ducky-mae

[ducky-mae]

Sugar on the Rim I

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part

You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.

The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the gala rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.

Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.

Should you stand up? 

No, he’s rich, not royalty. 

You are in his house though—

He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.

You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”

“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed. 

“Arthur Mullins.”

He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”

You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.

You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.

There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”

“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.

He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”

“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.

He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.

Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”

“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”

“I don’t know anybody here.”

He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”

You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”

He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”

Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.

You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”

“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”

You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”

“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”

You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.”

“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. ���I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.

He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.

You check the time and realize that you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”

He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. “So should I.”

You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.

If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.

He follows after you, hands behind his back. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”

It’s busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.

You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget. 

A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.

You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.

He sways a bit, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”

It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”

You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.

You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”

He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”

You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”

He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”

You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”

“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”

He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.

You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”

He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”

“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is. 

He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” And then he just lets that sentence linger.

It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, “What do you think?”

You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.

He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”

You can’t manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.

Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways. 

The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.

You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty. 

“This way.” You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”

Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”

You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”

He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”

You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options. 

“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.

“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”

He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”

A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path. 

Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.

As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.

Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”

He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.

“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”

He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”

Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”

“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.

“I mean, of course, but it—”

He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”

Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit. 

You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”

“You don’t need to,” he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.

You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”

His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.

He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.

Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?

And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s not bad looking, but how is that your fault?

You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.

As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.

“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for. 

You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”

He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”

You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.

A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk. 

“Hello there, Miss.,” The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.

“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room. 

This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?” 

The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce. 

You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say, gesturing your wine glass up.

A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received. 

Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”

Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”

The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”

He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating computers.”

You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.

“What exactly is a self-operating computer?”

Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased. 

He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”

Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”

“And so you have.”

“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.

“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”

The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.

“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”

 “Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”

His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”

You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”

His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”

“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”

He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”

“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.

He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”

You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”

He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.

“I think we should go,” he says lower.

You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.” 

He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.” 

He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”

You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”

He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected. 

“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.

He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”

You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”

He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”

You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”

“Why did you show up last weekend?”

You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”

He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”

For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.

“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.

His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.” 

You shrug, “A day in the life,”

He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.

“Here,” he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress you’d chosen is so long.

Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.

It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.

He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” he murmurs.

Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.

You start to say something, though you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.

Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” 

God, he’s a professional.

You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.

He doesn’t.

You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”

He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”

“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”

His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”

You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”

Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”

His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”

You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”

You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”

He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much. 

“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours. 

Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”

He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms. 

He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.

He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”

Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.

“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence. 

“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.

It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”

He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”

That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for. 

He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”

You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex. 

Right?

He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.

You let him move you.

“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”

You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.

“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”

You blink at him, “I’m going home?”

“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”

You start to shake your head, “I can—” 

He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”

You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.

“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan. 

Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”

He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.

It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.

You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.

You’ll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.

He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.

You’ve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You don’t really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. They’re usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.

You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s easing up on you considerably.

You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.

“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.

“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.

You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”

“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.

“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”

“Later?”

“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”

He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”

You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.

“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.

“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.

You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”

He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”

You nod, looking down again.

“You’re nervous,” he comments.

“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.

He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.

You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”

He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”

“Bruce—”

He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”

He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”

Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to waver almost instantly.

You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”

“Two hundred.”

“Bruce.”

He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.

You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”

His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”

You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”

“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”

You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”

His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.

“I want to kiss you again,” he says, voice even quieter.

Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.

He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than you’d gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.

You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.

“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.

You groan, “Why?”

He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.

He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”

You sit back on your heels again, frowning.

He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”

You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.

🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽

[ducky-mae]

mr. and mrs. wayne (series) - updated 6/4/2024

snippets of bruce and y/n’s life as a married couple.

pairing: bruce wayne x f!reader (I interpret Mrs. Wayne as Latina but you’re welcome to picture her as you’d like!)

Mr and Mrs Wayne Playlist - Spotify

(will be tagged as ‘mr and mrs wayne’)

Headcanons:

They Get Interrupted™️

Surprise! It’s a Baby!

One-Shots & Drabbles: (in chronological order)

Falling for U

they first meet in college, and then again years later. 

Secret

bruce is keeping something from y/n, who is determined to find out what it is.

Yours

it was only a matter of time before y/n ended up falling for bruce, once again. so she decided to do the next best thing - move on.

Marry Me

in which bruce realizes something and decides to ask an important question

I Do

mr. and mrs. wayne get married.

Lovesick

in which mrs. wayne has a crush on mr. wayne

Dark Knight

at that moment, it wasn’t bruce who was speaking. it was vengeance.

Bump in the Road

mr. and mrs. wayne meet up at the hospital after an argument the night before.

Cherish You

definition: protect and care for (someone) lovingly. synonyms: adore, love. (alfred makes bruce realize something.) (second part of bump in the road)

So Damn Charming

in which mrs. wayne doesn’t want to admit that she’s jealous, and mr. wayne doesn’t realize how attractive he really is.

Alone With You

in which mr. and mrs. wayne wake up during a much needed vacation.

Mini Wayne

the wayne family prepares for the new arrival.

Perspective

alfred and dory just want mr. and mrs. wayne to make up already. (companion piece to ‘The Kiss’)

The Kiss

mrs. wayne extends an olive branch. (companion piece to ‘Perspective’)

Content

mr. and mrs. wayne enjoy some quiet time alone.

Aurora’s Adventure

aurora already had enough on her plate with her father scolding her. she did not need a vigilante to do so as well. 

Aftermath

aurora was expecting a second scolding, but this time from her father.

AU’s:

Soulmates

y/n just wants to know what her soulmate does in their spare time.

Dark Blue (Arranged Marriage AU)

mrs. wayne has a part to play. but that doesn’t mean she is happy about it. 

The Detective and The Bat

she wonders why those eyes and that jawline look so familiar.

join the taglist here!

request here!

[ducky-mae]

Heartwired Love

Pairing: Bale!Bruce Wayne x Engineer!Reader

Synopsys: When Bruce surprises Lucius with a visit to his department, he wasn't expecting to find a beautiful woman there. He asks about her and that's how he discovers she's not only pretty, but extremely talented, an engineer who's been working under him for years. He's immediately mesmerised.

Words: 6.1k words

Warnings: Not much, I'd say? There's a lot of fluff, and a lot of funny moments, and like, one suggestive moment? One twinge of angst, but it lasts like two minutes. Maybe some inaccuracies about engineering? I really don't know much about it so I kinda went with my gut and holy fuck I hope I don't get it wrong or upset / offend anyone.

A/N: Hey everyone!!! So, this is a funny story, because a while ago I got an ask. And I thought I was writing that ask, but turns out I got everything mixed up, and this is not really what my sweet anon requested of me. So, while I work on that piece, have what I ended up writing! I think it's rather fun. I'm sorry to my anon, I'll get started on their request right away!

I hope y'all enjoy this!!! <3

You were brilliant. 

In fact, if there was a word for anyone better than brilliant, that’d be you.

Bruce first saw you when he visited the Applied Sciences Department. He was quite sure Lucius was the only one who actually did any of the important work there, but boy was he wrong. 

He was just visiting the floor to ask Lucius for some help (his suit needed improvements), when he spotted you under a flurry of blueprints and reports. There was a pencil on top of your ear, and you were nibbling on another one as you erased something on the paper in front of you. 

“And who might this be?” He asked no one in particular, eyes trailing the way your eyebrows furrowed as you wrote and sketched away. 

You told him your last name, not even daring to look up. You were far too busy - a new particle reactor was being built, and it had fallen upon you to build its security system, something that’d keep the machine should it fall on the wrong hands. Bruce leaned over and looked at your sketches, observing the careless handwriting and the doodles and the little comments you had on top of each calculation. “Not good”, “doesn’t work”, “tested and failed”. 

“And how long have you been working for me?” He inquired once again, still looking over your blueprints. Your calculations were good - far too good. Where the hell had Lucius found you? 

“Lucius,” you mumbled, removing the pencil from behind your ear and drawing a big cross on top of whatever you were writing. 

“Excuse me?” 

“I work for Lucius, not you,” you said, not even bothering to look up. 

“Lucius works for me, though.”

“And I work for him.” Finally, you looked up, and what you saw did not surprise you. You knew Bruce Wayne’s voice, after all, Lucius did work for him, and you’d overheard them talking once or twice. You looked up to him immensely - he was an insanely smart man, you knew what he had achieved in your department (or at least you knew he had something to do with it), and you wanted to cause a good impression. It also did not help that he was extremely attractive, and you were afraid your body would betray you and give you away. It was nothing, really, just a small little crush. It was harmless, really, and you’d rather be noticed for your work, than anything else. You wanted him to see how smart you were, not notice just how much you admired him. 

“Are these for the particle reactor?” Bruce asked, leaning against your desk, hoping to hold eye contact with you for a little longer. He liked that look on you, that focused gaze of yours. It reminded him of himself. 

You nodded and shook your head with a sigh. 

“I’m working on the security system. But so far, it’s been a bust. I can’t find any combinations that allow Wayne Enterprises full access to the system. Full and only. I'm trying to come up with an algorithm that’ll prevent third parties from accessing whatever services the reactor might have, but it’s tough.” Bruce nodded. 

“How long have you been at it?” 

“Two weeks, give or take. I managed to write a short thing for the opening sequence, but that’s about it. I still have to come up with the rest, and it’s killing me.” You leaned backwards in your chair and stretched, letting out a groan. “And my back hurts like a bitch.” 

Bruce chuckled ever so slightly - he wasn't used to this kind of honesty and openness right off the bat. He supposed anyone who worked under Lucius’s supervision would be just like him, honest and truthful. 

“How about you take a break?” He crossed his arms, tilting his head. You looked away - was that the famous Wayne Charm he put on every time you watched him on television? You weren't going to be fooled. You didn't want to be just a number on his list. You admired this man far too much to get your heart broken by him - not to mention your job at Wayne Enterprises was a dream, and you did not want to risk that. Did all of that even make sense?

“Mr. Wayne, I don’t think I can afford the luxury of taking breaks,” you chuckled, turning back to your blueprints. 

“And if it’s an order?” 

“You wouldn't do that. You have far better things to do than order some random nobody to take a break.” 

“You don’t seem like a nobody to me.” 

“Up until today you didn't even know who I was, and I've been working for you for about two years.” 

“For me.” “Huh?”

“You said you were working for me.” 

“Under Lucius.” 

“Same difference.” 

You chuckled at his smugness and let your eyes return to his handsome face. The magazines did not lie - he was even better-looking in person. Sharp jawline, chocolate-brown eyes, he was an absolute dream, and he probably knew it too. Which is why it felt wrong to be laughing along with him. You didn't want to taint the image of Bruce Wayne you had in your head. He seemed like an airhead in public, but you knew just how much he did and contributed to your department - not every airhead can do that. The little crush you’d allowed yourself to develop should remain just that - a crush. People say never to meet your heroes - well, you didn't want to date them either. You thought it would end just as badly. 

“Looking at security algorithms all day isn't going to make you come up with them faster. Take a break. I know a nice coffee place not far from here, I'm sure it’d help. And after that, if you want to, you can come back here, drown in blueprints, and never be disturbed again.” 

You eyed him curiously, raising an eyebrow. 

“Why?”

“Because you look like you’re a sketch away from having a mental breakdown, and despite what everyone says, I do care about my employees’ health.” 

You weighed your options. 

You could either get coffee with your super hot, super intelligent, super incredible boss, maybe talk to him a bit about your work and prove that you’re an amazing employee, or - 

Yeah, it’s not really a hard choice, is it. 

That's how you got yourself seated across from Bruce Fucking Wayne, yapping away about your ideas and projects. And surprisingly, he drank up every single word. 

As cliché as it might sound, the rest was history. 

Bruce took a liking to you almost instantly. You were so smart, so full of ideas and so innovative. It also helped that you were strikingly beautiful, and that he felt himself drawn to you every time you were near. 

You allowed yourself to fall for Bruce. Slowly, but you did. Only after he proved to you that he was a good person, that he was nothing like the man people saw on TV and gossip magazines. He was more, much more than that. He was extremely intelligent, being an incredible match for whenever you wanted to discuss any new technological advances, and a very good conversation partner. It helped you two had a shared interest in applied sciences - soon, spending time together also doubled down as him giving you a hand with your projects, and you with him. 

It was a win-win situation. You enjoyed spending time with him, he enjoyed spending time with you. You liked doing a good job, he liked helping you. It was perfect. 

And it wasn't just about work, of course, you just liked being with him, in his presence. He was comforting and so very funny, and your heart could about burst with joy whenever he was near. 

You had that same effect on him as well. During company dinners, he started paying attention to you more and more, dragging you away to dark corridors and telling you jokes and anecdotes about other workers and people he disliked. He'd place his hand on your lower back and bring you close so you could hide your face in his chest and giggle into it. It felt natural to be in his arms, like nothing had changed and nothing ever would. 

About three or four months after you began talking and hanging out, he officially asked you to be his girlfriend. 

You knew it was a big deal - normal people could date and fool around all they wanted, but not Bruce Wayne. So when he took your hand and looked into your eyes, you knew it was serious. 

It had been a lovely evening. A dinner at some nice restaurant you’d always wanted to try but could not afford, a stroll in the park, and his sweet confession under the bright lights of Gotham. It was perfect, and you’d kissed him and thus sealed your romance. 

Work became easy to manage after that. You could often be found at Lucius's department, and were often buried with a thousand different projects, so you really didn't have the time to miss Bruce. It's not like you didn't miss him as a whole - simply that you knew the both of you had business to tend to, and the quicker you got it done with, the quicker you could meet up after.

But that’s not to say you didn't spend time together at work. Bruce visited you on your lunch breaks more than often, the two of you pressed against each other as you spoke and ate your respective meals. There was nothing Bruce wanted more than to bring you to his office and spend time with you there, but it was risky. No one knew you were dating, and it could mean trouble for your department and his company. You didn't mind it - your space felt like home, and having Bruce there just added to its charm. Besides, you felt like some sort of character from a movie, hiding your secret relationship with your boss from the entire world. Well, not the entire world. Lucius found the both of you quite often, shooting you Bruce a wink, and you a knowing smile, and telling his boss about how “real smiles look good on him” and how he should smile them more often. 

Speaking of home, you got to meet his. Bruce took you to his Manor a few days after you’d started dating. He wanted you to be around his place more often. Being Batman was lonely - being Bruce Wayne was even worse. He had to go home to an empty Manor pretty much every day, with only Alfred for company. And no offense to the older man, he had taken care of Bruce his whole life and he was extremely grateful for that. But the Wayne heir did not exactly want to come home to his butler sleeping on his bed, clad only in one of his shirts. It was a vision he never wanted to have. 

Instead, he gave you a set of keys and told you to make yourself at home. If you didn't know just how serious he was about the two of you, you wouldn't have accepted them. And it’s not like you’d be moving in right away - the keys were simply so you could come in and out as you pleased, spend some time with him, spend the night if you wanted to. 

He had rules, which you understood. No going in the piano room - that was his father’s old study and he did not want anyone in there. It seemed inviting, and the books on the shelves tempted you, but you did not want to break Bruce’s trust and never entered it. 

You made friends with Alfred rather quickly. You found the way to his heart was fixing the coffee machine he so loved and refused to replace. 

“Miss, with all due respect, do you know what you’re doing?” He’d asked in that low British voice of his, somewhat worried. 

“I promise you, it’ll be good as new.”

To your credit, it was. You'd fixed it after a few minutes, and Alfred marveled as the machine he’d tried to have fixed about seven times the past month worked flawlessly before him. When Bruce got home that day, the butler turned to him with a proud nod and declared you were the one for him. 

Bruce thought so too. 

That’s why he began planning how the hell he was going to break up with you before things got too serious. 

He knew he liked you - that much was obvious. He liked you very much. He liked you, and your personality, and your voice when you chastised him but also when you praised him and told him you loved him, loved your sarcastic sense of humour, loved the way you made his heart leap out of his chest with a simple smile. He thought of all the reasons that made him like you so much, and they only reminded him of why you couldn't be together. He couldn't have you in his life - not when he had a double identity, when he kept a secret as big as life itself. He couldn't drag you into his mess of a life. 

Which is why breaking up hurt him a thousand times more than it did you. 

He sat you down in his living room and spewed some bullshit about not being able to give you the future you wanted, something about not being a good person and you deserving better. He wasn't very clear, kept it short and concise, and confined himself to his bedroom after it was done so you wouldn't see him cry.

It broke your heart to say the least. You'd come to know this man and learned to love him so deeply, and to have all that happiness taken away from you was devastating. You wanted to follow him to his bedroom, ask why the hell he was doing that to you when you loved each other so much, when you were sure your love was stronger than any force in the world. 

But something inside you made you hesitate in front of his father’s study. You were told to never enter that room, but right now, all you wanted to do was go against each and every one of Bruce’s rules. You wanted to love him, to be with him, to go inside the stupid room and play the piano he told you never to touch. 

You walked inside, marveled at how pretty everything was, how right. Everything was in its right place, and the room seemed like a very soothing room to be in. You imagined yourself, sitting by the window, book in hand as you sipped your coffee. You could get used to that. 

Bruce clearly had no idea what you were up to, because if he did, he wouldn't have let you wander around the room, looking through bookshelves to find out what kind of reading his father did, and finding a weird contraption that seemed far too odd to belong to a bookshelf. That sort of mechanism belonged in doors, in gateways, in entrances - more specifically, to the kind of hidden doors Lucius’s office had. 

Bruce clearly had no idea what you were up to, because if he did, he would've found you as you figured out how the hell to open that mysterious door that posed as a bookshelf, and would've stopped you before you could enter the elevator inside. 

Perhaps he shouldn't have let an engineer and a technology prodigy alone in his most forbidden room. 

Bruce clearly, most assuredly had no idea what you were up to, because if he did, he wouldn't have let you wander around his cave, eyes wide in surprise and amazement. You looked around, wondering why the fuck your boyfriend had a whole ass dungeon to yourself. So you got busy. And it didn't take much for you to understand exactly just what the fuck was happening there. 

You looked through the blueprints, through the prototypes, through the endless stashes of papers. You eyed every sketch for gloves and utility belts, and confusion clouded your brain until your eyes laid on top of a cowl. A very familiar one.

Holy shit. 

Your boyfriend is Batman. 

And then suddenly, everything clicked into place. 

The weird schedules, the missed dates, the exhaustion, the odd bruises you managed to get glimpses of. 

The breakup. 

It all made sense now. 

And when Alfred confronted you a few minutes later, having found the secret entrance to the cave open and having quickly followed inside, you frowned and asked out loud why Bruce had hidden such a thing from you. 

“I think that is something you should discuss with Master Wayne himself,” was what he’d told you, and you were quick to cradle the cowl next to you and run back upstairs. 

You knocked on Bruce’s bedroom door incessantly, and for a while you thought he had gone out or abandoned you for good, but after an assertive “I know who you are”, he opened the door at the speed of light, eyes widening once he took note of the cowl tucked under your elbow.

It was an extremely awkward conversation - for him, that is. 

While half of you was freaking out because your boyfriend (you refused to call him your ex. You were not breaking up with Bruce Wayne.) was the fucking Batman and he’d never told you, but the other half told you that everything wasn't always what it seemed, and that you should let him explain himself. 

He did, very awkwardly. He wasn't expecting you to find out - not at all. So, this whole “you-found-out-i’m-a-masked-vigilante-after-i-broke-up-with-you” atmosphere was one he was simply not used to. And he hated it! He’d just told you a bunch of bullshit about the two of you not being able to be together - somewhat true - and he’d tried to erase you from his mind. And now you were sitting in front of him while he tried to explain everything to you. 

It took a while to settle in, but once it did, it was easy to understand why he did what he did. He told you how afraid he was to lose you, should any of the criminals he fought against get a hold of any personal information on him. He told you about how it was already hard enough to trust Alfred, the man that had raised him his entire life, the man he saw as a father figure, too afraid something would happen to him. The more you knew about his double-life, the more it’d put you at risk. 

Still…

You grabbed a nearby pillow and hit your boyfriend on the head repeatedly. 

“You - “ HIt. “Are - “ Hit. “Such - “ Hit. “An - “ Hit. “Asshole!” Hit. “What the hell were you thinking!” You hit him once again for good measure and he removed the soft weapon from your hands, tired of being hit. 

“I was thinking that I had to protect you.” Bruce said calmly. He’d be lying if he said a massive weight hadn't been lifted off his shoulders. He loved you, truly. He wanted to keep you safe and away from harm and away from him, from Batman, from the one figure that could doom your life forever. But he also trusted you and wanted to share everything that was his with you. He wanted to show you everything, to show you who he truly was and what he did and just trust you because it felt so nice to have someone like you. Someone he could trust. “You shouldn't be with someone like me, with someone that could endanger you so easily.” 

“I think I can make that decision by myself,” you retorted, reaching for the pillow again. When it was clear Bruce was not relenting it to you, you scoffed and playfully pushed at his chest. “You're an idiot, Bruce. I thought you didn’t love me anymore.” It seemed like a playful remark, but Bruce could make out the sadness in his voice, and kicked himself mentally for causing it. 

“How could I not love you anymore?” He asked, caressing your cheek with his hand. “You’re everything to me. That's why I was willing to let you go, so you could be happy.”

“I can’t be happy without you,” you mumbled. 

“You'd learn how to. Find some nice man with no secret identities, who spent his night doing something normal like puzzles or crosswords, whose life would never put you in harm’s way.” 

“Puzzles? Crosswords?” 

“As long as he didn't go outside dressed like a bat, I'd be happy.”

“But I don’t want that. I want you.” 

Bruce sighed and looked away, but his hand never left your face. 

“You shouldn't. It’s not good for you to be with me. Hell, look at me. I'm Bruce Wayne. my whole life is under scrutiny and the public eye is merciless. How can I willingly let you be put under a microscopic lense just like I am?” 

“That’s not your choice to make, Bruce, and you know it. I don’t mind. I don’t care whatever I go through, as long as I go through it with you,” you held his hand with your own, and placed a few soft kisses on his. 

“Still. You just saw my cave. That's not exactly boyfriend material now, is it?” 

“I’d say a sex dungeon is worse.” 

This earned a chuckle out of him, and for a brief moment, he got lost in your gaze, as he often found himself getting. 

“Only you could make me laugh at moments like these.”

“And I'll be here too do that for many more years to come.” You scooted over, and wrapped your arms around his neck. “Just… Don’t shut me out, Bruce. I love you. We can do this together, and I'll be fine, I promise. And honestly, you don't even have much of a choice here, because you said yourself you didn't want to break up with me, so, well, there’s no real reason to do it.” 

He sighed, and after a while, nodded. He was allowed to be selfish, wasn't he? To take you for himself, to allow himself the comfort of being loved. 

He didn't have much of a choice, it seemed. You were intent on being with him no matter what, and despite a little voice in his head telling him that was a terrible idea, he let himself smile and agree to whatever you had to say. He always would, really. 

“So you just weren't going to let me break up with you?”

“Pft,” you scoffed, kissing him softly. “I wasn't. You’re mine now, Wayne. Or should I call you Dark Knight from now on? You gonna save me or something, Batman?” You chuckled slightly and something dark flashed in Bruce’s eyes. With one swift motion, he had you pinned down to the mattress, and your giggles had evolved to full on laughter. 

“Pretty cheeky, aren't we today?” He asked with a soft smirk, the one you recognised not from the tabloids and the gossip magazines, but from time spent with you. “You seem awfully into roleplay.” 

“Nothing of the sort. Just wondering if having a goal such as rescuing the fine maiden would improve your performance.” 

“Improve my performance, huh?” 

Bruce reached down to spread your legs and slot himself in between them. 

“We’ll see.” 

Now that Bruce could be completely open with you, life was good. 

He'd no longer come home to an empty Manor and even emptier bed, but you working on some sort of new prototype by the fireplace, or reading about some new technological advancement in bed. Such sights made his heart melt. It was all worth it. The sleepless nights, the bruises, the exhaustion. It was all worth it for you. 

Your time together went by quickly, and before you noticed, you were celebrating your second year as a couple. It was a lovely celebration, quiet and private - the way you two liked - a nice dinner by the river, music, some champagne, promises of a future together, and a question to move in with him. 

The answer was more than clear. You already spent a lot of time at his Manor, so moving in felt natural and comfortable. You wanted this. Wanted to move in with the love of your life, wanted to wake up to his lovely face every day, wanted to teach him how to make coffee and laugh as he gets it wrong after all this time, want to massage the knots caused from stress off his shoulders, wanted to be with him at all possible times. 

Moving in was extremely fun. You had some stuff from your apartment that you simply had to keep. Old memorabilia or some furniture you were super attached to. Items and clothes and such. But aside from that, you simply sold everything else and began your life inside Wayne Manor. 

It was great. It was perfect, even. Bruce still came home rather late sometimes, and he still cancelled your days ever so often, but at least you knew where he was, what he was doing. Sometimes, you’d go down to the cave and talk to him, ask him how patrol was doing through the intercoms and ask him to drive home safely. He always complied. 

One night, he came home to you fiddling with some of his old grapple gun prototypes. Useless, he thought them, having only kept those for spare parts. 

“What’re you doing?” Bruce asked, walking up to you as he removed his cowl. 

You smiled. Seeing him in his suit did things to you - it reminded you he was the just vigilante that kept Gotham safe, risking his own life for others, of course - and you gave him a head to toe look, clearly enjoying the view. 

“Working on something,” you said simply. 

Your boyfriend walked up to you, looking over your latest creation. It was still his old grapple gun, and yet it looked different. 

“I implemented two other grapples.” You handed him the object, crossing your arms over your chest. “Was a bit tricky, but I managed to do it. The line is strong to handle five times your body weight now, and you can use it not only to holster yourself up in the air, but also pull heavier objects towards you. What do you think?” 

Bruce took the gun in his hands and examined it. It was slightly heavier, but you’d managed to keep it small and efficient. It would be of extremely good use. 

“Thank you,” he smiled, pressing a kiss to your head. “You're brilliant, really. What would I do without you?”

“Probably die in a ditch.” 

“Probably.” 

At first it was hard convincing him that it was totally okay for you to help him in his endeavours as Batman. You told him over and over again that there was nothing wrong with it. You weren't out there, you weren't actually out there, it’s not like you were in danger. No one could hurt you so long as you were in the safety of your shared home. After a few helpful tips and some upgrades on his gadgets, Bruce relented. 

And it was when you began to slack off at work that he realised that something had to change. He'd find you asleep on the job, too tired from having spent the night working on some new concoction for him. You couldn't keep your eyes open during meetings, and would fall asleep during every single ride you took. 

You told Bruce you were fine, of course. You'd been a college student once, and you’d survived. This was nothing. Still, your too sweet boyfriend would force you to stay home for days on end just so you could get some rest. He needed you not only safe, but also healthy, even if his demands for you to take a break were met with groans and eye rolls.

One night when you were huddled up in bed, you confided in him that you loved helping him out as Batman. It was a way for you to be involved in his life, do something nice for the city, and put your inventions to test. 

That's when he came up with the idea. 

It took a while for him to confess it, after all, he knew how much of a hardworking woman you were. You wouldn't simply abandon your job to help him out, now would you?

To his surprise, you did. 

You loved the idea as much as him. Sure, you loved your job at Wayne Enterprises, and were extremely proud of what you had achieved so far. But you had to admit you were stretching yourself too thin. Between your job and your little side gig, you had no real time to rest and it was killing you. So, you accepted. 

You handed in your resignation letter to your boss, billionaire Bruce Wayne (who smiled and spun you around in the air as he kissed you. You teased him about his lack of professionalism and he reminded you the company was his with a pat on your backside.) and headed home.

From then on, you made being Batman’s sidekick (a title he hated, really. You were much more than just a sidekick) your full-time occupation. You had your hobbies, sure, and your interests, and you went out with friends and made the most out of your life. Only this time, instead of working a 9-to-5 job at your boyfriend’s company, you remained inside his cave, crafting new objects and tools for him to use during his nightly duties. 

You created an explosive gel for him, a tool he could use to blast doors down and even stun enemies with. You were quite proud of that one, laughing loudly when you heard him use it for the first time through the intercoms. All you’d heard was a loud “boom”, and Bruce’s voice muttering a husky “fuck”. That was how you knew you’d done a good job. 

The Remote Control Batarang was one of your finest inventions. Bruce first asked you what he hell he needed a remote control Batarang for (he also hated the name Batarang - truly, no fun), but it proved to be useful real quickly. 

“You have two men to your left, one of them has a gun, the other has a bat.” Chuckle. 

“Very amusing,” Bruce whispered. 

“I think it’d be a good time to try the remote control Batarang,” you said, eyes flicking between the screens in front of you. “The one with a gun seems confident, but the other one not so much. If you tackle him down, he’s sure to not put up a fight.”

“You were dying for me to use this, weren't you?”

“So much.” 

You heard him remove the Batarang from his belt, and the few beeps informed you he was done setting it up. The slight woosh as the object cut through the air, and a distant man’s scream of agony was enough for you to know you’d succeeded once again. 

“Now who doesn’t need a Remote Control Batarang?” 

“Don’t call it that.” 

“Love you too. Coast is clear though, go ahead.” 

Maybe the Shock Gloves were your favourite. They were a quick and easy way for your boyfriend to stun his enemies and leave them unconscious long enough for him to do whatever he had to, while not taking their lives. 

You took Bruce’s no killing rule extremely serious. While you thought some of the people that terrorised Gotham most certainly deserved a fate worse than prison, you thought it was noble of him never to take a life for himself. His moral code was commendable and something you loved about him. 

And it goes without saying that after you finished the first prototype for the shock gloves, you made a smaller, daintier tool that allowed you to playfully shock people when you greeted them. Alfred was your first victim and later that evening, he cut off your hot water in retaliation. Touché. 

Your freeze blasts were quite useful as well. He'd used them only a handful times, but as long as he did and they helped, that's all that matters. 

Sometimes, Bruce would come home in the late hours of the night (or perhaps the early morning), and find you doubled over your desk, sketching prototypes or putting pieces together. 

It warmed his heart to see you were working so hard just for him, but tugged at it because you needed sleep. You needed rest, and here you were, working away for him. Creating new “toys”, as you’d so often call them. 

“What’re you still doing up?” He asked one particular night/morning, after having taken off his suit, and resting his head on the juncture between your shoulder and your neck. You sighed at the gesture - after such a tiring day,Bruce’s comfort was all you needed. 

“Working,” you mumbled, fingers moving with dexterity, tugging and twisting at some cables. 

“Isn't it a bit too late for you to still be working?” He replied against the skin of your shoulder. 

“Isn't it a bit too late for you to be coming home?”

“I’m not working anymore though. Coming to bed.”

“Are you? Goodnight then.”

Bruce shook his head and you could feel his brown locks brushing against your skin, tickling you. 

“Look at how far we’ve come. I used to be the one abandoning you in bed.” 

“You're lucky I found a new hobby.”

“Hm.”

You remained in silence for a while as Bruce watched you work. He had no idea what this new contraption of yours was, but he was sure it’d be brilliant, as they all were. As you were. 

“This,” you said, voice only above a whisper, as if to not distract you, “Is a remote electrical charge.”

“Interesting.” What was interesting though, was that he began pressing kisses to the column of your neck, hands wandering to your waist. “I can’t wait for you to tell me all about it tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes. Because now, we’re going to sleep.”

You scoffed. 

“I have to finish this Bruce, I'm sorry.”

“You’re stubborn. So very stubborn. Why did I hire you anyway?”

You turned to face him and feigned a thoughtful expression. 

“Because I'm really hot and you love me?”

“Damn it. Both of those are true.”

You chuckled and leaned in to kiss him, sighing as soon as his lips slotted against yours. You'd never get tired of kissing your boyfriend, that was for sure. 

“Fine,” you mumbled. 

“Hm?”

“Take me to bed, Batman.”

“No. No Batman here. With you, I'm Bruce.” 

“And that's what I love the most about you.” You smiled and lifted your arms, a silent plea for him to carry you. He rolled his eyes but did so effortlessly nevertheless, happy to obey your every command. And he of course was a sucker for having you near him at all times. 

“Let’s take a shower first. You reek, Batguy.” 

“Whatever you say.”

Needless to say, the Remote Electrical Charge was extremely efficient. 

You were the perfect pair, really. 

Although you joked about being Bruce’s sidekick, you felt more like a partner, really. You'd go and make the tools, he’d go out there and use them to kick some ass. It was a perfect situation. A win-win. And you didn't mind not working at Wayne Enterprises anymore, not really. You still visited Lucius often, and, when you weren't too tired, you’d help him out with certain projects. Your ideas and skills had only gotten better after all the things you’d help build, and your former boss appreciated the effort. 

You helped Bruce with pretty much everything. 

Helped improve his suit, fixed his car (more than once), his motorcycle, and even made a few prototypes for other means of transportation. He’d tested everything from jetpacks, to something that weirdly resembled a rocket and a flying suit. There really was no limit to your imagination. 

Your life as Bruce’s girlfriend was eventually discovered, shortly after you two moved in together, and you decided to take in a “secret” identity, just as he did. To the public, you were Bruce Wayne and his dumb girlfriend who spent her days inside his mansion, sunbathing and spending his fortune. To those who knew you better (so, like, about two or three people), you were the Caped Crusader and his inventor girlfriend. 

Although that title didn't stick for long, because after a few years, Bruce asked you to marry him. 

That’s when you became his inventor wife. 

And that was a life you were happy to lead. 

A/N: And that's it!!! I hope you guys enjoyed this! Once again, I'm so sorry to my anon. I've been super busy and tired, and I got the requests mixed up. If it helps, I really enjoyed writing this - Bruce and an engineer girlfriend who builds stuff for him sounds like a pretty cool idea.

Well then, that's all for today!!!

I hope y'all have a wonderful day ahead <3

[ducky-mae]

I’m not sure if I’m doing this right I’ve never done an ask before. Would you consider writing an autistic! fem reader x tasm! Peter Parker please? Maybe like they go to a place that’s focused on her special interest? Or her stimming? Or sensory overload and he’s trying to help her stim in a way that doesn’t hurt herself? No pressure either way, just wondering. Thx 🫶🏼

you wrote this wonderfully love, thank you for the request <3 i hope this is to your liking

tasm!Peter Parker x fem!autistic!reader ༊ 1.5k

cw: overstimulation/sensory overload, harmful stimming/skin-picking, reader has mean thoughts about themself/their disability, maybe some not-so-great friends

You could still see the mixture of expressions on your friend's faces when you decided to leave early. The pity and concern for your state, telling you to text them when you arrived home. And the relief—you’d excused yourself quietly, you hadn’t fallen into a meltdown, and you hadn’t asked them to go with you.

You had wound yourself up tight to steer clear of becoming an inconvenience to them

It had worked.

They would be on their way to the author meet and greet to get their books signed. Already there, even. While you hadn't even made it through the coffees beforehand.

It was all so unfair.

For the past few weeks, you had been strung with anticipation. The knowledge that you were going to meet the author of one of your favourite book series and have them sign a copy had buzzed in your veins. But no—your brain had to work against you, your body had to protest an ability to regulate itself.

Now you were sat in the dark, curled up atop your bed, a weighted blanket thrown over your head to encapsulate you in solitude. All without having attended the awaited event.

It was unfair, cruel, and wrong.

And everything was so loud.

Had your quilt always made a scratching sound when your arm rubbed against it? Did the floorboards in the apartment above yours always creek even with the softest footsteps? When had the fridge started humming so loud you could hear it through the closed bedroom door?

Why wouldn’t it all shut up?

You had already switched off all the lights to cease the burning in your eyes, and the humming their wires made. Your phone was dead too—you couldn’t stand to hear the buzz of the charger as it worked.

Perhaps it was wrong to let your phone lie dead. How were you to contact anyone if something were to happen? How were they to contact you if there was an emergency?

It didn’t matter.

There weren’t any emergencies. Your blinds were drawn closed, your eyes were squeezed shut, and your body was coiled inwards. You were nothing but a small dot on a very loud planet where time was all too slow and so very quickly all at once.

“Angel?” he whispered in a murmur that was right there.

Even without touching you his warmth radiated into you through the thick blanket. His presence was all-consuming as he stood over you.

“Are you asleep?”

If only. Perhaps then your brain would be quiet. Or maybe the world would be. It was hard to tell which was causing you more pain. Both, perhaps. The world—society, refused to accommodate people like you.

“It’s too early to sleep,” you murmur through a mouth that feels stuffed with cotton.

His foot shuffled on the floor. “It’s almost midnight,” Peter says. “Do you know how long you’ve been under there?”

Perhaps if you weren’t a battery leaking all its charge your eyebrows would pull themselves together and your lips would purse. But your face stayed frozen in its dead expression. All you could muster was to heavy-handedly push the blanket away from your face to glare at the curtains.

No sunlight tried to seep out from under them. The bedroom was entirely dark now, a cloud of inky black that began to soothe a persistent ache in your head.

“When did it get dark?”

Peter inhales sharply. At your question, or maybe you look as bad as you feel. It would’ve been more enjoyable to drag yourself through a hedge attached to a run-away dog.

“Around six. I didn’t know you were home—I would’ve come back if I’d have known-”

“That would have sucked.”

Your words were as blunt as a well-used pair of scissors.

“I think this is one of those situations that sucks either way,” Peter suggests. “At least I could’ve dealt with some of the sucky-ness too.”

Rolling your head to the side, you looked up at him.

His mask was discarded somewhere out of your sight, the rest of him clothed in his spandex vigilante suit. His hair stuck up in odd directions like he had run his fingers through it recently.

What ached was the exhaustion lining his face.

Did you do that? Or had it been a rough patrol?

You had to be contributing either way.

He must’ve wanted to come home and collapse into his bed, and sleep deeply before he had to get on with his dual life again in the morning. Not find you curled up in the centre of it all—a dazed mess who wasn’t even entirely sure how long they’d been there.

“You were busy,” you tell him. “Was it busy?”

Peter shakes his head. “They all seemed to lack brain cells tonight. A pity, really, I was using some of my best quips.” He smiles as he speaks and you wish you could reciprocate.

“Like what?”

“I dubbed one guy ‘Elvis’. It was the hair.”

You nod your head slowly. “Swooshy?”

“Very.” Peter lowers himself down to sit on the edge of the bed, reaching a hand under the blanket to encase one of yours. It's cold when he pulls it into the open air, toying with your fingers. “I take it you didn’t go to the book signing?”

Your lips do pinch together then and he nods.

“Did anyone bring you home?”

He’s not going to like it. Peter glances over his shoulder at you as you shake your head. And it’s like igneous rock the way his eyes seem to harden for a moment. Then they turn molten again, drifting over your face with a sincerity that could turn you to ash.

“And you’ve been lying here for at least half the day?”

“Has it been that long?” you ask groggily.

“Presumably,” Peter sighs. “Where’s your phone?”

“Dead.”

He hums. One of his fingers smooths over the tip of one of yours and a burning sensation begins. Unthinkingly, you jolt your hand away from his, but he’s quick to reclaim it. This time it's his lips on your skin.

It still burns. But less.

“I didn’t realise I was picking,” you tell him apologetically. More sorry for the fact you did it than that you did it to yourself.

Peter has always seemed to have an inability to be disappointed with you. But that doesn’t mean you don’t fear the day he is. Even for something as small as picking at the skin around your fingers until they’re raw and bleeding.

In a mildly masochistic way, it grounds you. You don’t realise you’re doing it until it’s too late, but the feeling distracts you from other feelings inside of you. If you’re feeling something outside of yourself, the inside feelings become lesser.

It’s better than the way you used to hit your thighs and whack your head on a wall.

“We’ll get some aloe and band-aids on them,” Peter says, reaching for your other hand. You offer it up, knowing the damage is done now. “At least you didn’t pick your face too.”

No. That you didn’t do, at least.

“My fingers are going to be sore tomorrow,” you frown. You focus on the feeling of his skin against yours instead of the burning at the tips of your fingers.

“We can make them better.”

It’s impossible not to sigh then.

He always says that. We. We can make it better.

As if it was his problem that you were unable to regulate yourself properly. Instead ending up a burrito in blankets, hiding in darkness, finding ways that are ultimately damaging to fight through your waves of emotions. And the heaviness of the outside world.

“Peter,” you whisper.

“Pretty girl. Let me take care of you.”

“Pete.”

He twists, bending one leg beneath him so he’s facing you. If you were less boneless you would move over so he could properly sit on the bed.

The thought dissolves as his lips press to your forehead. The crease at the side of your eye. Your cheek. Your nose.

It’s a deep breath of clean air as the world goes silent when his lips glide against yours. He’s still holding both of your hands in one of his, the other keeping his weight from collapsing down onto you.

“Don’t argue. We can have a bath, I’ll sort your fingers, and it’ll all be fine.”

A harsh breath of air draws itself from you. “I’ll fall asleep in the bath.”

“I’ll be right there. I promise not to let you drown.”

Your eyes narrow. “That would be very un-Friendly Neighbourhood Spider-Man of you.”

“Extraordinarily. Do you want bubbles?” He asks against your lips.

“Unscented ones?"

He shrugs like it’s a given. “Stay here and look pretty while I run the bath, I’ll be back in a minute.”

And you freeze, making a mockage of his instruction to stay. You aren’t so sure if you look pretty, not with the carnage you feel inside, but if he says you are then you won’t argue.

Peter has a habit of getting pouty when you argue just how pretty you are.

[ducky-mae]

all the light we cannot see.

format. | one-shot.

pairings. | battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader.

warnings. | graphic violence, reader is attacked, attempted robbery, stalking, inexperienced!battinson, sexual tension, mutual pining, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f!receiving).

word count. | 7.9K. I went wild.

author’s notes. | I’ve been working on this since the release of the film, wanted to make it as good as I could despite my hectic schedule. Major Batman brainrot, if this is well-received, I will do a part 2. Expect Dano!Riddler content sometime soon.

a song to listen to while reading.

❝ That hollow shell he’s been living inside of, his fortress of carefully-constructed barriers, it all begins to crack. It’s rather terrifying, the idea of letting someone in, but he’s done for now, isn’t he? The way you look at him is invigorating, it’s electrifying — it makes him feel less like the Batman and more like a man. ❞

Within the pitch and gloom of a dreary Gotham City, a shadowed spectre lurks atop skyscrapers, lurks within every shred of darkness that falls across dimly-lit streets. Criminals know to fear that darkness, and that paranoia seems to cling to them — he senses it. A harbinger of violent justice, the knight of the nocturnal, the Batman. He’s a predator on the prowl, a vicious protector, a vigilante filled with an unbridled desire for vengeance.

Beware of the Batman — it’s spray-painted onto the brick walls of seedy alleyways and onto the drywall of rundown apartments where the scum and villainy of Gotham hide. Terror is struck into the hearts of all who decide to stay out past dark.

The city is rotting, decaying at a rate that seems far too steady for his liking. Each time he stops criminals, each time he’s pushed to the limit, he’d like to believe that the rot is being cut out — and it isn’t. It’s replaced by something else, something far more heinous than a few common thieves roaming backwater streets. Crime rates are soaring, breaking new records each and every day, and even the light in the sky can’t keep them all at bay.

Each night is just as turbulent and tempestuous as the last — he arrives home with an untold amount of bruises and shallow wounds that he shoddily nurses while he sits at his computer and lurks, relives it all over and over again. It all begins to blur together, night after night of endless fighting, only for a sliver of payoff.

Alfred is the mediator, the voice of reason, making attempt after attempt at nudging Bruce out of the shadows and into a healthier life, a life with socialization and human contact. He’s learned to push him just enough, but Bruce doesn’t listen. He’s consumed by some impermeable fog — consumed by the endless night, swarmed by his desire for justice.

He’s alone — he’s isolated.

He’s become nocturnal, like the creatures that only prowl at night, sinking their teeth into hapless prey — a rageful predator. Bruce is surrounded by darkness, allowing himself to become shaped by it, molded by it. He doesn’t need contact, it doesn’t sustain him in the way that his violent crusade for retribution does.

Bruce doesn’t heed Alfred’s advice this night — he entrenches himself in purging crime, striking fear into anyone who might cross his path of reckoning. It’s a very long and winding path, forged by blood and by the deliverance of reprisal.

Sheets of rain blow sideways, pounding against the many buildings that line Gotham’s inner city, some structures abandoned or dilapidated. Thunder shatters the skies with ominous rumbles, accompanying the signal in the sky — the warning. Lightning pierces across the black, cloudy skies, chasing after thunder with a steady pace.

It’s getting late, and you’re disheartened to find the chaotic state outside of the Gotham City Hall — the weather is horrible, dismal and torrential, but you have to get home. Your studio apartment is a few streets over, and on a normal day, the walk isn’t terrible.

Instinct and a gut feeling tells you to get a taxi, but you reluctantly go against such sensations.

Gotham is active at night, unusually so, a sprawling, scummy hive of unpleasant people and untold depravity. The sound of cars passing by on slick pavement is your ambiance, accompanied by the onslaught of constant rain, which slows down only slightly. Using your coat, you keep yourself covered from the downpour, but it’s ineffective as you make for home.

Vengeance follows from the rooftops above, his watchful eyes raking over you, unknowing and oblivious as you round the street corner. Your vulnerability makes you stick out, especially to his trained gaze — and if you’re vulnerable to him, you most certainly are to any danger lingering in the darkness.

This isn’t the first time that he’s followed you, either.

You’re a new face, a youthful aspirant, a fascination amongst a sea of corruption and exhaustion in Gotham’s political playing field. He knows little about you, only that you’re a rabbit unknowingly waiting to be swallowed whole by the wolfish jaws of vicious politicians and seedy personnel.

He wants to know more — he’s picked you apart at the seams, and with each walk home, Bruce likes to think that he’s learned something new. Every facet about you seems to invite him in involuntarily, as if he’s being drawn to something enticing.

To everyone else, you’re a target — you’re prey, something to be devoured. You’re somewhat timid but resilient, you’re charitable, and you’re blissfully oblivious of the plague that haunts Gotham City. To Bruce, you are the light that warms, the light that comforts, the spark that he follows. It’s a cocktail that he’s vastly unfamiliar with.

Admittedly, he’s gotten too curious, an insatiable itch to watch you make your way home. Intuition tells him to remain vigilant, ensure that you’re safe, but it goes against his better judgment. It makes him seem demented, lurking after you like this, but it’s in the name of safety — the underlying urge to protect you.

The deluge has soaked through your flimsy coat and you’re damp to the bone, your pace hasty. The cloaked castigator quietly slinks along the rooftops, an unreadable glower following after you with each step.

Even from a distance, your form quivers from the bitter bite of rain, cold droplets rolling off of your skin, sticking into your clothing with each sheet of icy deluge. Streetlights flicker overhead, coupled with the slats of faded moonlight that peek through a dreary, black overcast sky.

He doesn’t mind the rain — it’s an advantage, it masks any sound he might make, never slows him down. There’s a certain clarity he gains from this, from the tempestuous weather. As the thunderstorm rages on without any sign of stopping, water droplets roll from the leathery surface of his cowl, dripping like a waterfall from his cloak.

Each step is made with certainty — you round another street corner.

Underneath the tattered, shoddy cover of a building, you seek a temporary refuge from the rain, tugging your phone from the pocket of your skirt. Your digits move quickly across the glowing screen of your phone before you shove the device back into your pocket with some difficulty.

The Batman catches them before you do — a group of leering thugs, lingering across the street, far back enough for you not to take enough notice. There’s four of them, men without morals, expressions glistening with salacious intent. There’s an unrestrained fury that rips through his chest, the hunger for vengeance strikes again, blistering this time.

As you continue your trek, you decide to take a shortcut against your better judgment, slipping into a little alleyway masked by shadows, reeking of garbage and everything musty.

They begin to wander behind you, keeping their distance until you foolishly duck into the paved alleyway. He follows, a knight cast in black, shrouded by stealth as he leaps from rooftop to rooftop, adrenaline pumping through his veins.

You hear something rustle at the mouth of the alleyway, followed by footsteps. Startled by the noise, you suddenly swivel around, spotting the silhouettes of four strangers. The distance between you and them is beginning to grow slim — your heart hammers so fast that it nearly slams into your throat.

“Goin’ somewhere, sweetheart?” One of them croons, clucking his lips together in a series of mocking sounds.

“That’s the bitch from City Hall,” Another voice cuts in, malicious intent interwoven into his voice. None of them are friendly — their shadows are cast onto you by the momentary glimpse of moonlight, making your stomach lurch. “No cops out here, baby.”

Your legs feel heavy, as if anchored down by cinder blocks, and time seems to fall still. Fear grips you in a way that it never has before, and the reality of your unfortunate situation becomes all the more apparent. You consider running, kicking off your heels and dashing for the other end, but it seems futile.

The unmistakable terror in your face is delicious to these goons — they’re too close for comfort, only a few feet away, but the gap is closed as soon as a scream wrenches free from your mouth.

As a hand clasps around your face, you’re knocked to the ground, wind stolen from your lungs, head colliding with the soaked, uneven pavement. You feel dizzy, stomach rolling within your gut, bile rising within the back of your throat. An assailant is on your left side, covering your mouth to muffle your screams.

“Shut the fuck up,” He barks, attempting to rip your bag from your arms, “Shut the fuck up!” It’s desperate this time as he trains his eyes toward the rooftops — your attacker is searching for something.

“Grab the bag and go! What are we waitin’ for?” The third man snaps, and you scream again, violently thrashing against your assailant, attempting to bite at his hand. The fall stings, but the slap is what hurts the most, palm connecting with your cheek as you double over.

There’s another scream — and it isn’t yours.

A hulking shape drops into the alleyway, fists clenched, eyes kept trained upon the group of thugs. A dark knight, a dangerous vigilante that eclipses any sliver of light left in that narrow space. He’s the night — he’s an all-consuming abyss. You barely see him, but you see the whites of his eyes, the flesh exposed by the cut of his shroud, jaw tense with rage.

He moves like a battering ram, slamming his fist into the face of the man closest to him, using his body as collateral to toss him into the second attacker, who doesn’t stay grounded for very long.

Bruce is vicious, unyieldingly so — he doesn’t pull his punches, never executes an ounce of mercy. Each clash of fist to flesh is brutal, accompanied by the visceral sound of bones breaking, bodies being battered by his fury. He grounds the second attacker with a knee to the jaw, rendering him on the verge of unconsciousness.

His cape snaps behind him, fluid like moving liquid, dancing to his movements as he dismantles your assailants with ease. They aren’t practiced — they’re opportunistic, sporadic and incompetent without any planning. They land a few good hits, but none of them are enough to phase the Batman. They’re all weak, they’re nothing.

You’re filthy and disheveled, bleeding from the back of your head and from your lip, cheekbone beginning to flourish with the first inklings of a dark bruise. Crawling away from the violence, you almost feel too weak to stand, helplessly reaching for the base of your skull, the source of a constant throbbing.

From the corner of your eye, you watch this stranger beat down the attacker that struck you, slamming his fist into his face repeatedly until he’s out cold, bloody and nearly unrecognizable. Flesh meets the cold ground repeatedly, again and again.

It’s a terrifying display of strength, of prowess, but you don’t feel afraid — you’re uncertain, instead. Gotham’s caped crusader is very real, once a rumor, now standing before you, surrounded by the defeated bodies of your assailants. They’re still breathing, but they’re beyond broken.

A coppery, pungent smell begins to intermingle with the wet asphalt and foul garbage, both the blood of thugs and your blood. Bruce knows that you need a hospital, more than likely, but he can’t bring himself to take you there.

He meets your doe-eyed, bewildered stare, the fearlessness that burns within your gaze. You seem appreciative without vocalizing it, but you’re weak — you’re likely concussed, and he catches the scent of blood on you as he steps closer.

Words coagulate within your throat and his, and whatever he intended to say seems to die then and there. He wanted to comfort you, ask if you were alright, but he didn’t — he was as silent as a tomb, coming to hunch in over you.

In the shadow of the Batman, you’re offered another respite from the rain. You reach for him, this impenetrable scion of darkness, trembling hands grasping haplessly at his chest. He keeps your upper half suspended from the ground, listening to the erratic pattern of your breathing.

He’s there to keep you safe, intense stare boring into yours, and you shiver in response. Your vision is steadily becoming blurry, ears ringing, head pounding — you don’t say anything, only letting out some pitiful whimper as you succumb to unconsciousness.

Strong arms are there to catch you, sweeping you up without hesitation. You’re limp, skin cold to the touch, lips a shade paler. He shields you as best as he can from the rain, retrieving your bag from a shallow puddle before departing into the bleak night, the shadow of an eclipse.

Impulsivity — that was the only term needed to explain why he’d brought you home instead of a hospital. He wrapped you up in his cloak, gently placing you into the passenger seat before heading back. Alfred was aware of the situation, of him bringing you back to a place so sacred and secret to him.

Brought into the darkness of Gotham’s vengeful guardian, Bruce let Alfred handle stitching you up. The wound on the back of your skull was shallower than he thought, but the bruises and scrapes you endured almost seemed as countless as his own, only you didn’t bear the scars as he did.

You would bear them after tonight.

“Why?” Alfred inquired, shifting his weight toward that of the mahogany cane, his gaze momentarily flickering toward you, asleep on the chaise lounge.

Silence hung between both men — even Bruce was unsure of his decision to bring you here. Was it pity? Curiosity? Loneliness? That underlying desire to shield you from the untold horrors that lurked within the darkness? He didn’t know. Truthfully, he didn’t care to discover the answer for himself, either.

“I don’t know.”

Bruce’s admission was barely above a whisper, husky and hushed as if he were sharing a secret. He remained inside of the suit, stuck within the guise of vengeance. He didn’t know if he wanted you to see him as Bruce Wayne, as the orphaned son whose family legacy was smeared all over Gotham City.

Maybe he wanted you to see him as the man who saved your life, the man who would protect you.

Alfred’s theory was different and far more straightforward — Bruce was undeniably lonely.

His loneliness bled through, clear as day, yet he continuously pushed it down for the sake of the city, for the sake of everyone else. Attachment was fear — the fear of losing what was closest to him. That was why he closed himself off, trapped himself beneath a mask, isolated himself, all to avoid a very simplistic yet harrowing premise.

It was Bruce’s greatest fear, a trepidation that gripped him tightly. The more he watched you, the more he began to wonder what it would feel like to open up to someone else — to bare his heart, to feel that pang of vulnerability. It was daunting, like some monster lurking in the darkness, waiting to strike.

He decided it would be better this way — better to keep himself at bay, keep Bruce Wayne away, stay behind the mask for your sake and for his.

Roused from your slumbering state, you were greeted with an environment most unfamiliar to you. It reminded you of some gothic castle, complete with pointed arches and rib vaults, ornate decor that seemed to look and feel completely ancient. None of this felt real — it was more akin to some dream you’ve had, but the dull pounding in your head brought you back into the present.

You were wrapped in something heavy, something dark and slick — it didn’t feel like a blanket, it lacked the softness of one. An orange glow crackled from a roaring hearth, a fireplace that seemed to be ripped straight from a storybook, lined in beautiful masonry. Considering the chill of the rain, the fire was appreciated, and whatever you happened to be draped inside of.

Soaked to your very bones, your clothing hasn’t dried very much, uncomfortably clinging to your flesh, feeling heavy with water. A constant chill licks across every inch of your body, goosebumps collecting at the base of your spine, causing you to shiver in the midst of the open flame, fingers curling into the material you’re swaddled in.

Peeling the cloak aside, your eyes have fully adjusted, no longer groggy or fringed with a blur as they were before. It’s still dark outside, the thunderstorm having calmed to a mere monsoon of rain instead. Inside of this hallowed citadel, there isn’t a sound — an eerie silence is what follows, save for the lull of the weather outside.

That’s when you see him — the shadow.

Off to the left of the fireplace, your savior lingers there, his eyes hauntingly bright beside the raging flame. You gasp, startled by his lack of reaction, lack of announcing himself. A shiver grips your body in its entirety, causing you to shudder as you stay poised atop the velveteen lounge.

“Thank you,” Your voice emerges as a tremulous squeak, but you gain your composure as quickly as allowed. “Thank you for saving my life.” You remember every detail — you aren’t likely to forget about the man who saved your life, the ghost of Gotham.

He’s quiet, unnervingly so, but you let that uneasiness subside as much as possible. You don’t feel fear around him — you feel safe, you feel harbored within his shadow. A strange sense of fascination washes over you, a curiosity to know more about him.

“How’s your head?” His gravelly, husky voice is what surprises you the most. Those hawkish eyes fall to your visage, subtly drinking you in from afar.

You fumble around to gently feel the back of your skull, digits gingerly sweeping across the patch of gauze that sat atop a series of very meticulous stitches. He must’ve patched you up, you realize, which you feel eternally grateful for. The ache is present, but it’s alarmingly dull.

“Just aches,” There is a brief pause in your words, breath hitching momentarily. “Where are we?” You’re curious to know the location — it reminds you of some vampiric stronghold, an ancient castle with untold secrets. Despite the regality of it all, you still feel safe.

He doesn’t answer right away, standing as still as a statue, as if he were one of the gargoyles perched outside upon the terrace. The militaristic suit he wears reminds you of some practiced soldier, shrouded by the darkness — there are some little tears within the kevlar material that rests underneath the sheen of body armor.

Instead, Bruce cranes his head over his shoulder, peering out into the endless abyss that is Gotham’s dusk. Rain continues to fall, glistening against the marble surfaces outside. “Somewhere safe.” The grit and coarseness of his voice is wonderfully alluring, effectively drawing you in.

You shiver, tugging the black cape tighter around your frame, gradually feeling warmth return to your aching bones. As you peer toward the Batman, you feel a pang of heat creep across your visage when you realize that he’s staring too.

“Is this yours?” You murmur, motioning toward the sweeping shroud of darkness that surrounds you, engulfing your body in its penumbra.

Bruce nods, but doesn’t ask for it back. You’re the one trembling from the cold, not him. Instead, he steps closer, maintaining a comfortable distance as he comes to sit at the opposite end of the chaise lounge, stealing several glances in the process. You’re exceptionally beautiful, which makes him feel all the more mesmerized.

Maybe it’s your lack of fear or suspicion, your timidity, or the way you curl in on yourself — Bruce doesn’t know what to say in your presence. Fortunately for him, you are wary by the strange silences, so you cut through it as swiftly as possible.

“Do you bring everyone that you save to this place?” Your inquiry is hushed, a lull of a whisper, soft voice trembling with some quiver at the bottom of your throat. Again, you survey your surroundings with intrigue — the architecture reminds you of French cathedrals.

There is a twinge of humor that flickers across the lower half of his face, accompanied by a gentle scoff. He answers you with a little more haste this time. “No.” Bruce hesitates, lips parting slightly. “Just you.”

The Batman offers no elaboration as to why that is — maybe it’s better left unspoken. You don’t question him, but you do shuffle closer, still leaving a good gap of distance between the both of you. He’s hailed as this myth, something to be feared, something dangerous. Now, you see more of a man.

His breath hitches ever so subtly when you maneuver yourself a little closer. Whatever you can see of his countenance strikes you as handsome, and you begin to wonder how he looks underneath his dark garb. Charcoal is smeared around his eyes, which are brilliantly green, the whites of his oculars remain bloodshot. His stubbled jaw is both strong and angular, pallor as pale and translucent as a ghost, a stark contrast between his skin and the black of the suit.

“You’re not what they say you are,” In a moment of silence, you speak again, canting your head to one side. “The press, the police.” He’s demonized in the media as some menace that needs to be put down — you never thought that way, especially now.

“You’re a good man.”

For the briefest moment, Bruce tenses underneath your soft gaze and the tender affection laced within your words. It’s something he clings to — something he’s desperate for, deep down. His jaw tightens and he averts his stare, avoiding eye contact. He wants to reach out, but he knows he can’t, he knows that he can’t afford to get attached to you.

But he brought you here, didn’t he? This was his fault.

“You don’t know the things I’ve done.” Finally, Bruce speaks — he comes off as callous, warding you away from his encroaching shadows, away from his darkness. You are the glimmer of light that falls across him, pierces the gloom, desiring to break through.

Your breath hitches within your throat, shivering hard enough to coax you into the sanctuary of his cape. The icy chill of the rain hasn’t worn off entirely, but you angle yourself toward the crackling fireplace. “You save lives,” You whisper, “You protect people.”

Bruce longed to be as innocent and as pious as you — maybe he was, a long time ago, but he’s not anymore. He’s living along the edge of duality, one side eclipsed by the shadow of revenge, by the Batman, the other a reclusive orphan with nothing left to his legacy aside from what he does each and every night.

“And I destroy them.” He uttered, which happened to catch you off-guard. There is a tiny inkling of intimidation that settles into your doe-eyed gaze, maybe trace amounts of fear.

You’re right to be afraid. Everyone should be — they are afraid.

Between the crackling of the hearth and the tenuous silence, you direct your gaze toward your lap, fingers idly tracing over the frayed edges of his cloak. There is something about him that seems guarded, actively keeping you at-bay, but it only furthers your desire for knowledge, for understanding.

“Are you afraid?” His voice cuts through like a knife, deliciously rugged and almost hushed, as if he’s trying not to startle you.

The hitch in your breath is far from subtle, but you don’t offer him an answer, not immediately. Instead, you reach out — reach for him as you had back in the alleyway. Your soft, dainty palm falls across his armored bicep, and he immediately tenses underneath you.

Bruce’s mouth goes dry, startled by such a foreign sensation. How long has it been since he’s been touched like that, with a semblance of care? There’s a feeling of desperation laced with longing, something that he’s bottled for a very long time.

He doesn’t recoil, even after you let your palm settle atop the kevlar and plates of body armor. Again, you allow yourself to move closer, close enough to nearly seal the gap that lingered before. You swore that you heard a little stutter in his breathing, but what you do hear for certain is his quivering exhale.

In such close proximity, Bruce lets himself drink you in, and he’s blatantly shameless instead of conservative, like before. You’re beautiful, both inside and out — so beautiful that he feels completely undeserving. It’s daunting to be with someone like this, to feel the tension and the intimacy, to feel cared for.

“I’m not afraid.” You whisper, letting your hand drag from the solid muscle of his bicep to the exposed flesh of his jaw, outlined by the sharp, black leather of his cowl. He’s warm, opposite of your current temperature, which is slightly above icy.

He can’t help himself — the tender embrace makes him shiver, and Bruce closes his eyes, sinking into the silken surface of your palm. It’s the loneliness and the many years devoid of physical contact that make him this way, make him ravenous.

You can’t help but realize the humanity underneath.

Inside of the vengeful shade of Gotham, inside of that shroud of darkness, there is still a man — a man at the very heart of it all, selfless and protective. He feels much more real to you now, he feels mortal.

But he’s lonely — there is an unmistakable yearning that burns bright within his hooded gaze, but it’s coupled with a twinge of dejection. This long, solitary life that he’s led can only last for so long before it begins to weigh on him, and as you caress his cheek, the weight feels like it could crush him.

“Your hands are cold.” Bruce murmurs, sighing as you trace your fingertips along the angular slope of his jaw. His monotonous, husky remark brings the hint of a sheepish smile to your visage, and you find yourself getting closer and closer, until you’re nestled against him.

With a soft ‘sorry’, warmth blossoms within your cheeks. You nearly pull away, but he stops you, gloved hand lightly curling around your wrist. The frantic gallop of your heart hammers within your ears, and you long to feel his skin without the obstruction of gloves.

There is a pang of yearning that openly bleeds from his incendiary stare, and he carefully guides your hand back to where it sat before, poised along his jaw. Bruce doesn’t say anything — truthfully, he’s too enamored to speak, and what he wants to say only sounds embarrassing.

He’s getting closer, and so are you — merely breaths apart. Bruce is dazzled, simply put, and he’s slowly crossing the point of no return when it comes to you. He knows that he shouldn’t cross that line, but it’s too late. His hawkish, dazzled stare falls to your lips, swollen and mottled with dried blood, which still look as soft as ever despite the injury.

You aren’t sure what prompted you to initiate the kiss, but you’re rather smitten, noticeably hesitant. Truthfully, you’re unsure if this is what he wanted, but the sensation of his mouth gingerly tangling with yours cancels out that uncertainty.

Bruce’s lips are thin, deceptively soft as they move in tandem with yours, and he’s gentle. You taste of copper, bitter and metallic, yet so does he — he tastes like blood, like a smoky rainfall, like darkness. A low, husky groan resonates within the back of his throat, absolutely enthralled by the kiss itself, and by you.

This time, he takes more initiative, wanting nothing more than to have you close like this, take the sting of his isolation away from him. Bruce is breaking his own rule of attachment, but he can’t bring himself to care at the moment.

The kiss is blistering, unyieldingly tender, yet it rips through your entire being, tearing you into shreds. You’ve never felt so safe before, so held — you’re melting into him, melting into the shadows with him, letting one of your hands perch against his broad shoulder.

He can’t ignore the desire that’s beginning to bubble within him, bound to reach a boiling point if the both of you continue. Bruce needs to be sure that this is what you want, and so his lips still against yours, breathing a touch ragged and heavy as he gains his composure.

“We can stop.” His voice surrounds you, rough and gritty, armored physique pressed into yours. “If you don’t want this.” Bruce understands the potential for you to change your mind, to politely turn him down — he’s expectant, awaiting your answer.

As your palm settles over the jagged sigil placed atop his chest, you steady yourself, meeting his gaze fully this time. Goosebumps form at the base of your spine, prompting you to shiver from exhilaration. “No,” With a hushed whisper, you tilt closer. “I want this.” You hesitate, teeth skimming across your lower lip. “Does that sound crazy?”

Bruce finds some humor in that — and maybe it is crazy, being with someone you’ve just met, and his impulsivity plays a rather large role in this scenario. He can’t fault you for wanting this, and in all actuality, he wants it just as terribly, if not more.

Maybe it’s just being alive.

That hollow shell he’s been living inside of, his fortress of carefully-constructed barriers, it all begins to crack. It’s rather terrifying, the idea of letting someone in, but he’s done for now, isn’t he? The way you look at him is invigorating, it’s electrifying — it makes him feel less like the Batman and more like a man.

“No.” He murmurs, and you can feel the sincerity from that single utterance alone.

In another meeting of lips, there is a flurry of passion this time, less subdued than the kiss before. One of his bulky arms rests at your side, the two of you nearly chest to chest, flush atop the velveteen cushions. Whatever chill you had before is now replaced with warmth, from both the fire and from him.

You can’t remember the last time you’ve been kissed like this — for a man as unyieldingly strong and dark as he is, the Batman’s tender approach takes you by surprise. He almost seems shy, as if this is a new realm he hasn’t traversed yet himself, but you make no comment on his potential inexperience.

Beside the light of the dying fire, swallowed by the eerie calm of his shadow, you let yourself be consumed by his vengeful void. You kiss him again, listening to his sharp inhale as you cling to him, feeling the firm planes of his body armor.

Bruce pries the leather away from his hands, shedding both gloves and gauntlets, knuckles wrapped in tattered gauze that’s stained with old blood. The yearning he feels is almost overwhelming — he wants to touch you, but asking seems disorienting, daunting even.

As your fingers curl around one of his hands, he nearly gasps, tensing at the icy embrace of your digits, the silken texture of your skin. Tracing your thumb atop his knuckles, you see the traces of grime and fading bruises, specks of his blood, the calloused expanse of his palm — hands that have done far too much.

“Look at me.”

The sensual intensity of his sonorous voice commands your attention instantaneously — your eyes snap to find his, those brilliant green oculars. He inspects you with a trace amount of affection, his hand coming to slip underneath your chin, effectively making you shudder.

He kisses the corner of your mouth — it’s sweet.

Eager to feel all of you, Bruce hesitates, his gravelly lull seemingly perturbed as he murmurs another ‘look at me’, gaze raking across your countenance and toward the rest of your body. He’s somewhat sluggish to ask for what he wants, and he hopes that you’re keen enough to pick up on his physical implications.

Your breath hitches, ears prickling as his voice wraps around you each and every time. “It’s okay.” Reassuring as ever, you nudge his hand. For a man as vicious and mysterious as he is, the vigilant enigma, he’s rather nervous — if it is nervousness, at least. You can’t tell what he’s feeling, he’s indiscernible.

Quick to act this time around, his roughened, powerful hand falls toward the hem of your blouse, skirting across your skin as he feels you shiver underneath him. You simply jerk past the row of pearlescent buttons, letting it loosely sag around your shoulders.

Bruce doesn’t stop himself this time, pressing his mouth against your neck, leaving a trail of searing kisses in his wake. Freeing yourself from the confines of his cloak, a soft moan slips past your parted lips, reaching for his arm.

He’s weak — your skin is like satin underneath his lips.

The brow of his leathery cowl bumps against your flesh as he slowly maneuvers his way down the length of your body, kissing the pain away, both yours and his, kissing away his loneliness. His mouth falls across the tops of your breasts, taut digits coming to cup your chest, hooking underneath the hem of your brassiere.

Slotted between your legs, your skirt rides high, hitching toward your hips as you accommodate his bulky frame. You’re cold to the touch, but wherever Bruce touches, warmth blooms there instead of the icy sting. His confidence is slowly growing, but he’s focused on you, drowning himself in your very being.

The more you watch him, the more your mind runs rampant — who is he underneath? You wonder what exactly he looks like, the fluctuations in his countenance, the taut, strong muscle of his body as he closes in on you.

He’s perfect, you think, perfect and terrifying in the best of ways.

Continuing the string of kisses along your body, he meticulously lingers on the faint bruises you received from your fall. His soft lips mold themselves to your ribcage and stomach, drifting wherever they please. His hand curls into your skirt, but you quickly wriggle out of the garment, kicking it off toward the floor.

Each kiss sends shivers down your spine, his hand settling along one of your thighs as he continues his descent. You have an inkling of his intentions, and it’s enough to make you squirm, your hand falling toward his shoulder.

Bruce hasn’t done this for some time — the pressure to please you is certainly there, but the overwhelming sensation of not feeling alone is present, too. The doe-like look in your mesmerized stare is enough to make his skin grow hot, lips parting as he kisses your hipbone.

As his digits curl into the elastic band of your panties, those striking eyes look to you for approval, a stare that will be burned into your mind for days to come. There is a reverence present that you’ve never experienced before, a certain level of care that you desperately crave.

“Please,” You whisper, listening to the heavy lull of the rain outside as it begins to pick up again. The little hitch in your voice is more than noticeable, a pang of anticipation hitting your gut. “Please.” Nearly rendered breathless this time, you shiver when he presses his mouth to the inside of your thigh.

The shadows come for you — his shadows, his darkness. It’s enticing, and it sucks you in as if he retains some gravitational pull. You gasp when you feel his teeth nip at tender flesh, leaving behind a trail of marks that he revels in.

Smoothing his palm along your leg, his deft, roughened digits swipe across your cunt, prying you apart with careful deliberation. His lips move to press firm, heated kisses to your opposite thigh, nipping wherever he pleases, pushing his fingers into your wet slit.

You don’t know where to grasp except for his shoulders — it’s an unstable grip and you wish to tug on the hair underneath his stitched cowl. The linen bandages that stay twined around his knuckles and palm graze your leg, and instinctively, you place your hand atop his.

The Batman shudders, his breath hitches in the faintest of ways, as if he’s been exposed to something foreign. Bruce feels as if he could combust from the weight of your stare alone, coupled with the affectionate way in which your dainty fingers tense around his hand.

Through fleeting, heated glances, he drags his digits along the length of your cunt, dwelling within the slick heat as he moves in deliberate motions. As soon as he grazes your clit, your hips spasm, a wanton moan tearing past your parted lips as you keen into his embrace.

“I want to see you.” You murmured, dazed and drunk upon your own desire. It wasn’t a demand, but a gentle plea — one that Bruce couldn’t give into, even to you. The pad of your thumb grazed over his knuckles, stomach churning as he continued to stroke at your cunt.

Pressing his mouth to your inner thigh again, he made eye contact with you for the briefest moment — you were painfully beautiful. He made you whimper when he nudged at your clit again, warm breath and days-old stubble drifting across your flesh.

“Use your imagination.” Husky and rugged, mysterious and alluring like the night, he kept you hooked, kept you wondering. The answer sufficed — it was enough to let your mind go in a thousand different directions, but he grounded you as he eased two fingers into your cunt, breathing heavily.

Rolling into his hand, the both of you groaned in tandem, his being far more subdued than yours. Swallowed by your tight heat, Bruce steadily fell into some sort of pattern, moving his digits forward and back, just enough to make you squirm.

The euphoria he gains from this is blinding — it spurs him on, fingers dutifully touching you everywhere, no matter how clumsy and swift it seems. You haven’t experienced something like this before, not to this magnitude, and it almost doesn’t feel real — Bruce unknowingly shares such sentiments.

Sprawled atop his cloak, you nudge your legs apart just a little more, a strangled whimper escaping you as his fingers diligently work away at your cunt. Lulled into submission by his husky breathing and the deluge outside, you melt into him — you want to fade away.

You quiver when his mouth meets the cleft between your thighs, tongue sweeping open heat across your slit, aching and wanton. The first motions of his lips are hesitant, testing the waters and searching for your reaction, which is more than enthusiastic.

The sensation of his mouth intermingled with the deliberate motion of his digits made you choke on whatever noise began to rise from the back of your throat. Words died upon your tongue, any shred of pleasurable sound being ripped apart by your winded gasp.

Bruce shuddered, inexperienced yet willing, lapping at your clit with an enthusiasm you hadn’t felt before yourself. Your taste was intoxicating, making him scramble for more, his own mind becoming murky with lust. Desperation trickled through the cracks, and he couldn’t bring himself to care. Everything about you drew him in, magnetized and enamored — it was a mutual feeling.

He needed you, too.

The leather of his cowl grazed against your pelvis, and for a moment, those viridian hues snapped forward, locking in a stare as you gripped his hand so very tightly. The arch of your back brought your hips into closer quarters with his face, evoking a low groan from him, enough to make you quiver.

He was an abyss between your legs — the dying hearth left him shrouded in shadows, save for the pearlescent pallor of his jaw, the bloodshot whites of his eyes. With another breathy moan, you keened into his embrace, feeling his hand squeeze at your hipbone. His tongue raked embers across your aching cunt, making your head spin.

Incendiary was a mere understatement — you were set ablaze, submitting to each thrust of his fingers and roll of his tongue, melting around him. He was attentive yet sloppy, a touch unrestrained and perhaps desperate, but you didn’t care. You were happy to melt, happy to let his shadows bleed into you.

The sensation of his lips pursing around your clit jerked you right into the heat of the moment, breathy sighs and shrewd moans escaping you. They entangled themselves with Bruce’s sonorous grunts and the low echo of his groans, vocalizations of pleasure.

“I need you,” You sputtered, choking upon whatever sound intended to rip through your windpipe. “You’re perfect.” Again, your declarations of desire and praise fell upon attentive ears, as Bruce continued to eat you out with vigor. He lightly sucked at your clit, enough to make you jolt forward a time or two.

Far from perfect, he knew this — hearing you say it aloud through a strangled moan was enough to almost make him believe that he was perfect. Bruce was nearly drunk on your own pleasure, uncomfortably hard underneath the codpiece of his suit. He couldn’t fathom what brought him here, but he wanted to come back.

For a man with his immeasurable wealth and notoriety, Bruce was inexperienced, lacking any shred of sexual tact. The suit was more than helpful, a barrier to shroud him from his ineptitude as Bruce Wayne. There was a confidence present now that he lacked otherwise.

A shrewd string of incoherent whimpers left your mouth, intermingled by the pleasant pitch of your moans. His breath was ragged and hot against your core, alternating between eager laps of his tongue and the pursing of his lips around your clitoris. It was an electrifying lust, burning inside of you like a fever, leaving you breathless.

The kevlar and roughened plates of his suit scrape across your delicate flesh, leaving behind reddened marks. Such blemishes are accompanied by the gentle love bites left behind on your thighs. You hope that they don’t fade — you want the visceral reminder of what’s happened to you, of him happening to you.

That sensitive clutch of nerves between your legs jolts and ripples with ecstasy, sending white-hot pleasure throughout your body. His head is still buried there, eating your cunt as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever do, sucking around your clit with a noticeable vigor. You want to explode then and there, but something else pushes you over the edge.

It’s the breathy, subtle sigh of ‘fuck’ that the Batman gives that sends you spiraling out of orbit, and you can hear him nearly moan. In fact, you swore you heard him moan, watching as he shifts his bulky frame whilst trapped between your thighs, and he makes momentary eye contact with you.

You cum then and there, doe-eyed and hearing static as the tension unfurls from within your gut.

Even through your orgasm, his fingers are slowly plunging themselves inside of you, curling within your wet heat, purging sinful noises from your mouth. The intensity within his stare is enough to make you shudder, a mystique that is alluring all on its own. It isn’t until you’re shaking that he removes his digits, absentmindedly wetting his lower lip.

Bruce can’t escape you — you’re everywhere.

You are on his tongue, the taste of you becoming something that he wants to commit to memory. You are on his skin like a thick haze, a hazy fog that he cannot wade through. Your scent — whatever concoction of perfume you wear will be burned into his brain for weeks, for months to come. The sight of you quivering beneath him, lips agape and eyes bright, he wants to have you again and again.

He wants you always.

He leaves one last kiss against your thigh, lingering for a second longer than he should’ve. Whether you notice the hesitation or not, he isn’t sure.

Moonlight glistens through the haze of rain, thin slats falling across his shadowed frame as he sits backward. His silence is somewhat unsettling, but you assume it’s the exhilaration — you feel it too, hanging heavy within your head like a thick shroud.

You’re tired, but you want to force yourself to stay awake, legs twitching as you sluggishly come down from your high. A dull ache radiates from the source of your stitches, and you know that he’s keen enough to pick up on your exhaustion.

“You should rest.”

His gravelly lull attracts your attention, and you meet his stare with an awestruck expression. The tension hasn’t fully subsided, enough to make your heart skip a beat as he moves off of the lounge, watching his deliberate steps toward the rainy terrace.

“What about you?” Your voice is quiet, strung with enough concern to make him stop in his tracks.

The Batman turns, a stoic, solemn air about him. A sliver of him wishes he could stay, keep watch until the first inklings of dawn — but you’re safe here. Gotham is still a hellish landscape that requires him, requires vengeance. Bruce knows that he can’t stop now, he can’t quit until morning. The night is far from over.

“You shouldn’t worry about me.”

His utterance leaves behind a trace of darkness — the subtleties of what might happen to any villain who crosses his path. Every shred of intimidation that you felt toward him before comes crawling back. It’s enough to make you shiver, covered by the throw blanket that’s draped across the back of the lounge, and you miss the slick material of his cape.

Without another word, vengeance blends into the shadows, melding into the abyss of a bleak cityscape.

When you wake, you’re home — the ornate gothic architecture has disappeared, exchanged for the tidy, well-kept quarters of your studio apartment. It’s somewhat disheartening to see, but you should’ve known better. Your belongings sit neatly at the foot of your bed, and you’re still wrapped in the very same blanket he left you in.

Dawn begins to touch the horizon of Gotham City, and your mind immediately finds him. You wonder what happened to him after he left, if he was safe, what sorts of foul individuals he encountered.

From the dew-covered, dingy windows of your apartment, you can see the light still in the sky — you know that it won’t be there for much longer. Sluggishly, you sit up from your bed, bones aching with a dull throbbing that is still persistent.

Part of you longs to see him again — it’s wishful thinking, the thoughts of a smitten schoolgirl that make you cringe. There are other people who need him, need his protection, his selflessness. Everyone at City Hall, everyone at the GPD warns of him, as if he’s some blight, a plague on the city.

The city is rotting, decaying at a rate that seems far too steady for your liking — Gotham needs him.

You need him.

You twist the knobs on top of your bedroom window, ensuring that it’s unlocked. Maybe you’ll cross paths with the shadowed crusader again, maybe you won’t. Whatever the future holds, you know that he’s out there, that he’s real, he’s a hero — and maybe, just maybe, he thinks of you, too.

[ducky-mae]

Would anyone be interested in reading a section of a paper I wrote for class discussing why Edward Nashton (and Bruce Wayne) in The Batman (2022) may have Borderline Personality Disorder? It's from almost 2 years ago and I don't necessarily agree with everything I said (I was just getting a grade you know how it is) but I think it's still interesting.

[ducky-mae]

Bruce Brooding (as per usual)

This started as me trying to write about Clark and Bruce on an off-world mission but turned into Bruce spiraling about his kids. I've been thinking about parents dealing with their kids gaining independence because of my internship so I guess that's what this is. It's basically stream of consciousness and unedited.

Bruce hated this. He hated being far from home for so long. He knew Dick could handle Gotham. All of the kids could handle things without him just fine. It causes such conflicting emotions in him, that his kids are so capable. Bruce was proud, so proud of all of them, but he hated that they didn’t need him. That is the point of all of this, though he rarely admits it to himself. When he started Gotham needed the The Bat, nobody needed Bruce Wayne. Sure his bank account was helpful for establishing The Batman and the Justice League, but he wasn’t. Then he took in Dick, and he needed Bruce. The Batman helped him channel the pain of losing his parents, but he needed a guardian, a father figure, and that was Bruce. It was the same with Jason and Tim, and all of the children and young vigilanties he had taken under his wing. Some needed The Batman more than Bruce but they all had needed him. Now none of them did. Not the League, not Gotham, not his children. They could take care of Gotham without him, take care of themselves without him. And they didn’t want him. How many times had Damian demanded to be left to work on his own, how many times had Jason told Bruce he hated him? Perhaps it would be best to leave them to their own devices.

[ducky-mae]

Chapter 6 of (Love) Triangles is up! For anyone who likes seeing Dick cause people problems for fun and profit (?), boy is this is the chapter for you.

Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Fandom: DCU Pairing(s): Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson & Bruce Wayne Length: 42k Chapters: 6/?

“I appreciate your help in getting this far,” he told Superman. “I’ll take it from here.” He turned to walk towards the building, but Superman caught his arm before he could. “Alone? No, I made a promise to help—” “You did,” Bruce said, fixing him with a stern glare. “But you said it yourself: we don’t know how much kryptonite is in there. And if you’re affected by it even out here, there’s a good chance you’d be more hindrance than help inside.” Superman looked displeased. There was a furrow forming between his perfect brows; the mere idea of being a hindrance seemed actively uncomfortable for him. But eventually, his hand slipped from Bruce’s arm. “Sure. Maybe you have a point. But I’m not leaving,” he said firmly. “I’ll listen in from here, so that if something happens I can step in.” Bruce bit back the instinctive response: that Superman had already fulfilled his role here, that it wasn’t his business, that Bruce could take care of himself and Robin with no help from any superpowered aliens. But then, he’d been the one to ask Superman for help in the first place. And if something did happen with Robin, he knew he’d be glad of the safety net. And appallingly, he did find himself…trusting him, with this at least. God. Alfred was going to be so smug.

[ducky-mae]

❝honeymoon❞

III. on the clock.

parts: previously plot: your mother has been conducting business with some pretty shady business partners and it puts you in danger. thankfully, saving you is in your husband's job description. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: arranged marriage, friends to enemies to (fake) lovers, implied history between reader and bruce, violence, bruce being a little Bossy, use of the gender neutral honorific "mx" (feel free to insert mr. or mrs. there if you like). words: 2.1k.

a/n: been watching a bit of supergirl lately and I'm a big fan of the "supergirl is lena's scary guard dog" dynamic they've got going on. got inspired

You suck in a breath between barely parted lips before the smoke hits you in a cloud. Thick, pungent. You hold your breath even as the smoke tickles your eyes, makes them water, until it clears and all you're left with is the bastard sitting across from you, "I understand that it might be... upsetting to hear, but Wayne Enterprises thanks you for all you've done during our partnership."

Cigar hanging from the jaws of a wolf, Mr. Carpinelli is hardly upset. He's grinning around the head of his cigar when he tells you, "You're making a big fucking mistake." He's furious.

You keep your head held high, "Again, I deeply apologize for how abrupt this must be. As acting CEO, I have had to make some tough decisions in the past but this is by far one of the toughest." You bite the lie out, appearing sweet and docile. "You were one of our best. We will be looking forward to all Carpinelli & Sons' future business ventures."

You hear the hacking in his throat before it lands on the ground in front of your feet: a fat, muddy glob of spit sits a (thankful) hair away from your shoe, and even you can't bother to hide your scowl.

You let him smoke in your (Bruce's) office. You let him kick his feet up on your desk. You even let him have some of the good brandy, and watched him gobble it up like four ounces of the stuff didn't cost the full price of his pretty snakeskin shoes.

And he spit at you.

Mr. Carpinelli stands to his feet and puts his cigar out on your desk and really, that should have did it for you, but you bite your tongue until you taste blood. Then he points one fat finger at you, about as fat as the Corojo burning a ring in your desk, "Tell your bitch of a mother she should've told me herself."

"My bitch of a mother didn't give the order," and your venom is not on behalf of your mother, lest anyone be mistaken, "I did."

Something flickers in Carpinelli's eyes. Without another word, he leaves the office in a flourish, and you sink back into your chair only when your ears cease ringing.

Bruce is delighted. Or you think he might be. You weren't certain what delight looked like on him these days, but the solid "OK" in response is enough for you to focus on your shaking. You remind yourself that you're not out of the woods yet, and that Carpinelli was only one half of the dastardly duo you needed to break up. Eventually, or rather, imminently, she would find out what you'd done. It'd be better to break the news in person before she got word from Carpinelli herself.

But Bruce approved. Bruce, who'd been on the same page as you when you'd brought up the idea, who'd left you in less despair than when he'd found you, agreed with you. Your mother be damned and damned should she be, you at least had Bruce on your side.

You step out into humidity and immediately one of the doormen flanks you, rushing to open your car door for you with a "Goodnight, Mx. Wayne" and a "get home safe" that goes in one ear and out the other. You just barely have the wits about you to return the pleasantry, climbing into the backseat of your car with your hand halfway to the collar of your coat when you freeze.

Across from you is Mr. Carpinelli, smiling around another cigar. How the smell of it hadn't hit you when you first sat down was far beyond you. The car jerks into Gotham city traffic without a hitch. A glance in the rear-view tells you that this is not your usual driver.

You're trying really hard to not let this get to you.

"I forgot to say before: congratulations on the nuptials."

"We're not married just yet."

Carpinelli raises an eyebrow, "But you still make the help call you Wayne?"

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Carpinelli?" It takes some hidden strength in you to keep the shake out of your voice, "Perhaps I wasn't clear enough before?"

The mob boss stretches his leg until his foot is pressing into the bottom of your seat, those same pretty snakeskin shoes marred by mucky rainwater. You turn your knees away but feel the water drip onto your ankle. You resist the severe urge to drive an ice pick through his skull.

"I called your mommy after our little conversation," your blood runs cold, "and she told me to disregard your little... power trip." He blows a ring of smoke, "So no bad blood here."

"Did she, now?"

"Mhm. Seemed pretty pissed, too. Hope she doesn't ground ya."

"You seem to think it's her name on the building."

"It ain't yours."

"Yet."

Carpinelli laughs, brushing some ash onto the carpet, "Funny. How that works." And he sits up, crouching in front of you with his cigar raised above your knee. His other hand clutches it in his meaty palm. His cigar is close enough to the skin that you can feel the heat coming off of it, all the while struggling against suffocating on the smoke. Your phone is in your coat pocket and there'd be no way to discreetly get to it with him this close. "Listen, doll. I'm doing this as a courtesy. I don't usually give people the chance to piss me off twice."

The panic button in all Wayne Enterprises vehicles is under the seat, however.

Carpinelli keeps talking and you take your hands out of your lap, leaning forward and feigning that you're listening. All the while, your fingers are stretching under the seat, searching for that little, tiny, infinitesimal-

The car rocks violently as something heavy lands on top of it with a thud. It shocks Carpinelli enough that he lets your knee go, turning his head up to the ceiling, "What the fuck was that?"

The driver knows just as much as the two of you do. You feel him jerk the car straight, but before he can pull over to check what made the sound, a fist punches through the roof of the car.

It's enough to make Carpinelli fall over like a bumbling buffoon.

He doesn't get very long to collect himself. The metal of the roof is being torn back, making an ugly sound as the hole gets bigger. You manage to locate the panic button just in time to see a hand reach down into the car and grip Carpinelli by the front of his suit and... and snatch him out.

The driver nearly crashes the car into a building trying to pull to a stop, fumbling futilely for the handgun at his side, but another hole is punched into the roof above his head and he's dragged out just as dramatically as Carpinelli.

Before you can be stolen too, you crawl to the front and unlock the car before throwing your full weight against the door to escape.

Outside, you find the driver splayed out on the sidewalk, out cold. On the street, Carpinelli is crawling away on all fours from... your husband. In all his caped glory.

"I-I didn't do nothing! I swear!" Carpinelli cries. You watch, however, as Bruce plods up to him. He ignores his pleas for mercy and yanks him up by the collar once more. Carpinelli's feet dangle inches off the ground.

"Who'd you pay off?" Bruce's voice barely carries over the noise of the city, but you hear it from where you're crouched behind the car.

"Wh... what? What are you talking about?" Bruce violently shakes Carpinelli and you watch as the smaller man grips at his arm for dear life. "I swear to God, I got no idea what you're talking about!"

"Your driver. Not your car. Who did you pay off?"

Carpinelli's eyes are wild. You've never seen true fear like that before, "Nobody! Nobody. My guy stole the keys and badge off the other driver. That's all!" When Bruce doesn't immediately release him, the mob boss keeps squealing, "T-The driver's in the boiler room. Knocked out cold. He's not dead. I promise."

Seconds might as well be minutes as you and Carpinelli hold your breaths. Waiting for the Batman's judgment.

Bruce yanks Carpinelli toward the car, rams his head into the trunk, and lets the unconscious mob boss roll under the boot.

After a few stuttered breaths, you stand to your feet.

Bruce doesn't raise his head from where he'd been staring down Carpinelli, but his eyes flit to you in an instant. Stepping over the bottom half of your abductor, Bruce makes his way around to you.

You're gearing up to tell him you're alright when his hands find both sides of your face, effectively silencing you, "Did he hurt you?"

You tremble. The adrenaline rush was falling steadily, but Bruce hasn't touched you like this since... since... since before he began to hate you.

His eyes are all full of concern though, the clearest his expression has been toward you since this whole engagement kicked off in the first place. You feel like you're really seeing him right now and it's too delicate for you to grasp. You wade in it a little longer, selfishly, "You got here just in time. Before I even hit the panic button, I- how?"

You're surprised to find Bruce suddenly timid. He releases your cheeks and despite the dewy heat of early summer, you crave the warmth of his hands instantaneously. "There's a bug in the office."

You blink, "Come again?"

"The cars, too."

"Like... recently, or..." Bruce gives you a look that says "I think you know the answer to that". Somehow, this is more chilling than almost being kidnapped. "Do you... listen to everything?"

"Do you have something to hide?"

No, you want to say, just hours of me singing to myself, ranting to the wall, and unscheduled visits from my mother about how I should baby trap you. Surely, if he'd heard any of that, he'd have sued your mother into oblivion and this whole marriage would have been done for. You swallow down the panic and shake your head, "Not really, no."

Sirens in the distance grow louder as they reach your destination, and sure enough, the signal to the GCPD had gone through without a hitch. Several cop cars round the corner and Bruce carries Carpinelli and the driver's body out into the street for them to pick up.

You glance between him and the first cop that pulls up, "I should... probably grab another ride to my mother's. She's going to be furious about... well, everything."

But before you can walk away, Bruce grips your upper arm and pulls you back into his side, making you stumble and grab onto his chest. You stare up at him, bewildered. Bruce grunts. "That can wait. I'm taking you home."

"But the police-"

"Emilio Carpinelli? Is it my birthday, Batman?" One of the cops snickers as he walks up, handcuffs at the ready, "What happened here?"

Bruce cuts you off before you can answer, "Attempted kidnapping and criminal threat toward the Wayne Enterprises CEO. Carpinelli admitted to the assault of the Waynes' driver, as well as stealing his badge and keys. Send a car to Wayne Enterprises to retrieve the driver from the boiler room. That's all he admitted to."

"Will do. And you, Mx. Wayne? Sure hope he didn't get his filthy paws on ya."

You shake your head, "No, thank goodness. Batman arrived just in time."

The cop nods, "Well, we'll probably need to bring you in for further questioning. Just to corroborate the story in fuller detail."

"Tomorrow. Bruce Wayne wants them back home now."

The cop looks between you and Batman, eyes narrowing in confusion. Eventually, they land back on you for confirmation, "Yes," you breathe, leaning into Bruce's side with intention now, "my husband- well, fiancé is very worried. But I'll be happy to stop by the precinct bright and early tomorrow morning, if that's alright?"

And it's not like the guy is gonna argue with you when your kidnapping lead to the arrest of one of the biggest dons running Gotham City. He leaves you and Bruce with a nod and a call to stay safe.

But as Bruce leads you in the direction of what is slowly appearing to be the "Batmobile", you pry his hand off your arm and hold it in between you instead, "Mr. Wayne wants me home, you said?"

Bruce pointedly ignores the teasing in your tone, "God forbid someone else tries to make off with you."

taglist: @yikes-buddy @alexxavicry @theclassicvinyldragon @marina-and-the-memes @angxlictexrs @moonlightreader649 @geekyfer @thescarletfang @navs-bhat @yehet-moi-ohorat @bluestuesday

[ducky-mae]

Hi! I love love love the other half. After the last chapter I hope Bruce does something nice for shop girl (and for himself to ig). Them being sweet just makes me screech.

Previous Part | Masterlist |

Some sweet Bruce comin' riiiight up

Warnings: Very light angst; mostly fluff

Not beta-read

“Are you awake?” Bruce’s breath brushes against the bare skin of your shoulder. You grunt softly, shifting where you lay on your belly. The sheets are soft and warm beneath you; you can see sunlight beginning to creep in between the curtains of the master bedroom of the mansion. 

“...No,” You finally mumble, voice grumbling and thick with sleep. Bruce chuckles, pressing a sweet kiss to your shoulder as his palm brushes over your back, dipping beneath the covers. You hum softly, arching up into his touch and sighing through your nose. 

“Why are you awake?” You counter. “What time did you get in?” 

“A little after two.” 

“Oh, wow. Early night for you.” 

“Moderately.” 

You roll onto your back, gently dislodging Bruce’s hand. You scrub the sleep from your eyes with the heels of your palms before you finally tip your chin up, getting a better look at him. He does look more well-rested than he has in a while: his eyes are bright as he smiles down at you. 

Christmas and New Years had passed with little to no incident. Your Christmas celebration had been small; the most tense point had been a short video call with your parents. Conversation overall had been stilted, but not as bad as pulling teeth. New Year’s had been spent at Liz and Grant’s for their blowout celebration, but your night with Bruce had ended early when the signal had shown in the sky. 

Still, despite your bumps and hurdles, you feel like the two of you are slowly inching toward where you had been before your break-up. Some of the buoyancy is coming back to both of you. With your relationship no longer Gotham’s best-kept secret, Bruce openly picks you up after work. Sure, you’re still mobbed by the press, but you’re so used to it that it hardly makes a dent anymore. You aren’t tip-toeing around one another. If you have a disagreement, Bruce stays to talk it out. Now and again he may step out of the room to get his head together—but he always comes back. 

It isn’t perfect—it will never be perfect—but it feels more solid, and safe. 

You raise your hand, sweeping it gently across his cheek, and giggling softly as he tips his head to press a kiss to your palm. 

“Someone’s in a good mood.”

“Well someone,” Bruce leans closer, brushing his nose against yours, “Has plans for you today.” 

“For me? Little ol’ me?” 

You hardly have a chance to get the tease out before Bruce captures your lips in a tender kiss. You sink back into the mattress as he presses closer, looping your arms around his shoulders and smiling as his tongue gently probes between your lips. You hum at the feeling, shifting your hips as Bruce’s hand skims across them, then down your thigh. You pout as he draws back just a little, dropping another peck to your lips before his forehead rests against yours.

“What are these plans, exactly?”

“I don’t want to ruin any surprises.” 

“Surprises?” You lean into it as your brows raise. Plural?” 

“You’ll see.” Bruce gives you one more quick, warm kiss before he leans away. “Shower, get dressed. I’ll get you some coffee.” 

You push yourself up onto your elbows, an intrigued smile curling your lips. “What the hell are you up to, mister?” 

“You’ll see!” 

-- 

Bruce doesn’t let a single tip slip throughout your shared coffee, or on the way out—not even when you crowd him into an alcove by the stairs and nibble on his earlobe. He nearly crumbles for a moment, but he rests his hands on your hips and gives them a lusty squeeze before reassuring: “There’ll be plenty of time for that later.” 

You narrow your eyes slightly as Bruce steers you out of the dim space, a smile curling your lips as you take in the rising flush in his cheeks. 

“Looking a little flustered there, Mr. Wayne.” 

“What ever gave you that idea—Alright,” He chuckles as you lean in, pushing cool air over his earlobe. “You can’t get secrets out of me that way.” He curls his arm around yours, steering you toward the front steps of the mansion. 

“Mm, but I was this close. What would the sinister of Gotham think if they found out that Batman needed so little teasing to crumble?” 

“Why do you think the helmet covers my ears?” 

You snort, bumping your hip against him before the two of you slow at the sight of Alfred standing in front of one of Bruce’s cars. 

“Go on,” Bruce urges softly when you meet his eye again. “I’ll see you tonight.” 

“At one of my many surprises?” 

“Exactly.” 

You pucker your lips, and grin as Bruce leans in for another indulgent kiss. 

“Love you.” 

“Love you, too.” He pats your lower back, urging you forward. “I’ll see you later.” 

You grunt, jogging down the front steps. 

“Morning, Alfred.” 

“Good morning, miss.” 

“I take it you’re in on these shenanigans?” 

“Shenanigans may be a rather harsh word for the day ahead.” He shoots you a wink as he opens the door for you. 

“Any hints?” 

“I’ve been sworn to secrecy.” 

--  

Alfred leaves you at the front door of Grove, one of your favorite restaurants, at 11:30 AM on the dot, and tells you that your name is on the reservation. You linger in the reception area as the waiter prepares your table. 

“Ugh, tell them to hurry up, I want a fucking mimosa.” 

You shriek at the familiar voice, whirling around from the reception desk and right into Michelle’s arms. She cackles, and the two of you hug one another tightly for a long few moments. 

“What are you doing here!” You ask, reeling away to get a better look at her. 

"Moneybags offered to fly me in. No way was I turning down first class, a free brunch, and…Some other stuff.” 

“Ugh, not you, too,” You whine. You let it drop just long enough for the waiter to show the two of you to a quiet table at the back of the restaurant. You let Michelle order the two of you a round of mimosas before you lean across the table. “Come on, not even a hint?” 

“Well, I’m going to be around for a few hours, but that’s all you’re getting.” 

“When did he reach out?” 

“Like…I don’t know, sometime during gooch week?” 

“During what?”

“Gooch week—you know, the week between Christmas and New Years? Like the bit between the asshole and the—” 

“Okay, I got it, I got,” You wave her off as the waiter sets down your mimosas. “What did he tell you, at least? That made you come down here.” 

“He said that he wanted to do something nice for you.” 

You hum thoughtfully, narrowing your eyes as you consider what that could possibly mean. Bruce does nice things for so often.

“I think he still feels like he needs to make up for the whole…Situation.” 

“Well, he does,” Michelle mutters, taking up her glass and taking a deep swig. You fight back a chastising frown. 

“...He’s been getting better. We’ve been better,” You insist. 

“Do you think he’s going to propose tonight?” 

Her question stuns you, and for a moment, you can’t say anything. The prospect makes your head spin, and you actually lean back in your seat with the weight of it. 

“I…” You shake your head, “I don’t…” 

Michelle’s lift with interest, and she leans in. 

“You don’t…what? Know how big the ring is gonna be?” 

“I don’t think he’s going to ask,” You laugh. “I mean, at least, not right now. He and I haven’t spoken about it in a long time.” 

“Not even after the attack?” 

“We’ve talked about a lot of things, but that’s not one of them.” 

Michelle grunts softly. “If he proposed tonight, what would you say?” 

“He’s not going to.” 

“But if he did?” 

“Knee-jerk reaction? Probably yes. But we’ve still got a lot of crap to sort through.” 

“Like what?”

“Like…” You flub for a a reasonable answer before you manage: “He’s an insomniac.” 

Michelle's expression is rife with disbelief, and you couldn't blame her. To a reasonable person, it's probably not a great reason to end a relationship.

“That’s a deal breaker for you?” 

“I know it sounds kinda petty, but it makes more of an impact than you’d think.” 

“What else?” 

“I mean, I’d kind of like him to make peace with my parents before any of that. Not like, go to them and ask for my hand—I don’t care about that and they don’t, either. But if he’s going to be family to them, I just want all of that bad blood from Thanksgiving cleared up.” 

“He wasn’t given the green after the office?”

“I mean, they appreciated it, but my mom is convinced that bad luck just follows him.” 

“Maybe it does.” 

You purse your lips, swirling your mimosa a little. 

“Maybe.” 

The two of you consider it for a few moments before Michelle reaches out, patting your hand and pointing to your menu. 

“Let’s order. I don’t want to miss our spa appointment.” 

“Spa?” 

She winces. “Just act surprised when we turn up so Lord Fancy doesn’t report back to the billionaire that I spoiled anything.” 

-- 

“Are you kidding me?” 

Bruce smiles smugly as he watches you nearly double over in laughter. You don’t care that the entire floor staff of Chef du Roi is looking at you like you’re insane. 

“I figured we should try the food here at least once,” Bruce insists as you calm, steering you by the arm toward your table. You swipe a few tears that had gathered from your eyes, chuckling still as he draws your chair out for you. 

“Thank you.” Your smile widens as Bruce leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your cheek before he rounds to his seat. You take the proffered menu from the waiter, flipping it open. You wait until the waiter is out of earshot before you comment, “You know, I’ve been dying for Chipotle lately.” 

“Ha-ha.” 

You giggle, wriggling your foot out of your new pair of pumps and gently brushing your toe along his calf. Bruce’s gaze flickers to yours from beneath his lashes, and you fight back a devilish grin. 

“So, the spa, the shopping spree, flying in my best friend…May I ask what triggered such largesse?” 

“Well, it’s not every day that I have to scramble to make up for missing our first anniversary by bringing you back to the scene of our first date,” Bruce comments, glancing between menu pages. It feels a little like a goad—especially considering the fact that he’s the reason you’d missed your anniversary, and you both know it. You just hum thoughtfully, glancing over the entrees. 

“...Technically the scene of our first date was the diner near the store I worked at,” You remind him. “This was our second date—And we didn’t even eat here.” 

“Nitpick nitpick nitpick.”

“I learned from the best.”

“Michelle?” 

“Alfred.” 

Bruce chuckled, setting his menu aside. “How is Michelle?” 

“She’s doing pretty well. Still adjusting to Keystone City, obviously, but she said that she enjoys how quiet it is by compairson…Thank you, by the way.”

“I know how much you’ve been missing her.” 

“...She’s worried.” 

“That I’ll do it again?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Are you worried?” “Should I be?” 

You don’t look up from your menu for a moment. You can feel him watching you heavily, but you don’t let it bow or shy you back from the question. You feel the table shift as he leans forward a little. 

“Baby.” 

“Mm?” 

“If for some reason I lose my mind and do that again, I want you to take everything out of the mansion that isn’t nailed down.” 

You bite back a smile, nodding. “Do me a favor and jot that out on a napkin. Alfred can notarize it when we get home.” 

“Alfred can notarize it tomorrow morning. He has the night off.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Bruce’s foot hooks around your ankle, tugging a little closer beneath the table. You can’t help but wonder what sort of picture you make to the staff—Bruce, watching you so closely, you, studying your menu as if the waiter’s going to quiz you on it, and your feet hooked together, visible just beneath the end of the tablecloth. 

“Because if you’re amenable, our plans don’t end with dinner.” 

“What do they end with?” 

“That is up to you.” 

“Do I get to know my options?”

“I think you know your options.”

“Mm.” You make a show of turning the page of your menu, stalling and trying to weigh your words. “...So is this going to be an evening on the…Earlier side?” 

“Not if I can help it.” 

“...But if you can’t help it?” 

“It’s going to take a lot to get me away from you tonight.” 

“You know if you changed one word and omitted another, you would’ve been quoting Toto’s Africa.”

“That wasn’t on purpose.”

“Wasn’t it?” You cast him a glance from beneath your lashes.

“No.” 

Your brows tip up, and his stern insistence melts before he shrugs. “Heard it on the way over.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“It’s catchy.” 

“It’s very popular.” 

“I mean it.”

“...I know.” 

“You know?” 

“I know it’s catchy.” 

He laughs softly, and you reach out, curling your hand around his. 

“I know you mean it,” You reassure gently. Bruce smiles, raising his hand and pressing a kiss to your knuckles. 

“...How long do you think the staff is going to linger over there?” He asks. 

“I think they’re afraid to come over.” 

“I don’t bite.” 

“Sure you do.”

“Not with an audience.” 

[ducky-mae]

hellooo!! im not sure if your requests are open so feel free to ignore this but i was wondering if you could write for tasm!peter where the reader just got her wisdom teeth removed and she’s all loopy on anesthetics and forgets peter is her boyfriend? i saw this video where this girl got her wisdom teeth pulled and forgot she was dating her boyfriend and fell in love with him all over again😭😭

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPR7sGQo5/

thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k

"Here she is," the nurse says gently, walking you out with his arm behind your back. "Alright, say hi to Peter." 

"Hi, Peter," you mumble, eyes on the floor. 

Peter grins at you, worry warm at the back of his throat. "Hey. Is that everything?" he asks, nodding at the nurses paper bag of aftercare. 

"Everything you'll need." The nurse helps Peter take over, hoisting your arm over his shoulders before stepping away. "Alright, feel better, okay? And don't hesitate to call if something comes up. We're here to look after you." 

You seem appreciative in your fog, but it's hard to tell. Peter curls his arm around your hip and gives it a soft rub as he leads you to the stairs. Whoever devised the floor plan here had murder on their mind —the second floor is completely inaccessible. Luckily, Peter has a lot of strength at his disposal. 

You can feel it. "Woh, you're strong," you murmur. 

"You know that already." His grip on you tightens, pretty much carrying you down the tight staircase. 

"Do I?" you ask. You make a sound like you're hurting, a squeak. 

"I'd hope so." At the end of the staircase, he sits you down, worried you're not feeling well. "You okay? I can princess carry you if you need me to." 

You look at him with wide eyes. He turns to check there's no one standing behind him, but you're really looking at him. "What?" he asks, touching your knee, imploring. "You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"You're Peter?" you ask. 

Ah, the amnesiac effect of anaesthetic. His touch turns comforting, stroking your thigh with as much care as he can drive into his palm alone. "That's me. Hey, if you're forgetting me, does that mean you're not mad at me for last Friday anymore? 'Cos I know you said you forgive me but I can tell it still pisses you off–" 

Your eyes fall to his hand. "Why would I be mad at you?" you ask. 

"I finished the milk and put the carton back in the fridge, even though I promised I'd stop doing it. You see the jug and think there's milk left. We were gonna have macaroni and cheese..." He nudges your fingers with his. "Are you okay? You don't look like yourself."

"What do I usually look like?" 

"Not so, you know. Daunted." 

"You're really handsome," you whisper, refusing to meet his eye. 

"Oh, you think so?" 

You nod like your head is too heavy. You're embarrassed, you sweetheart, oh my god Peter could cry into your lap. 

"Let's get you to the car, baby." 

"Where are we going?" The gauze gives you the world's most adorable lisp, and it turns your gasp into a hum as Peter stands you up. 

"Home." 

"Together?" 

"Yeah, we live together. It's a nice place, and you're a great decorator, you know? It's cozy." 

"Thank you," you say shyly. 

You're not not shy with him, but it's been a long time since you got so quiet over a practically innocuous comment. He wants to see how you'll react to real compliments, over the top stuff that he one hundred percent means. It's a little mean, but when will you ever be like this again? 

He helps you out past the desk and onto the street to your car where it's parked a half a block down. "Don't worry about all this, okay? I'm gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart. There's an ice pack and a brand new comforter with your name on it waiting at home." Peter smiles at your starry eyes as they flash to his, amazed at his simple plans. "How does that sound, beautiful? Is there anything you want before we head home? Anything that would make you feel better?" 

"You're gonna take care of me?" you ask breathlessly. 

"That's my job. That's my number one boyfriend duty." 

"You're my boyfriend?" 

"I am!" he says happily, laughing as he speaks. "For a while. I've been trying to take things further but you're always really shy about getting married–" 

"You want to get married? To me?" 

Peter presses a soft kiss to your cheek. "You're the only person I'd ever want to get married to. We already picked the flowers–" 

"We did?" 

He laughs again, all your questions. He loves regular you but loopy you is especially endearing. "Last time I got super drunk, yeah. You never let me forget it." 

"So you love me?" you ask, stopping short.

"I love you so much," he says immediately, hugging you into his side. He dots another kiss against the top of your head. "You should remember that even if you don't remember me." 

"I love you," you say quietly. 

Peter doesn't know if that's your memory returning, or if you've fallen in love with him in the last fifteen minutes. He could easily fall in love with you that quickly, and yet he's still amazed at your confession. 

"That's good. That's great. Thank you, sweetheart," he says, desperate to hold your face in his hands but weary of causing you future pain. "There's your car," —he points, lowering his head to yours to make sure you can see it, hand now protectively held between your shoulder blades— "let's go home now. Yeah?" 

You start walking again at his requests. He can pretty much see the steam rising off of your face, giddy with happiness at these revelations. You're together, you're in love, and you think he's handsome. He wonders what you'll have to say about his biceps in this state of delirium; you go crazy for his arms sober. 

Which reminds him. 

"I totally have another secret to tell you," he says, unlocking the car as you approach and helping you into the passenger seat. 

"What is it?" you ask. 

Peter closes you in and skirts around the door, climbing into the driver's seat. He's glad that New York is as ridiculously loud as ever, because not even the closed doors or your sodden gauze can smother the way you shriek.

"My boyfriend is Spider-Man?!" 

[ducky-mae]

𝓢𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐬. 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍𝗂𝖼𝖾 𝗅𝖾𝖺𝗀𝗎𝖾 𝗍𝗋𝗂𝗇𝗂𝗍𝗒 ୨ ໋ ˳ ⊹ esp. . . !

superman, wonder woman and batman x f!reader

ADVERTENCIAS: smut drabble, gang bang, muy poca degradación sexual, masturbación, sexo oral, p in v. Diana!bisexual.

NOTA: este es primer relato de un au smut de la liga de la justicia. Pueden contribuir a este si gustan dando sugerencias o ideas.

Siempre hubo algo extraño e inverosímil en esos tres desde el momento en el que los conociste.

Todos escondían secretos. Esconder secretos, según tú, era una de las partes más comunes de la esencia humana. No te interesaba saber lo que todos ocultaban, pero a tu mente curiosa le obsesionaba saber que guardaba la santa trinidad de la liga de la justicia bajo su elegante y sofisticada fachada de héroes; la cual nadie atrevería a poner en duda o cuestionar.

El precio que tuvo que pagar tu curiosidad fue más costoso de lo que jamás hubieses imaginado que conllevaría una deuda a saldar. Ahora, eras parte de esa locura y por más que quisieras no podrías escapar.

La buena noticia era que tampoco querías.

Supiste que estabas conforme con pertenecer en el momento en el que los sentiste por completo a los tres.

Es que era difícil pensar en otra cosa cuando te encontrabas atada en una silla completamente desnuda y sin poder moverte mientras tres pares de ojos azules te analizaban.

La hermosa princesa de Themyscira no tenía ninguna vergüenza en clavarse en tu dulce entrepierna. Sus dedos se resbalaron por tus labios vaginales empapados en un sonido tan vulgarmente obsceno que provocó que accidentalmente te removieras en tu silla.

Miraste atentamente a las dos figuras masculinas mientras intentabas acercarte a Diana lo máximo que tu cuerpo lo permitiese para poder besarla y sentir aún más profundo sus dedos en tu interior.

Pero antes de que pudieses llegar a sus labios fuiste brutalmente apartada por el hombre de acero que tuvo una clara intención de probar tu boca primero. No es que te quejaras; la lengua de Clark era un paraíso. Tenía una extraña pero caliente conexión con tus labios, por lo que te convertía en un desastre de inmediato. ¿Quien diría que el último poder de superman sería hacer empapar tan fácilmente a sus víctimas?

Aunque, no te merecías que fueran buenos contigo. Al contrario, tendrías que ser castigada por insubordinación. Lo que hiciste no tenía perdón.

En tú defensa, no sabías que eras exclusiva del trío y que no podías acostarte con otras personas. Las reglas no habían estado demasiado claras cuando los conociste así como cuando comenzaron con sus aventuras de sexo sin compromiso.

Por supuesto no eras exclusiva de absolutamente nadie y eso ibas a dejarlo en claro a futuro. Ahora mismo estabas demasiado ocupada en correrte sobre los dedos de Diana perforando tu coño que no tuviste tiempo suficiente para pensar en otra cosa.

Bruce se sintió en cierto punto cansando de observar. Llegaste a pensar que quizás estaba imaginando cuál de todas las torturas posibles sería la correcta para hacerte sufrir justo como a él le gustaba.

La adoración que el murciélago tenía por como tú coño lo envolvía tan cálidamente sacaba la parte más dominante y morbosa de su interior. La vista de cómo en ese momento su polla entraba y salía de tu pequeño agujero al mismo tiempo que tu boca se comía muy alegremente la erección de Clark y tus dedos el clítoris de Diana fue completamente suficiente como para ponerse en el borde del orgasmo.

Te atragantabas con la punta rozando tu campanilla. Ni siquiera podías concentrarte lo suficiente por lo fuerte que estaba penetrándote. El placer era abrazador.

— Mira a nuestra pequeña zorra. Ni siquiera puede concentrarse en chupar una buena polla mientras la están follando. — Comentó Wayne. Seguía moviéndose justo en tu punto dulce; cada vez más rápido, cada vez más preciso.

— Ella se ha portado demasiado mal. Aunque, ¿deberíamos darle un premio? Siempre nos toma tan bien. — Kent continúa, preguntando. Empiezas a controlar el ritmo de tu boca aunque de cierta manera sigue siendo un poco difícil.

— ¡Oh, Hera! — Gime la princesa de Themyscira. — Esto se siente tan bien. — Sus dedos no resisten a intentar a ayudarse para poder correrse sobre tu mano.

Esta es definitivamente la mejor parte del día, la que más disfrutabas. Y por supuesto, ese era el placer culposo que conllevaba el guardar un secreto. El secreto que compartían los cuatro.

[ducky-mae]

Stay with Me (Bruce Wayne x f!Reader)

Summary: Bruce and Y/N's tentative first date gets extended when a storm floods the roads.

Warnings: Fluff, idiots with feelings who can't communicate them properly.

Request?: Not really, but I like writing this dynamic to see where the relationship goes.

A/N: I doubt anybody would ever have a problem with how fictional dogs are characterised, but I like to think that Ace and Titus are friendly pups who like people.

1 - Picking up the Pieces | 2 - Kintsugi | 3 - Stay with Me |

Earlier in the week, Bruce had asked Y/N to come over for dinner. Neither of them had said the word ‘date’, but it was certainly treated like one.

The plan was originally for the two of them to order pizza and eat it in front of the TV while Y/N showed Bruce all the movies that he’d missed out on over the years, but the rest of the Wayne household had other ideas.

As soon as she’d pressed the doorbell,the front door was flung open to reveal Damian suited up for patrol, his brothers crowding the doorway around him. The small boy tried to keep his composure as his much taller brothers tried to push past him, eager to finally see Y/N after missing her for so long.

“Boys, you have to let Y/N come in,” Bruce’s voice came from behind the wall of geared up heroes.

“We just wanted to say hi to her before we go,” Dick said as he stepped away from the door first.

“Before you go?” Y/N asked in surprise. “Where are you going?”

“Bruce put us on patrol so he can stay here for your date,” Tim said and tried to yank Damian away from her side.

Y/N looked at Bruce and saw his face turn pink in embarrassment.

“It’s not a date,” Bruce said quickly. “We’re just having dinner, that’s all.”

“Sounds like a date to me,” Jason said drily before slinking off into the manor, Tim and Dick following behind him after waving to Y/N.

Just as she was about to step inside the manor, Y/N felt a tap on her side. She turned her attention back to Damian, who had yet to follow the others.

“It was nice to see you, Y/N,” he said before heading down to the Cave.

“When did he get so nice?” Y/N asked once Damian was completely out of earshot. “No offence.”

“None taken,” Bruce said as he closed the front door behind her. “We all know how Damian can be. He must have missed you.”

When the cool evening air was shut out, the smell of food trailing in from the kitchen got stronger. The unmistakable smell of toasted bread and melted cheese filled Y/N’s senses and made her mouth water.

“You already ordered without me?” she asked as they made their way towards the kitchen.

“Not exactly,” Bruce said sheepishly.

A large cheese pizza sat in the middle of the kitchen island, steam rising from its surface. The counter against the wall was dusted with flour and an empty bowl of red sauce was ready to go into the dishwasher.

“Ah, so nice to see you Ms Y/N!” Alfred said as he appeared from behind the refrigerator door.

“Alfred made it for us,” Bruce said.

“Hope you don’t mind,” Alfred said with a warm smile. “We haven’t seen you in such a long time, I thought I would make something special.”

“I don’t mind at all,” Y/N said and took a seat at the counter. “Your cooking is just as good as ordering takeout.”

“You’re too kind, Ms Y/N.” Alfred took off the apron he was wearing and hung it up on a hook on a wall before making his way back to the foyer. “Enjoy your evening.”

Once Alfred had gone, Y/N turned to face Bruce who was now the colour of a tomato. She had to stop herself from laughing as he buried his face in his hands and groaned.

“Sorry about all of that,” he said as he took a seat next to her. “When I told them you were coming over, they all acted like it was Christmas.”

“I don’t mind,” Y/N said and took the pizza cutter that Alfred had left on the counter. “I like seeing your family.”

“Obviously they like seeing you too.” He watched as she cut two slices and passed one to him. “Wait, let me get some silverware.”

Y/N laughed before taking a bite of her slice.

“You’ve never changed, Bruce,” she said around the bite of hot pizza. “Just eat it with your hands!”

“Old habits die hard, huh?”

Although Y/N hadn’t expected the night to go wrong, it went a lot better than she’d expected. Since Bruce had sent the boys out on patrol duty and Alfred was keeping track of the comms, there were no distractions other than Ace and Titus sniffing around and wanting to be cuddled.

While Titus was more wary of Y/N, having been trained by Damian to be on watch, Ace was more than happy to shove his snout under her arm and wedge himself between her and Bruce. Despite being a German Shepherd, he seemed to want to be a lap dog.

The night was spent in front of the seldom-used television in the living room, Y/N showing Bruce her favourite movies and shows that he’d missed out on. And that turned out to be almost every movie and show ever made.

“Bruce, how can you have a subscription to every single streaming service and have not even seen The Simpsons?” she’d asked at one point.

“I don’t exactly have the time to be sitting around watching cartoons, Y/N,” he said with a laugh.

“Well, fighting crime and running a company and attending charity events doesn’t allow for a lot of leisure time.”

By 10pm, Y/N decided that it was time for her to head back home. She still had the weekend ahead of her but she didn’t really want to spend the last part of her night stuck in traffic.

There was just one problem: it had started raining. Heavily.

Y/N had never seen so much rain before. As a native Gothamite, she knew how extreme the weather could be at times, especially during the colder months. But this was torrential.

Thankfully, Wayne Manor was on higher ground and away from any likely flooding but the same couldn’t be said for her apartment on the Lower East Side. She watched the rain from the safety of the living room, worrying about how she would get home, or whether she could get home at all.

“It’s really coming down out there, huh?” Bruce said from behind her, snapping her out of her head.

“Yeah,” she said, her breath fogging up the window. “God, I hope the roads are okay.”

“You could always spend the night here,” he said casually. Maybe a little too casually.

“What?” Y/N asked as she turned around in surprise.

“I can get Alfred to make up the guest room for you. I didn’t mean, spend the night.”

“Oh,” Y/N breathed in relief. 

They hadn’t made anything official yet, weren’t even calling the date a ‘date’, so why had her mind immediately jumped to that?

“But I don’t have anything to change into, or my toothbrush,” Y/N said quickly, trying to make the air a little less awkward.

“That’s no problem, I can get you some clothes and I’m sure we’ve got a spare toothbrush or two.”

“Are you sure?” Y/N asked as she moved away from the window. “I don’t want to intrude or anything.”

“Y/N,” Bruce said and rested his hands on her shoulders. “You’re family to us. You’re not intruding and I’m sure the boys will love you to stay over.”

Her heart warmed at hearing him speak so earnestly. She’d never been able to explain why she’d never felt comfortable in the manor when Selina was around, but it was all down to her own insecurities and jealousy. She hated to admit it to herself, but she hated being around them when they were a couple and she felt like she’d been cast aside, whether or not that was the case.

She didn’t care that it was selfish to think that Selina being out of the picture gave her her best friend back, but it was like he was finally seeing her again after years of being invisible. Like Bruce wanted her to be in his life again and wanted her to know that.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him, her head resting on his chest as she listened to his heart pick up its pace.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

Bruce returned her hug and rested his cheek on the top of her head, crouching down slightly so he could reach her.

“You’re always welcome here,” he said. “I can’t speak for everyone else, but I think the atmosphere would be better around here with you.”

Y/N lifted her head from his chest, about to step away, when he gently pulled her onto her toes and captured her lips with his own. She startled slightly at first before letting him guide her, moving her hands from his chest to loop loosely around his neck, the hair at the nape of his neck just brushing her fingers. Their lips moved together softly, chaste enough to not escalate the situation but just passionate enough to feel it.

Once again, it was over too soon for Y/N’s liking. Bruce pulled away and briefly rested his forehead against hers before standing up straight again. He reluctantly released her from his hold and took her hand to lead her upstairs.

“C’mon, we’d better find you something to wear.”

When Bruce had said that he’d find something for Y/N to wear to bed, she didn’t expect him to give her his clothes. The look on her face when he’d handed them to her must have said something.

“I didn’t want to look through the boys’ clothes so I just got something out of my closet,” he said. “I hope that’s okay.”

“It’s okay,” Y/N said and took them before opening the door for the guest bedroom.

Bruce, naturally, was still wide awake and was going to join Alfred in the Cave but stayed up to help him make up the guest room and wish Y/N goodnight. Usually when she stayed over at a friend's house, she expected to sleep on their couch, not in a lavish guest room. But, then again, most people weren’t best friends with a billionaire.

“I had a really good night,” Y/N said as she lingered in the doorway . “We should have another night like this.”

“We should,” Bruce said with a warm smile. “I think the boys will be happy about that too. They were always asking when the next time you were coming over was.”

“Well, hopefully you can tell them that I’ll see them more often.”

“Don’t be surprised if they almost knock the door down tomorrow morning.”

They were quiet for a moment, neither of them wanting the night to end, but tiredness taking over Y/N’s body. She tried her best to stifle a yawn but only made herself look more tired.

“I’ll let you get some sleep,” Bruce said before stroking the side of her face with the back of his fingers and leaning down to kiss her forehead.

“Good night, Bruce,” Y/N said before reluctantly slinking into the bedroom.

As soon as the door softly clicked shut, Y/N inhaled deeply and slowly let her breath out. The night had felt like a dream and she couldn’t help but feel like she was going to wake up and find out that it had never happened. But the bundle of clothes in her arms told her differently.

She crossed the room to the bed and set the clothes down on it before undressing. Her own clothes felt scratchy and cheap in comparison to Bruce’s. He always told her that designer clothes weren’t important to him, but the quality of them clearly did. She pulled the plain grey t-shirt over her head and donned the sweatpants and sighed when the soft cotton brushed against her skin.

If she closed her eyes, it felt like Bruce was still with her, his strong arms circling her body and the scent of his cologne filling her senses. The clothes were far too big for her, but that didn’t stop her from feeling completely at ease.

Things were still moving slowly for the two of them; Bruce was still recovering from heartbreak, after all. But a slow pace was better than nothing. Y/N didn’t want to completely ruin everything by coming across too strong, but she wished Bruce was really there to sleep next to her.

Wearing his clothes would have to do for now.

As she drifted off to sleep, her mind conjured up the feeling of him holding her in his arms, stroking her hair, an echo of his heartbeat in her ear. Hopefully the next step in their relationship would come sooner rather than later, but she was willing to wait for him.

Even if that took forever.

[ducky-mae]

Can we see Alfred and shop girl bonding in the Other Half?💕

Previous Part | Masterlist |

Warnings: Mostly fluffy, with a peppering of angst; Shop Girl has nightmares; this is an Alfred-centric chapter for obvious reasons

“I known Frank twenty years. I do that to him, can you imagine what I’ll do to you?”

The words are drowned by a gunshot, and a cruel laugh—

You’re sitting up and scrambling to turn the lamp on before you can stop yourself. You heave in tight, panicked breaths as your memory still crowds behind your eyes and rings through your ears. You look around the bedroom, and for once, you’re relieved to find Bruce’s side of the bed empty. Ever since you’ve returned to Gotham, he’s been hesitant around you. His worry hasn’t disappeared, but he’s been far more careful about voicing that concern. 

You draw a deep breath in through your nose, forcing yourself to hold it for ten seconds before slowly blowing the air out again. You can feel the panicked pounding of your heart as you begin to adjust to your reality, away from your nightmare. 

You look around the dim room, stomach churning in discomfort at the thought of laying back down and trying to fall back asleep with the memories of the kidnapping so close to the surface. You push the sheets aside, tucking your feet into your slippers and taking your bathrobe up from where you’d hung it over the footboard. You pull it open, yawning widely as you head for the door. 

It’s a short trip to the kitchen, but you’re surprised to find the lights on, and Alfred puttering around. 

“Alfred?” You speak up, voice thick from disuse. You smile a little as he turns to look at you. “Is everything okay?” 

“I could ask you the same thing.” 

You hum softly, walking over to the stove. “I wanted some tea,” You fib. “Would you like some?” 

“I’d be happy to make it.” 

“I don’t mind. You do these things for us all the time. What are you doing up, anyway?” 

“I had trouble getting to sleep, myself.” 

“Really?” You frown, turning to look at him once you’ve put the fire on under the kettle. “Are you alright?” 

“Quite alright,” He reassures with a gentle smile. “I was trying to parse whether or not Master Wayne may want to do anything for Christmas.” 

“Mm,” You nod. “A good question, consider the catastrophe that was Thanksgiving.” 

You walk over to the shelf that Alfred keeps the tea chest. 

“Would you like a biscuit with your tea?” 

“Oh, yes please,” You smile. 

“Has he said anything to you about Christmas?” 

“Not a word. But communication’s been a little…Odd since I got back.” 

“‘Odd’ how?” 

“Mm, well,” You shrug, opening the lid of the tea chest. “I don’t know, I feel like we’ve been tip-toeing around one another.” 

“That is to be expected, even if it’s uncomfortable.” 

“As long as it doesn’t become our normal.” 

“I’m certain you’ll find a way to work through it.” 

You smile as Alfred joins you at the counter with two clean mugs. 

“Thank you. Chamomile?” 

“How you know me,” Alfred chuckles. 

“Two tea bags?” 

“Yes, please.” 

You set the tea bags down in one mug before taking up a packet of sleepy time for yourself. 

“...Alfred?” 

“Yes?” 

“Can I ask…” You trail off, weighing your words as you put the tea chest away again. “When I asked Bruce about whether or not we were doing anything for Thanksgiving, you know—before the fiasco…He seemed to sort of…Glaze over.” 

Alfred purses his lips, considering. 

“The holidays have always been somewhat difficult for Mr. Wayne, but we haven't celebrated Thanksgiving since he was a very small boy.” 

“Oh…” You slouches back against the counter, scrubbing your hand across your forehead. “I wish I had known that. I’m sure this year hasn't sent him scurrying back to the table for turkey.”

“You couldn’t have known unless one of us told you,” Alfred soothes. “And if you consider it another way: the holiday can only get better going forward.” 

“...That’s certainly an optimistic way of looking at it. Though I may just hop on the bandwagon and never celebrate it again.” 

“It would certainly cut down on the dishes.” 

You snort a soft laugh, jokingly whacking his shoulder in admonishment before turning back to the stove, hearing the kettle scream. You fill each mug, glancing back as Alfred sits at the kitchen table with a plate of biscuits. You sit down across from him, passing him his tea before taking up a biscuit.

“...I take it he’s not back yet,” You hedge. 

“No…But it’s early.” 

Early. Your eyes stray to the clock. It’s nearly half past three. You shake your head a little, peering down into your tea and levering the bag in and out as you think. 

“Is something wrong?” 

“No,” You insist, “I just, um…Every once in a while I have these flashes to when I met Bruce. It was a little over a year ago now.” 

“I remember.”

“How are the gloves holding up, by the way?” 

“They’re in excellent condition.” 

“I better call my old manager. She’ll be so happy to hear it.”

The two of you share a chuckle before Alfred reaches out, resting his hand atop yours and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Drink your tea before it goes cold,” You nod toward it. “I know that drives you nuts.” 

“There is nothing worse than a cold cup of tea.” 

“So you keep telling me. What are your opinions on iced tea?” 

“That is an entirely different matter. It’s alright if the tea is cold, so long as it did not start out hot.” 

“Something tells me you’ve thought a lot about this. I’m starting to think this is what really keeps you up at night.”

“More than you could possibly imagine.” 

[ducky-mae]

Mastermind

Summary: You and Peter “accidentally” wear matching Halloween costumes (part of the teachers au)

masterlist

“Fucking great,” you mutter as you finish reading your latest email informing you that the delivery of your new furniture was being pushed back by a day. 

A day means everything when you're moving, for you it means that either you’d have to ask someone to wait at your new apartment to sign for the delivery while you were back at your current apartment with the movers you hired or you’d have to find a way to magically split yourself into two. 

You pinch the bridge of your nose, scouring your mind for someone you know was free this Saturday. A lot of your friends worked on the weekends, Johnny was visiting his sister out in Long Island, and MJ was going to be here, at school, finishing the set for the upcoming school musical.  

A sigh escapes your lips as you stand from your chair and smooth your dress out, you’ll just have to figure it out later, you think to yourself as you open the door and wedge the door stopper into place, the heels of your shoes clicking as you do so. 

The period was over and the hallways began flooding with the sea of students heading to their next class. You waited by your desk as your students began trickling in, making sure to greet each one and encouraging them to grab a few pieces of candy from the skeleton sitting at the front of the room that your honor’s class affectionately named, Bill Beanie the Meanie. 

You gave the stragglers a few minutes to make their way there before shutting the door, “First and foremost, Happy Halloween,” you say with a radiant smile, pausing for a second as your words were being echoed back to you, “As you know today also marks the end of the fairytale origins unit, meaning that your final papers are due today–most of you have already turned yours in online but for those of you who haven’t, you have until tonight to do so.” 

You walk over and power on the smartboard, “I posted a poll on Google Classroom for you guys to vote on which movie we watch today. Questions? Comments? Concerns?” 

Several hands shoot up into the air, “Yes, Savannah?” 

“Do you enjoy being the grim reaper of people’s childhood?” 

“I do, thank you for asking,” your voice dripping with sarcasm.

“Miss L/n? Did you and Mr. Parker plan this?” A student asks aloud.

You tilt your head at his questions, “Plan what?” 

“Your costumes,” a string of students answered.

“Our costumes? Mr. Parker dressed up this year? What is he?” The excitement in your voice was apparent. 

“He’s a scarecrow, these girls– I don’t know their names but I think they’re in your third period, they were talking about it at lunch, they figured that he was the one from the movie since you’re Dorothy,” another student adds. 

“Well, I can confirm that it wasn't planned,” you tell them trying your best to conceal your joy

as you made your way to the door to look through the tiny window trying to see if you could catch a glimpse of him. 

You let out the faintest gasp when he walked into your line of vision, they were right Peter was a scarecrow, and by the looks of it, he was the scarecrow. “Vote on the movie, I’ll be right outside,” you announced to the class, before opening the door and holding it closed behind you as you stepped out into the hall and waved to Peter. 

There’s a rather mischievous look on his face as he stands in his doorway, a stuffed Cairn Terrier under his arm, “Toto, I’ve got a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore,” he says, glancing at the plush. 

“You’re such a liar! You said you weren’t going to dress up,” you whisper loudly, a beaming smile on your face as you focus on the details of his costume, eyes darting from the burlap hood and peaked hat to the rope cinching his green shirt at the waist to the patchworked pants and pieces of straw sticking out. 

“It was a last-minute thing,” he states, shrugging his shoulders. 

You shake your head at him, “No way…the quality of your costume looks too good to be–”

“How come you weren’t at lunch today?” He asks, cutting you off. 

“Careful there, Parker, it almost sounds like you missed me,” you tease. 

“Yeah right,” he says with a scoff, “But seriously, what’s up? You haven’t left your room all day.”   

You peer over your shoulder and see your students chatting among themselves, “I’ll tell you later, I promised my kids we’d watch a movie of their choice today,” you say to him, cracking open the door just enough for you to slip in. 

—

There’s a smug look on MJ’s face as you and Peter walk past her about to get into her car, “You two off to see the wizard?” 

You could see Peter smile out the corner of your eye as you giggle and nod your head at her question. 

“Who suggested the matching costumes?” She asks, her eyes flickering from you to Peter. 

You were about to respond and tell her that wasn't the case but stop yourself from speaking when you see Peter mouth the words ‘shut up’ to her. 

Her gaze immediately shifts to meet your eyes, it was almost like she could see you connecting the dots, “No one did, I didn’t even know what she was going until I saw her,” Peter replies, his words rushed, a hint of panic 

“Well isn’t that a fun coincidence!” MJ says, a smirk spreading across her face, her eyes still fixed on you, ‘I know, you know’ is what they tell you. 

You nod in agreement, “Very fun…anyway we should probably get going, I gotta pack the last of my boxes.”  

“Boxes?” You hear Peter ask behind you as you bring MJ into a hug, “Traitor,” you whisper to her. “I have no idea what you're talking about,” she whispers back before pulling away and responding to him, “Yeah? She’s moving–I thought you told him?” 

“I was going to go on our walk, but yeah I’m moving, this weekend actually…it’s why you didn’t see me today–I’ve been emailing back and forth with the company that’s supposed to deliver the furniture I bought to and for my new apartment. They were supposed to come Saturday morning and assemble everything but now they’re coming on Sunday and are only delivering the furniture and the worst part about it is that the time window is so wide– twelve hours, Pete, twelve– from eight in the morning to eight in the night and I’m supposed to be there to sign for it but I’m going to be at my current place with the movers in the morning and I don’t want to take the risk of having no one there and getting that fucking ‘sorry we missed you’ note so now I have to find someone to wait there until I get over there with the movers just in case they come early but everyone’s busy on the week–” 

“I could do it.” 

“What?” 

“I could do it–I could wait at your new place for the delivery.”

“Are you sure Pete? You don’t have to–”

“Yes, I’m sure, I’m the one offering to help,” he reassured you. 

You let out a sigh of relief, feeling the stressful weight of the situation being lifted off your shoulders. You take a step towards him, "Is it okay if I hug you?"

He doesn't say anything, instead, he moves to bridge the gap between you two, wrapping his arms around your shoulders and pulling you into his chest.

You lean further, allowing yourself to melt in his hold before snaking your arms around his waist. "This is nice," he says swaying the two of you ever so slightly from side to side.

"You're nice," you manage to mumble out before you both jump and pull away at the loud blare of a car horn.

A loud laugh can be heard as MJ rolls down the passenger side window, "I'll see you lovebirds later!" she exclaims before pulling out of her spot and driving down the street, leaving both you and Peter frozen in place trying to hide your flushed faces from each other.

[ducky-mae]

cameras flashes, that's how we crashed

battinson!bruce wayne X reader

part 1

summary: on a press conference, bruce finds a journalist who's up to his standards

warnings: usual gotham violence, quick discrimination of a serial killer, not actually smut in this, but in the future so NSFW MDNI

a/n: forgive any grammatical mistakes, english is not my first language!!! Bruce lives in the manor instead of the Wayne Towers cuz I like the manor vibe more, also I kinda picture Jim Gordon from the Gotham Tv show, cuz I love that version but it doesn't really matters lol. (nothing said above is useful for this reading but I just thought you should know) also, this takes place one year after the movie

Bruce sat quietly on the car, the ride was awfully short. He wished he had more time to mentally prepare to his first press conference. He was a recluse for most part of his life, but after the scandal about The Gotham Renewal Program, people deserved to know the truth. And the idea of continuing his family legacy of charity and philanthropy wasn’t all bad and kept Alfred out of his nerves for a while.

And even tough Bruce Wayne could crack a fake smile to the cameras, throw charity galas and events, the true help came at night. The only possible salivation Gotham could have, the real way he could help the city was as Vengeance. The Batman. He didn’t think of himself as a hero, or a vigilante, more of a necessary evil; all the violence and anger, the rage and the darkness of his work, his project; people would be outraged if they found out they were the same man.

“We’re here, Mr. Wayne” The driver announced.

Alfred, who as sitting across from Bruce on the limo closed the papers he was reading and smiles softly.

“Ready, master Bruce?”

Bruce sighs.

“Not really”

The car parked inside the underground garage of the Wayne Enterprises, Bruce and Alfred made their way to the elevator, not a word was said.

Bruce stole a glance at his reflection on the mirror. A black suit Alfred picked for him, a W embroidery on its lapel, his hair was short now, shorter than he liked, all slicked back by hair gel, but nothing could hide the dark circles under his eyes or the lack of sun colour on his skin. Sometimes, just sometimes, Bruce wishes he didn’t have to wear normal clothes, to comb his hair, ties his bottoms; he wishes he could live inside the Batsuit. He felt like the suit was his own skin, her armour, him and Batman were on, there was no Bruce Wayne without Vengeance, they were bonded forever and could never be separated from each other. He wish they could, he wish he could be Batman alone; no press conferences, no reports, paparazzi, no “Bruce Wayne crowned prince of Gotham.”

The elevator stops and the door open. Alfred goes our first and greet some people outside, telling them where to go.

“You have 10 minutes, Bruce.” He warns, “I’ll get them stared and you wait here till I call you”

Bruce nods.

He sits down on a leather couch and waits, starring at the glass doors. All the reports and journalists waiting for him, men and women, from Gotham and other places of the world.

He’s nervous. Not nervous like he is before a fight, nervous he will be put on a corner, that he’ll be catch on a lie, nervous someone knows. It’s like someone in the next room it’s just waiting for him to appears, to stand up from their chair and ask ‘Are you the Batman?’

“Ladies and gentleman, Bruce Wayne” Alfred announces from the stage and glances at him.

Bruce works on his better smile he can put on and enters the stage; he’s received with thunderous applauses and blinding cameras flashes. He waves and sit on a chair, in a wooden desk in front of him is a glass of water and a microphone.

“Let’s get, started then” Alfred said, pointing to a woman in a grey dress standing with a microphone in her hand.

“Mr. Wayne, why did you decided to throw a press conference after years of reclusiveness?”

Bruce leans into her direction a bit.

“Well, I think all the events of the past year made me realize how much the Wayne Foundation means to Gotham and I’ve been a little reckless with that matter”

It was a good answer, he thought.

The following questions were easy too, “Mr. Wayne, how do you plan on taking care of the raised money? To prevent anything to happen again”, “What’s the difference between the Wayne Foundation and the Gotham Renewal Program?”, “What projects do you have in mind?”, and of course, some shallow questions, “What brand is your suit?”, “What car do you drive?”, question he almost laughed at. Did people actually wanted to know that?

Bruce was thinking how the conference was going well, easy, almost, not as he had pictured it before. Until…

“Mr. Wayne, what do you think about The Batman?”

He flinched for half a second, he opened his mouth but nothing came out.

Another woman asked something he didn’t quite hear with all that was going on inside his head, but the word Batman was also there. And then another, and another…

“Mr. Wayne, what do you think about The Batman?”

The room turned into a complete circus. Grown adults talking over each other, fighting for a turn on the microphone.

You rolled your eyes. This happens every time, someone thinks about the name Batman and suddenly everyone has something to say. What does it matter Bruce Wayne’s thought of the Batman? There were so much important questions to be asked, so much more to discover about that man’s life and projects than a simple opinion.

You were begging to regret the moment you accepted the offer to come to this conference. You weren’t a regular journalist, you didn’t know how to write an article about the weather, fashion trends, social events, you wrote about thing most journalist didn’t want to, thing that most people were scare to read. People scared of the truth. You weren’t. You would dig and dig until the raw verity came to surface, it didn’t matter where or who you had to dig.

The man who had introduced Mr. Wayne appeared again and announced the press conference. No fucking way, no without the answers you wanted, you didn’t take this job to watch other people ruin it.

Slowly, you got up from your sit and walked towards the person who as holding the microphone and gently pull it away from his hands.

“Mr. Wayne…” but the voices around you were too loud.

You gave the head of the mic a flick, the loud keen sound made the room come silent.

“Sorry.” You apologized. “Mr. Wayne, why did you felt the urge to re-open the school project at the marginalized neighbourhoods of Gotham after your father failed attempted?”   

The men was halfway leaving, but he turned around reluctant, staring right at you. Those piercing blue eyes roaming your face.

“Well, I believe the project needs a second chance. Children and teenagers should be given a chance to have a good education, it helps getting them out of the streets.” He answered, without the microphone his voice was low, but the silence of the room let you hear him loud and clear. “Who do you write for?”

“The Gotham Gazette” You answered proudly.

Mr. Wayne whispered something to the other man and sat back at the chair.

“Do you have any more questions, Miss…?”

You smile politely and told him your name.

“Would you say that the Wayne Foundation has an impact outside of Gotham?”

A ghost of a smile appeared on the man’s lips. You shook the urge to smile back at him.

You could tell he was a bit nervous, but he had answered the questions with manners and the right words, maybe he didn’t notice, but he’s quite good at it.

“Yes. I think the work we do on the Foundation inspires people to do the same. If it works out, we can show the world that if there was hope for Gotham there’s hope for them too”

“Do you think there’s hope for Gotham?” You asked, out of spite, because you didn’t write it down before the press.

His lips contracted to a thin line and he thought of it for a few seconds before answering:

“Yes. As long as people like me and you care about what happens here, there’s still hope for the city”

You smiles.

“People like me?”

“You seem to know a lot about the charity work, and you care enough to show it to the world”

Your smile grew bigger and you felt a hint of warm rushing through your cheeks.

Mr. Wayne answered a few more of your questions before the press conference was over.

You were, oh, so proud of yourself. The information you gathered was perfect for what you had in mind and for sure, you could make it a good article. An admiring of the Wayne legacy, that’s what you called yourself. It has always called out to you what that wealth family did; they had no obligation to do it, to donate not just money, but time and resources to help those who couldn’t have what they did, to make Gotham something to be proud of. It’s a shame they never lived long enough to cure it, to heal it. However, you hoped that, maybe, Bruce did. At least he sound determined to.  

You gathered your things and your purse, but as you made your way to the elevator, a woman dresses on formal clothes approached you with a clean, sharp smile that made her look like a dental paste commercial.

“Excuse me, miss. Would you mind, following me?”

You frowned.

“Ahn…What for?”

“Mr. Wayne wishes to speak to you” She explained and her smile somehow grew wider.

Standing there for a few seconds, all you could do was nod as you followed her through a long corridor. What was happening right now? He wants to speak to you? Bruce Wayne wishes to speak to a journalist in private? And more important, to you.

She opened a door to a breath-taking office.

Right in front of you was a full wall window, a panoramic view of Gotham in all its “glory”, skyscrapers, apartment buildings, the clock tower, the bridge of the river, the field behind the road, you could see everything from up there. There was a wooden desk in front of the window, quite empty, and a chair that looked more comforting than any other you had ever sat.

When the woman closed the door behind you, your attention changed to the man standing on your left. Bruce Wayne was staring at you dead in the eyes with a facial expression of someone who just saw a ghost.

This guy seriously need some sunbathing. You shook that thought out of your head.

“Mr. Wayne. You wanted to speak to me?”

“Yes” His raspy voice responded. “Sit, please”

You took a seat on one of the chairs in front of the chair and he sat opposite of you, behind the desk, diving completely into the velvet chair. He crosses his fingers and stares at you again. It made you a little uncomfortable, he did that a lot, like a hunter watching its prey.

“So…”

“I’ve searched your work. You’re really good.”

“Thank you, sir”

“You won a Pulitzer, am I right?”

“Yes, a few years ago”

When did he get the time to read all this information? It’s not like you’re super famous, even the Pulitzer wasn’t a very known prize if you didn’t know the industry.

“For a book about a serial killer in Detroit” He said, a voice that verged into an interrogation tone. “The Divine Move?”

You blinked a few times.

“I…Yes. Nathan Walters.”

He lifted his eyebrows just an inch, telling you to continue the story.

You cleared your throat.

“He uh, he used to be the altar boy of the neighbourhood church and he chose his victims based on the sins he supposed they’ve committed.” You’ve shorten it, you couldn’t understand why a billionaire was asking you about the modus operandi of a criminal who was thousands of miles away.  “Why are you asking me this, if I may ask, Mr. Wayne?”

“You’re an investigative journalist. Why are you attending press conferences of a random billionaire?”

You supressed a laugh. Random.

“I grew up here, sir. I’ve always admired your family work, I took the opportunity when it was offered to me.”

“You seem to know a lot about my family history.”

“Like I said, I’m just an admiring. Although, I once thought of writing a book about the Wayne Legacy. Your legacy, sir.”

“Your legacy, sir”.

Bruce looked down at his cufflinks, the W prominent on a silvery material.

His legacy.

He once thought the Wayne Foundation was his legacy. But now he knew, his true legacy came in a bat shaped suit and sleepless nights; it came on purple coloured bruises and blood stained clothes.

“Why didn’t you?”

“Well…it’s very hard to write about something when you only get superficial information.”

You were nervous, he could tell. You kept staring at the view behind him, or at your shoes, tanking a little too long to answer his questions. He wondered how could a journalist gets nervous, almost shy.

He gave you a puzzled look, not using any words to express his question. But you understood it.

“Using material that was wrote by someone else. All the records and stories about your parents have already been wrote by someone else before me, so I couldn’t say it was my work, could I?”

He hummed.

Bruce took a sigh. Maybe. Maybe this was a good idea, it could keep him in a good status with the press, plus, he’d be able to hide even further down his secret identity, having a journalist with him every day? No one would suspect his the Batman.

“There are stories and details that haven’t been told.”

You bit your lower lip.

He stared at you.

“What are you implying, sir?”

“If I tell you the stories, would you write it?”

“If I tell you the stories, would you write it?”

You almost passed out.

Would you?

Who could say they had a proposal like that? Dig into the secrets of the Wayne family?

“Yes”.

___________________

a/n2: aaaah this is actually so boring I'm so sorry, also I think I made bruce a little more talkative than I would've but anyways I may change it yet.

a special thank you to @preciouslandmermaid for inspiring me to finally write this!! <3

[ducky-mae]

Day 26 - Masturbation

Pairing - Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Warnings - 18+ content, if you're under 18 leave immediately! masturbation, fantasizing. (if i missed something lmk!)

Summary - Miles away, all Bruce has are his thoughts of you to keep him company.

Six months. It had been six long months since Bruce had last seen you. This Justice League mission had gone on way longer than he had expected and he was missing you. He was missing you a lot.

He missed the feeling of your soft skin beneath his lips, the breathy moans and whines you made as he made love to you. The feeling of your nails digging into the meat of his back as he played with your clitoris. How you cried out his name, or simply started babbling it as you got closer and closer to the edge before your body finally tensed, your walls squeezing his cock and sending him over with you.

His cock twitched at the thought and he palmed himself through his suit, trying to relieve the ache that was starting to build.

Were you missing him like he was missing you?

He imagined that you were. That brought about the question of how you were spending some of your time. Which toys were you using? One of your vibrators pressed against your clit? Or maybe you were fucking yourself with one of your dildos? They didn’t come compare to him, you had confessed as much to him, but they did the job when he wasn’t around it help. 

The mental image of you using your toys had his cock aching more, desperate to be free of his suit.

He locked the door to his cabin and grabbed his phone. From what he remembered, before he had left, you had told him you had sent him some pictures to “tide him over” while he was gone. Bruce hadn’t looked at them yet. Assuming the mission would be quick, he figured he would look at them on the way back to your apartment. 

Stripping himself of his suit, he sighed in relief. It really hurt to be rock hard inside of the batsuit. Bruce settled onto his cot and switched his phone on. Before navigating to his messages, he opened up his camera, deciding that he would take a picture or two to send you once he was back in range. The sight of his cock, hard and thick, the head red and swollen, already leaking precum and veins bulging was sure to drive you crazy. The thought of how wet you would be by the time he got back to you made smile.

When he opened opened up the texts that you had sent him, Bruce groaned. You were wearing a new set of lingerie. Though, maybe, calling it lingerie was a little too kind. The scraps of black and red lace and silk didn’t leave much to the imagination. What he assumed was meant to be the bra barely contained your breasts as it pushed them together. The angle you had taken this picture at was perfect for showing them off.

He wrapped his hand around his cock, swiping his thumb over the head to collect up the precum. Slowly, he began to stroke himself.

The second picture you had sent had you turned around, your ass on full display thanks to the thong. You’re looking over your shoulder at the camera, your bottom lip caught in your teeth.

Fuck he loves you, he thought. And not just for the provocative photos of your body you’ve sent him. Those were just an unexpected bonus.

He groaned deeply, his head falling backward against the wall as he touched himself. Pumping his hand up and down the shaft of cock. Occasionally squeezing the head and running his thumb across the slit. God he wished you were here. 

Shutting off his phone, he closed his eyes. He imagined that it was your far softer hand wrapped around his cock right now. You would kitten lick the head of his cock, teasing him. Your tongue would swirl around him, tonguing his slit before your mouth would wrap around him. You knew how to make him feel good. Knowing exactly how to use your tongue and throat muscles, when you took him further in, swallowing around him.

It would take a lot of his willpower not to start fucking your throat, not wishing to accidentally harm you. Despite the fact that he was sure that you could take it. But you weren’t here and it wasn’t your mouth wrapped around him, it was his own calloused hand. So, to the thought of you, he started to fuck his hand. 

He groaned lowly, his mind focused entirely on what you would be doing to him right now if you were with him. “Fuck.” He moaned your name, not really caring if someone could potentially overhear him.

Bruce forcefully exhaled. He could feel himself getting closer and closer to his end. You also knew when he was close. Your voice would suddenly become sickly sweet, like a triple chocolate hot fudge sundae, and you would start using that nickname that he pretended to hate, but deep down he loved. “Pretty boy”. From the moment you called him it he was putty in your hands.

Moaning deeply, thick white ropes of his cum covered his hand and stomach. He collapsed against the cot, breathing heavily and feeling completely spent. He laid there, catching his breath before making a move to clean up.

He really hoped that this mission wouldn’t last another six months. He had no idea how he was going to survive if it did.