlow.”

She nodded. “I remember the case. Diabetic. Insulin overdose.” She took her seat again and clicked on some folders to bring up the relevant autopsy report. He moved closer to read the document over her shoulder. “Wait,” she said tilting her head back to look up at him. “Someone thinks its a homicide?”

The last time one of her cases had been questioned, she’d been affronted. Angry, even. This time, she just looked curious. “Is that possible?” he asked.

She looked back at the screen and scrolled through the report. “Yes, technically. All I was able to determine was that she had too much insulin in her system…how it got there is a matter of speculation. It was ruled accidental, because its a recognised complication of diabetes. And because there was no suspicion of foul play from the circumstances. She was alone, there were no abnormal injection marks…”

“But if someone tampered with her insulin bottles, there’d be no way to rule that out at autopsy?”

“That’s right.”

He nodded and straightened up. He was conscious of looming over her so he moved back to the doorway, and prepared to take his leave. “Thank you for your help.”

She swivelled in her chair to face him. “I don’t really feel like I helped all that much.”

“It was useful to get confirmation.”

She nodded and bit her lip again. It seemed to be a nervous tic of hers. Another piece to add to the picture…

He hesitated on the threshold, not sure whether to bring up the topic considering her earlier reaction…but he didn’t feel right leaving without acknowledging the events of last month. “Dr Carraway-“

“Beth,” she said quickly. “Call me Beth.”

“Beth,” he said, savouring the sound - it was the first time he’d said her name out loud. “Thank you. For…the junkyard. And what you did back then.”

“Oh,” she replied, looking a bit stunned. “I didn’t realise you knew that was me.”

“I should have thanked you sooner. I’m sorry about that.”

She shook her head. “I was just doing my job.” She pointed to the embroidered ‘Dr’ on her lab coat.

That was one question answered at least - she would have done the same for anyone. It wasn’t because it was him.

He didn’t know how he felt about that.

“Are you okay? I mean, were you okay? After that? You look okay now, but were you?” She screwed up her face at her stumbling question and he had to suppress the urge to smile yet again. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt like smiling so much.

“I was fine. Thanks to you.”

“Anytime.” She screwed up her face again. “I mean, not anytime, like I want you to be hurt again…but just that I was glad to help.”

He nodded at her rambling reply, glad he wasn’t the only one feeling uncomfortable. He wasn’t used to having conversations like this while under this mask - or at any time, really. “Goodnight then. Beth.”

“Goodnight,” she echoed quietly, and waved him goodbye.

He turned and left, melting into the shadows…where he finally allowed the smile to break over his face.

———

Beth looked at her raised hand and quickly dropped it down.

Why did she wave!?

What was she? Five?

Ugh, that was the single most awkward conversation of her life! She had no cool. She was utterly devoid of cool!

First she’d been nervous that his sudden appearance meant he’d figured out she was the sender of the letter. She’d been so relieved when he’d mentioned getting her help on the Harlow case - not only did he not suspect her, but he was taking her letter seriously. 

She’d managed to pull off the role of the clueless pathologist who was unaware that her case had possibly become a homicide…but then he’d thanked her. For saving his life.

And she’d become flustered.

Because she hadn’t realised he knew.

But he’d somehow worked it out, or he’d recognised her from last year; however it happened, the implication was that while she’d been thinking of him this past month…he’d been thinking of her too.

And that knowledge had turned her into a incoherent moron.

Which confirmed one thing.

She had a crush on Batman. Or Bruce Wayne...or whoever he really was.

Which was a disaster on so many levels.  

She’d always had a problem getting close to people.

She never had the typical high school experience - she was always known as the weird kid with no parents who had to leave class early all the time to see a shrink…which didn’t exactly put her at the top of anyone's dating list. Or even friend list.

She thought college might be different, since it gave her the opportunity to shirk her outcast status and begin fresh…but her gift-slash-curse always got in the way.

Within a few weeks of term starting, she became friends with a girl called Stacey Liu. Her first real friend. They were both pre-med and they would sit in lectures together and get coffee after class while they revised. But one afternoon, while handing Stacey her non-fat, oat milk latte, Beth’s fingers had brushed against hers…and she caught the stray thought flowing through Stacey’s mind: “This girl is dragging me down. I should have sat next to Ellie on the first day, then I’d be in her friend group and hanging with those guys instead.”

Beth had plastered on a smile and continued with the study session, but found excuses to avoid Stacey after that. Within days, she spotted her out with Ellie, as she’d apparently always wanted.

It was worse with boys.

Her first date ever was dinner with a guy named Tim. A nice guy…or so she’d thought. Until he’d kissed her at the end of the night and when she didn’t automatically drag him up to her dorm room for sex, she’d heard his internal sigh: “She’s one of those frigid virgins after all. Well, this was a waste of time.”

Then she dated a guy named Jake for a couple of weeks. It was a horrible thing to admit, but the big draw of Jake was that he was not the brightest student on campus. He was attending on a football scholarship, and his mind was usually filled with game plays that he was trying to memorise from practice…and very little else. It made touching him somewhat bearable, like always having ESPN on in the background.

Until she’d taken his hand one evening…and seen a replay of the afternoon he’d spent with a bartender named Amber. In bed. Naked.

She'd tried a few more times, with both female friends and potential boyfriends, but it always ended the same way. She heard or saw something she wasn’t meant to. Something that ate away at her self-esteem. Something that made her feel worthless and insignificant. Until she teetered on the verge of depression.

In an act of self-preservation, she’d removed herself from the realm of human connection. She kept herself apart from the world. Skin always covered up, never touching anyone unless it was necessary.

It was safer that way.

But it meant she was emotionally…stunted. She’d never moved beyond that freshman college experience.

So when faced with a man that she was attracted to…a handsome, intelligent, captivating, dangerous MAN, rather than an immature college boy…she’d gone to pieces.

She needed to get a grip.

It was never going to happen.

Even if there wasn’t the small matter of her powers and how impossible they made intimacy, she knew that he had feelings for someone else.

A woman named Selina Kyle.

She’d seen their interactions in his memories. She’d felt the desire that he harboured for her. The ache that her absence caused. And the hidden spark of hope that she would someday return.

His heart belonged to another.

So she needed to get her own under control…and forget all about him.

---------

CHAPTER 4

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Taglist: @hollandorks @grunge-n-roses5 @xmxrfx @neptunesands​ @caramelcandescence​​

If anyone else wants to be added, let me know!

#the batman #the batman 2022 #Batman #batman fic #The batman fic #Battinson #Battinson fic #bruce wayne/original character #bruce wayne/oc #batman/original character #batman/oc #my fic #just breathe

[unseemingowl]

Pairing: Selina Kyle/Bruce Wayne


Fandom: The Batman (Movie 2022)

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: Thank God We're Alive Sex, Selina POV, Dom/sub Undertones, Intimacy, Selina is little and Bruce likes that

Summary:

It’s when they both have their feet back on the ground that it makes her nervous, her palms getting sweaty at the way he trails after her up the stairs to her apartment, the way he looms over her as she unlocks the door, big and awkward and eager.

Selina and Bruce try to figure out how navigate their need to keep a distance and be intimate all at once.

#series: with our eyes closed #Batcat #batcat fic #Selina Kyle #Bruce Wayne #the batman #the batman fic #Battinson #my fic #my stuff