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writeoffside · 20 days

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DOCUMENTS AND DESTINIES, part two

♯ battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader - 2/?

PART ONE < here

summary: Continuation of part one of documents and destinies — The mentioned visitor comes to give you another visit after he comes in to return the files he had borrowed few days ago, both of you unaware to the forming interest inbetween the two of you

warnings: none - just swearing

info: english isn't my first language, i apologize in advance for all the mistakes (if there are any!)

a/n: part two finally woooo!!!! i loved writing angus so much, he is so silly:D i hope ur gonna like this chapter :))))

He couldn't stop thinking about that day. It's been nearly five days since he last saw you, as well for the first time.

He couldn't shake that whole moment from his thoughts. He imagined that little awkward wave you both gave to each other. The little smiles you threw. The whole interaction with you. He couldn't stop thinking about it.

He had work to do. He's read throughout the whole files he borrowed. Made copies of them, which he then gave to Alfred to check through them as well. Even as he was working, he couldn't stop his thoughts to wander to that interaction.

"Bruce?" A familiar voice sounded in the cave, pulling Bruce out of his thoughts. Alfred stepped out of the elevator and walked towards his hunched over frame.

"I was wondering if you've—" He stopped himself as he came to stand by Bruce. His eyes catching a certain video on one of the monitors in front of them, playing with the reddish filter over. The video was replaying on a loop. It was clearly a video from Bruce's eye lenses... Which held the interaction.

The screen showed the video where you stood in front of him. Your coat and bag drapped in your grasp and little smile plastered on your face. The video replayed the shared awkwardness you both had.

Bruce didn't even bother to look over at Alfred, who stood next to him. He didn't turn away from the monitors in front of him. He takes a step closer and observes the video in front of him. A hum makes its way from him as he watches the recording play.

Bruce finally shuts off the video and sighs as he does so. The memory stays in his head— the hesitant smiles, the eye contacts you've both had, awkward little waves... It plays over, over and over again. He remains silent, his eyes still glued to the monitor, where the video was shown before.

"Alfred," he finally breathed out as he turned his head to the side to look at his butler, who is standing there and leaning against the cane he holds.

"Maybe... Maybe it's time for a break, Bruce," he tells him as he puts a gentle reassuring hand onto his shoulder and squeezes. His body stiffening quickly at the touch.

A deep hum comes out of his chest and he stands up back onto his height. His eyes fixated on the monitors in front of him.

With no other word uttered, he's swiftly walking away from the butler, towards the elevator hidden in the darkness of the cave. His steps thumping against the hard floor as he walks away. Leaving his butler behind.

As the elevator escalates, the butler takes a step closer to the computers, monitors and more equipment on the table. He eyes the little folder icon on the monitor, which hides away the bright red colored video from the nights before.

He sighs as he reaches for the touchpad of the computer and moves the cursor towards the file what's sat on the screen. He presses the button and the screen lights up, the footage looping back to the beginning of the choosen clip.

There it is.

The screen is lit up with the clip that the young master has replayed countless of times in the past few days. The video doesn't hold the blackness sides of the cowl he wears during the nights. It's not through the eyes of the Vengeance.

But through the eyes of Bruce.

There is a woman, standing by his car, in front of an old apartment building. Her face was shined on by the glow of the city lights, a soft and genuine smile adoring her face.

The butler smiled at the sight. The footage followed all her movements. The way the lingered on her, the way his eyes followed her, how his focus was only on her, it didn't move nor shift. The footage showed how Bruce didn't watch with the cold stare what he had reserved for the criminals or the nights of work. It showed the brighter side.

There wasn't a fight, a crime scene, a chase with the criminals, no action. Just a moment of Bruce's real life, the shared intimate moment filled with the awkwardness and adoration inbetween each other. His usual cold behavior and confidence was replaced by this... Nearly shy, boyish behavior.

Alfred knew that under the footage, there was a smile hidden. A genuine one, not a one given to the cameras. A rare one.

He couldn't quite remember when was the last time Bruce has genuinely smiled like that, especially with a presence of someone else. It was an unique moment to be treasured.

The video played, the red colors shining onto the butler's face as he watched the video play. The woman tilts her head, her arms holding her things even tighter as another chuckle escapes her lips.

Then he heard it. Bruce's breathy laugh sounded in the video, as his head hangs down, his eyes adverting from the woman. The awkwardness breaking into something even more. It sounded natural, genuine. He knew Bruce for nearly his whole life, he knew that it was hard and and difficult for him to open up, let anyone in and hear him out. But this moment, it has changed everything, it was like Bruce was someone else. He had taken that one step that Alfred had always pushed him to take.

A smile tugs onto his lips as he watches the woman slowly take steps backwards, her cheeks brightly colored with a pink color. He couldn't believe that this was his Brice, talking to someone else than him and the common rich men and women he has to speak with other times.

The video ends with Bruce's hand in the view as he waves to the woman, who is already in the building.

It feels different one. The cave feels different. Alfred feels different. It's the same but also different... Everything seemed different at the moment.

The Prince of Gotham, Gotham's Billionaire, the one always hidden in his tower, no emotions showed on his pale face. The straight put answers with no hint of emotions in his voice, to this moment of shared awkward little smiles and conversations.

It was perfect.

With a final look at the footage, Alfred moved towards the elevator that Bruce took some moments ago. A sigh, once again, escapes his lips as he leans onto the cane he holds. His steps echoing in the cave.

He steps into the elevator and leans his back against the wall of it. The elevator began to rise as he pushed the button. The cave disappeared beneath the shadows and darkness as he was carried upstairs to the soft lights of the tower.

Alfred finally saw a different side of the young master. A different path. A one where the the young boy could step out of the way of darkness, where he hides within it, into a something softer, warmer. Something real.

Something human.

"Ring! Ring! Wake up, princess!" a voice pulls you out of the dreamy slumber you fell into. Work has been so exhausting the whole day. The amount of paperworks you had to check through, give to others, run around the building to get old ones, new ones. The amount of papers you've seen today is absurd.

Angus is standing infront of you. His wide toothy white smile on his face. The blonde hair slicked back with two straids falling on the side. Round glasses are perched on top of his nose. He's wearing a pastel brown suit jacket and a brighter pastel colored suit pants. A white button up underneath, with a black suit-tie with goldenish stripes peeking out.

"Fuck... What time is it?" you murmured out, pulling your head up from the table. Scretching your arms into the air as you lean back into the chair. Your hands fumbling over the mess of paperworks on the table, trying to find the hidden phone burried underneath all of them.

"It's nearly seven... But that's not the point, princess. You were supposed to send out the emails for the marketing shit that our boss is having... Like, two hours ago?" He leaned onto the doorframe and put his hand onto his side as he eyed you.

Two half-lidded blinking eyes stared back at him. Not awake enough to process the things he's saying.

You hummed as you slid away from the table on the chair. You spun around once and turned back to him and stared at the blonde man.

"And... I really need you to send out those emails! At the end of the day, at least, so we can finally finalize the last parts of the marketing thing! You know how angry Daniel gets if the—" He kept going, oblivious to the fact that the girl hasn't been listening to him for the whole time.

"Yeah! Got it! But first, let me just sleep for like... Five more minutes? I'll get back to it, Angie." You yawned and leaned your head onto the headrest of the chair. Your eyes closing. The weight of the whole day was coming back onto you, the exhaustion taking over once again.

There was a long pause between you, until it was interrupted by Angus clearing his throat awkwardly into the moment.

"Also," he began saying as he walked into the office and halfly sat onto your desk. His voice and tone sounding different than moments ago.

"Why the fuck did Bruce Wayne take you home few days ago?"

Your eyes snapped open at that sentence. Your whole body shooting up from the chair, making it slide back into the wall behind you. Your stomach twisted and heart skipped a beat.

Your hands went up to your head as you stared back at him with widened eyes. Your hands cluthing at your hair as you vividly remembered the night before. The night you met Bruce Wayne. The night he literally drove you home.

"Girl, don't look at me that way! That man literally picked you up bridal style, asked where exactly you lived and then he proceeded to walk out with you in his arms like in some fucking rom-com!" He threw his hands up into the air, his toothy smile back on his face as he spoke loudly.

"You saw that..." You mumbled as you turned around and walked around the office with your hands on your head. You couldn't believe the fact, that he carried you! In bridal style! And Into his car!

"Yeah, I fucking did! What the hell is going on in your damned life?" He spoke as he watched you pace around the office.

"Also, since when are you two on a fucking first-name and get-carried-home-like-a-fucking-disney-princess basis with the Gotham's billionaire prince?" His grin widened even more. Clearly enjoying this situation than you.

You rubbed your eyes hardly as you processed what he was currently saying to you. You weren't even hundred percent sure why he needed those archive files, let alone sure why he literally decided to personally carry you home. It didn't make any sense to you at the moment.

"I guess, he just felt bad leaving me alone asleep down there? He was just a client, he was there for work!" You shrugged your shoulders, trying to play it off while your thoughts were screaming and rumbling in your head.

"Right. Sure! That fucking explains why he was so kind enough to ask where you live and scoop you up like a damn damsel in distress. Jesus Christ!" He raised his voice as he threw his hands into air once again, "totally normal worker-client relationship stuff, yeah!"

"Okay, listen! I fell asleep, he picked me up, I don't know else I promise! When I woke up I was already in his car." You groaned as you walked back to your chair and fell into it, sliding even further against the wall.

"C'mon, princess! Bruce Wayne doesn't just show up out of nowhere and carry people home for fun!" He scoffed as he leaned towards you on top of your desk, that he's currently sat on top of.

You groaned once more and laid back into the chair, "Can we not? Please? I'm too tired for this."

Another scoff came out of Angus and he jumped off the desk and walked over to be in front of you, "Oh no, princess. I need answers! You don't just fall asleep at work and then wake up being carried by the Gotham's Prince, girl." He chuckled as he leans onto the side of her desk.

"Oh my god." He suddenly whispered. His mouth dropping open and hands coming to hold himself against the desk behind him.

"Are you secretly dating Bruce Wayne?"

The question came the most unexpected. His whole stance was stoic like he suddenly came to realization. Like a chikd discovering that it was their parents putting money under their pillow, not a tooth fairy. His eyes widened and mouth dropped.

"What the fuck?" You opened your eyes and started laughing loudly. Your hands coming in front of your mouth as you let out all your laughter.

"Okay, sorry, I just don't get it! But some of us wake up with fucking paperworks sticked to our faces or keyboard marks all over our faces. You wake up in car of a billionaire!" His eyes were practically bulging out of his head as he spoke. His hands gesturing around in the air.

"Do you realize how insane you sound, Angie?" You cannot comprehend all the wild theories coming out of mouth. He's fully in his own world with those theories.

"No, listen! What if he's testing you out for a new job at some high position at the Wayne Enterprises? No, no, no... Maybe, he's planning to make you his new secret muse! Or maybe, he thinks you're, like, the best new face of Vogue couple cover! Like... Imagine the headlines; The billionaire Bruce Wayne in relationship with an unknown girl—"

"I will pretend I never heard what just left your mouth." You breathe out as you slide your chair to him, pushing at his knees to get him off your desk. Your hands slapping his thighs.

"Sorry, princess. But there's no chance, that we're done talking about this!" He finally jumps off the desk and walks around towards the door, he touches the door frame and takes a last look at you with that toothy grin of his... And then he's gone.

The office is quiet once again. Some of the paperworks ended up crumbled as he was sat atop of. With an exhausting sigh, she drops her head against the desk and it lads with a thump!

It was late now. The office has gone even more quiet than usually. You were packing up, shoving the paperworks, files and the dark-purple colored folder into your bag. Already excited to go run through the door and go straight home, leave the day behind.

As you put the final folder into your bag a soft knock came from the doorway.

Your head snapped up to see the person. Your breath suddenly getting caught in your throat as you recognized the man, who just knocked on the office doorframe.

Standing there is the devil himself, Bruce Wayne.

He stood there, his arm up at the place of the doorframe, where he knocked onto few seconds before. As you looked at him, you could see his posture was different than last time. Less professional. His presense wasn't commanding and calm, but more of a hesitant one. His eyes scanning around the office and then landing back onto you.

He was wearing a white button-up shirt with a matching tie, underneath a dark buttoned suit vest. On top of it was a brown leather jacket. It was so much different outfit than the last time you saw him. His pants were baggier, but not as baggy as others wear. The top of his shoes were peeking out from the bottom of his pants.

You slowly stood up back to your height and blinked at the sight.

"Mr. Wayne— What... What are you doing here?" You stammered out with a quick clear of throat. Shifting on your weight slightly as you eyed the visitor.

"I'm about to return these," he said, mentioning his chin towards the files in his arms, "I borrowed them few days ago... From archives."

Your eyes flickered down to the files and realization came over you. He had actually taken some of the files home from the archives, probably already taken copies of them. You still wondered why he needed those archive files, when they haven't been updated nor opened in years.

"Oh! Those files! Thank you, Mr. Wayne!" you spoke as you flicked him a soft smile and walked over to take the files from his hands.

As you walked to him, he slowly entered the office, his gaze flickering around as if he was trying to find something interesting to gawk at other than you. But he couldn't find anything else, his gaze flickered back onto you and his eyes burned holes into yours.

"So," you began as you reached for the files, "did you find what you needed in them?"

"Yes, I did. Thank you." He paused and let go of the files as you took them from his hands. As the files fell right into your hands, the dust went flying around. Your face scrunching up as the dusk flew around.

"These are, like, ancient! Right?" A chuckle escaped your lips as you rambled, "I mean, woah. How are they still holding up? Looks like they would turn into dust as well!" You rambled more as you held onto the files.

His lips quirked into a little soft smile, his gaze on you, watching your every move. He leaned onto his leg as he stood in front of you.

"Yeah," he said softly, after a longer pause, he added "Are you embarrassed?"

Your heart felt like it stopped for a brief moment as those words left his mouth. Your eyes widened and your fingers gripped the dusty yellow papered files. "W-What? No. Why would I—" You stuttered out and then sighed, "Okay, maybe a little bit."

He raised an eyebrow at that, the faint smirk coming onto his face with a hint of amusement in it, "because of the files?"

A chuckle came out of your mouth at that, your mind was racing at this conversation, unsure what to say and what to not say. You could feel the color heating up on your cheeks. Your eyes moving everywhere but at him.

"I just didn't expect you to literally, you know! Carry me out of archives and then drive me home!" you said, your vocie mixed with embarrassment and awkwardness. It came flooding at you, the embarrassment of him, Bruce fucking Wayne, lifting you and carrying you like some helpless little figure, while you were asleep!

Your fingers were fumbling with the ends of the files and papers sticking out of them. Trying to distract yourself from this snd save yourself from another embarrassment. Your heart was pounding hardly in your chest, you hoped he couldn't hear it.

After a long pause, he finally spoke.

"You were exhausted." He said, almost in shy manner, "I couldn't just leave you there, asleep by yourself in the archives."

You chuckled nervously and shifted on your legs, "Still, I don't usually wake up to be driven home in billionaire's car!" A nervous chuckle escaped your lips.

He let out a soft laugh as well, "Well, you looked exhausted. I didn't want to wake you up and tell you to walk back... You needed the rest."

You felt a wave of relief come over you.

"Well. Thank you, Mr. Wayne," you said softly, "I was mortified when I woke up in your car, but... I appreciate it. Thank you." You smiled up at him, your eyes meeting his.

His gaze was soft, a little smile on his lips, his eyes held yours as he stared down. Then, with a small nod of his head, he said, "You don't need to be embarrassed. It's the least I could do. You work hard."

"I guess I do, Mr. Wayne. Maybe, you know... I should leave the office at time, huh?" You chuckled at that, smile plastered on your face.

"That would be nice," Bruce nods with a chuckle. Both of you shared a soft laugh. Both of you genuinely smiling at each other. The tension between them easing.

"I should get going." He says with a sigh as he stands back straight. His hands coming to his jacket to straight it out. His eyes leaving yours.

You smiled and nodded with a little 'yeah, me too.'

It felt surreal at that moment. You and Bruce Wayne talking once again. You knew that Angus will storm into your office once again and ask tons of questions about this.

As he leaves, he gives you a small glance and a small smile. And then he's gone. Not in your sight anymore. Your hands are sweaty against the files and you feel like your legs are wobbly. The sound of his footsteps fading down the hallfway as he leaves.

Another realization came drawing over you, his voice. His tone. The softness of his voice today, not demanding like the last time. Today it was near, of a shy one. A slight hesitation in his voice. That send a warmth all over your body, your cheeks gaining the redish colour once again. Flushed all over again.

You, finally, forced yourself to move. You turned around and dropped the dusty files onto your desk, sighing as you did so. The dust flying everywhere around the office. You slumped into your chair, sliding few steps back, staring blankly at the files he returned. It felt strange. He was just a client. He was there for work.

Right?

With a quick glance around your office, you stood up and pushed the chair back to its place. Grabbing your back and slinging it over your shoulder with a huff. There was no point of staying there longer, processing the day. You can do that home!

The building was already quiet, The only loud thing at the moment was your own mind. Your thoughts racing each other.

You stepped out of the office, locking it behind yourself. Your steps were wuick as you left the building into the cold breeze, it felt nice though. Cooling down the redness in her cheeks. Pulling the coat tighter around you as you walk down the pavement towards the nearest entrance of subway.

Your steps were quick, the heels clicking with each step you take. Almost hurriedly. Your thoughts were everything as you processed the day.

You walked around the entrance of the subway, nearly colliding with another man coming out of the entrance. You neay fall into him, making him let out an angry 'Watch where you go, damnit!"

A soft apology leaves your lips as you descend the stairs down to the subway. You fumble with the subway card as you tap it absentmindedly before you go through the turnstile. You go to the side where you would be getting on in few minutes. You lean against one of the cold pillars on the station as you wait. The station is pretty quiet for the night, not many people there.

The screech of an incoming train snaps you out of your racing thoughts. You quickly push yourself off the pillar and come to stand at the end of the line, waiting for the train to srrive at its position. Quickly pushing the button to open the doors as you move inside. Thankfully found a seat alone. You plump down onto it with a sigh as you lean yourself onto it. The doors close with a loud sound and the train moves, leaving into the dark tunnels of underground Gotham.

By the time the train reached your stopc, you were hurriedly out. Walking straight to your apartment.

Unknown to the man following your every step, perched on top of one of the buildings in the darkness, invisible in the shadows of Gotham.

To you the day ended, ready to sleep it all off. But for him, it just began.

NOTE FOR OUTFITS :)

what angus is wearing >>> angus' outfit

what bruce is wearing >>> bruce's outfit (with less baggier pants though)

౨ৎ⋆˚｡⋆

part twooooo is here:) i hope you like as much as i did writing it! sorry for the wait xx

give it some love if u liked it thank uu <3

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summercourtship · 3 months

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please feel free to ignore, but 59. “tell me again” with edward? maybe reader says something reaaallly sweet to him while she’s riding him and he just freaks? like his brain goes mushy and he becomes a broken record, begging for the reader to repeat what she just said. it could be that he doesn’t want to move or reader doesn’t want him to move, but i think an internal struggle to keep his body under control would be lovely. i feel like that it fits with the whole reserved but longing for touch thing he’s got going on.

this ended up being a really short drabble BUT i really like it so. sorry it took so long lmao and sorry its kinda short.

warnings: gentle sex, dominant reader, praise | word count: 332

“You’re so pretty like this.”

Edward’s hips stuttered, and you looked down at him with coy narrowed eyes. Like you were admonishing him, but with good humor. He lay beneath you, your legs straddling his hips. Thin trails of red streaked down his pale chest from where you’d dragged your nails against his skin and you watched as his chest rose and fell with his heavy breathing. He was trying so hard to stay composed like you’d asked him, even with the gentle roll of your hips on his cock, nestled inside of you.

“Stay still. Be a good boy for me, can you do that?” You tilted your head back as you gradually rose and lowered yourself, slowly riding him like you had nothing but time, allowing yourself to feel and relish every inch of his cock against you.

“Yes, yes, yes.” His voice was a broken record of whispered breaths, his hands gripping your hips with a fierce grip that betrayed his own strength. He may not look it, but if he wanted to he could flip you over and take what he wanted- what he needed.

But that wasn’t what this was about.

“Tell me… Tell me again.” He muttered, his eyes screwed shut like he was embarrassed to even ask. His face was flushed, his hair brushed back from his forehead.

You looked down at him, a quirk in your eyebrow. “You’re so pretty.” He visibly sighed, his fingers twitching against you. You leaned forward, bracing your elbows on the bed so you hovered over his face. “You’re such a good boy, staying still for me. Can you come for me, do you think you can do that?”

Then, softly, his mouth fell open and his hands clenched against you as he pulled you in, close. His hips rocked for a moment as his climax gently washed over him. You pressed a kiss to the side of his mouth as he let out a soft moan.

“Good boy.”

#I'd love to do more short fics like this because they don't take a lot of time for me to do..... hmmmm.....#edward nashton x reader #edward nashton #the riddler x reader #the batman 2022 #riddler smut #lmao #my writing #my fic #request

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delusionsofgrandeur13 · 1 month

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hi lovelies there's this bruce wayne fic i read on here ages. ago that i still think about..

y/n was a reporter, i think? and was childhood friends with bruce wayne but didn't know he was also batman and was falling in love with both bw and batman? and she like spent the night at wayne manor with bw and they fucked but she also like. cockwarmed with batman in the house library? it was a really long one too.. it was based on more so robert pattinson batman.... please someone tell me they know what i'm talking about i feel crazy i can't find it anymore

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lovelettersforthedamned · 8 months

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+ Bruce Wayne with “🤒🫂👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨”

-❄️❄️

--word count: 0.5k

--warnings: SICK FIC!!! not much, but bruce is very stubborn. fluff, fluff, fluff!

--gif credit: @gotham

You knew being out in the cold and the rain would eventually catch up to him. And, of course, he always ignored you. Bruce tended to brush off anything concerning his health, and it stressed you out. Whether you asked him about a jacket, or even to sleep in a little longer, he always denied it. So when you heard sniffling coming from his side of the bed, you knew he was in for a few days of rest, even if he didn’t want it.

You glance toward Bruce next to you, reading the morning paper and barely touching his food, his shoulders slumped more than usual. His constant sniffling makes you worry. Reaching over to rest your hand on top of his, you pull his attention away from the newspaper and onto you, “Are you feeling alright?” His palm turns over and interlaces your fingers, giving them a soft squeeze.

“Yeah,” his voice revealed the stuffiness of his nose, “I’m fine.” He checks the time before quickly changing the subject, “Don’t you have to be at work? It’s getting late.”

You’re studying his features as he speaks before you let go of his hold to bring the backside of your hand to feel his forehead, the skin hot to the touch. “Bruce, you’re burning up. I’ll take the day off, so that means you have to, too,” you walk over to Alfred to inform him of Bruce’s current state.

“(Y/N), I told you that I’m fine,” a tone of annoyance hidden in his voice, followed by a nasty cough. You know that he doesn’t want to abandon his work for a single day. His work trumps his health, according to his logic.

This pulls both your and Alfred’s attention. “Well,” you sigh playfully, “I guess Alfred can cuddle you back to health if you don’t need any of my help today!” You return to the dining table where Bruce still sits and pick up your purse. Leaning down to press a quick peck to the top of Bruce’s head, you add, “I’ll be off then…”

As you make your way to the front doors, a voice shouts your way, “Wait!” You peer over your shoulder to see Bruce standing, his eyes pleading for you to stay. “ I don’t feel…the best,” he mutters.

You fully face him, waiting for him to say something else, but he doesn’t, so you give him a push of encouragement. “You don’t feel the best, and you what,” you ask him in a sing-song voice. You know you’re pushing it a bit, but you still stand there waiting for his response.

“...And I would like for you to stay here. With me,” he adds.

This makes you grin as you walk over to Bruce, enveloping him in a hug. Bringing up your hand to brush his hair out of his face, you peck his forehead, “You’re stubborn, you know that right?”

You only receive a huff in response, but you’re satisfied. As the two of you walk up the stairs and back to bed, Alfred can’t help but chuckle at the two of you. You have Bruce wrapped around your finger, and he loves it.

--author's note: dear universe, just because i wrote a sickfic does NOT mean i should get sick...thank you!!! I LOVED THIS ASK!!! THANK YOU ❄️ ANON! don't forget to like, comment, and reblog to support me and my work! my 300 follower celebration is happening NOW, so send in something if you want to bae:) ok, ily bye<3333.

#bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #fluff #sickfic #battinson #battinson fic #battinson x reader #bruce wayne blurb #the batman 2022 #dc #llftd 300 follower celebration

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youvebeenlivingfictional · 2 years

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The Other Half

Winter Prompts Masterlist | Winter Prompts List

Part Two | Masterlist

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

Prompts: Sales/ Sparkling/ Opposites Attract

“Customer.”

You glance over toward a man looking in a display case as your manager nods them toward you. You puff softly before slapping a customer-service-ready smile onto your face. You’ve been avoiding really working for the last hour; you’ve been able to hide, shuffling things around in the stockroom before your manager had insisted that you return to the floor. You’re working on commission, though—you need the sales, especially with Christmas just around the corner. You still have a couple of last-minute gifts to get.

You walk over to the man peering into a sparkling display case, stopping just beside him.

“Is there something I can help you find today?” You ask.

“Yes,” The man raises his hand, tapping on the top of the case. “I’d like to see that tie clip, the uh…The silver one with the scroll work.”

There's something familiar about his voice, but you don't read too much into it. You round the counter, drawing a small key ring from your pocket.

“The sterling silver? An excellent choice. It’s one of a kind,” You commend as you lift the small display out of the case and onto the counter. “And we have a special sale on these this week.”

The man chuckles, offering, “I’m not particularly worried about it being on sale.”

Cocky much?

You glance at the man, then freeze, eyes widening. There’s no way that the goddamn Prince of Gotham is on your counter right now. Luckily for you, he’s focused on the tie clips. Maybe he knows you’re staring and is just ignoring it. Maybe he’s just so used to the sensation that he simply doesn’t register it anymore.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to refocus as he reaches out, hand hovering over the tie clip.

“May I?” He asks.

“Of course,” You nod. You don’t expect him to run with it—the guy’s got more money than god. He slides his coat off of where it’s slung over his arm, setting it down on the counter and taking up the tie clip. You rest your hands steadily on the counter, watching his face as he eyes the clip. His eyes narrow a touch as he sweeps his thumb over the scroll work.

“May I ask who you’re purchasing this for?” You ask.

“My butler.”

Your brows raise a touch. You’d imagine that Bruce Wayne would be the type to give someone a store credit, and to tell them to buy something they like.

“What’s his style?” You ask, though it feels like the wrong question—and by the way Wayne’s eyes flicker to you, you realize that it sort of is.

“I suppose he’d describe it as understated. I call it boring.” He looks back down at the tie clip. “I was hoping to get him something to mix it up a little bit.”

You smile a little.

“Well, if you like that tie clip, we have matching cuff links to pair with them.”

“I’d like to see those.”

“Of course.” You crouch down again, drawing up the display with cuff links and setting it on the counter beside the tie clips. He sets the tie clip down, leaning over and narrowing his eyes slightly to look at the cuff links. After a moment, to your great surprise, he plants his elbow on the counter and rests his chin on his hand. You can’t help but smile. He looks like an indecisive little boy.

“What does your butler like?” You ask.

“...Mopping,” He answers after a moment, “And berating me.”

You laugh a little, unable to help it. “Something tells me he only really likes one of those.”

Wayne’s gaze flickers to yours, and you’re surprised to see him smiling, himself. It makes your smile widen before you arch a brow. “So?”

“Come to think of it, he likes gardening,” Wayne adds, straightening up.

“Perhaps a new set of gardening gloves?” You offer. “Or a trug?”

“What’s a trug?”

“It’s like a long sort of shallow basket for carrying back flowers and produce and tools.”

“...They sell those here?”

“Yes,” You nod, “The gardening section is on the fifth floor.”

“Okay,” He nods, rapping his knuckles on the counter. “Wrap up the tie clip and the cuff links, and then let’s go.”

You blink at him in surprise before you glance back toward where your manager is watching you closely.

“Ah—I’m not sure I can go with you to another floor,” You laugh nervously as you take up gift boxes for the tie clip and cuff links. “But I’ll be happy to call down and ask for a a sales associate that could help you.”

Wayne frowns a touch, gaze sweeping you before he looks around. “Where’s your manager?”

Oh—No. Are you going to get in trouble for following the fricking rules? Is he going to change his mind about the tie clip and the cuff links? The two items alone would net you a commission of almost $500. But you force a placid expression onto your face before raising your hand, signaling for your manager to come over. A dark expression crosses her face, and it turns your stomach.

“Yes, sir,” She chirps, coming to the counter and stopping beside Wayne, “How can I—” She goes silent as she realizes who he is. Her jaw drops a touch at the sight of him before she stutters, “How can I—I—Yes, sir?”

Wayne’s smile shifts to something that you haven’t seen at the counter—a press-ready, plasticized grin.

“Your associate has been incredibly helpful.”

“I trained her myself,” Your manager grins. You can’t help but roll your eyes. She certainly did not—you’ve been here for a year longer than she has.

“Well, you’ve done a marvelous job,” Wayne insists. “In fact, I’ve found her assistance so invaluable that I was hoping you could spare her for a little while.”

“Spare…?” The manager repeats, eyes darting between you, Wayne, and the gift boxes on the counter.

“Mr. Wayne is interested in a few items in the gardening department,” You clarify.

“Her sense of style and function are just…” Wayne trails off, lips curling teasingly as he shoots you a sneaky, cheeky wink, “Just what I need.”

You don’t even care if he’s exaggerating for the sake of your manager; the flattery still makes your face go hot, and that wink—you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

“I suppose we could manage without her for a little while—But not too long. She’s such a valuable asset to the department,” Your manager coos. Well. That’s news to you—especially considering how much you slacked off that morning.

“If you could have these rung up,” Wayne reaches out, tapping at the top of the gift boxes, “And hold them for me here.”

“Of course. They were the…” Your manager glances toward you expectantly.

“The sterling silver scroll work tie clip, and the matching cuff links,” You relay.

“What beautiful choices! You have such a sense of taste, Mr. Wayne,” You manager turns a bright eye toward him again. You have to bite your tongue to keep from scoffing aloud. You’ve never seen her fawn over anyone like this. Mr. Wayne just smiles and gives a nod, taking up his coat from the counter as you tuck the two displays back into the counter, locking them up.

“Shall we?” Wayne asks, nodding toward the elevator.

“Of course,” You nod.

“Take your time!” Your manager adds brightly.

“Thank you,” Wayne rests his hand on her shoulder, giving it a slight squeeze before turning away. The two of you walk over to the elevator, and you clasp your hands in front of yourself as you wait. Wayne gestures for you to step on first, then follows, watching you jab the button for the fifth floor. It’s quiet between you for a moment before Wayne says,

“Is she always that bad?”

You can’t help but burst into giggles, raising your hand and covering your mouth.

“I think you brought something new out in her,” You tease. You lead the way off of the elevator as you reach the fifth floor. “Do you have any other people that you need to shop for?”

“What other people?” Wayne repeats. Your stomach swoops with panic. You know what happened to his parents—everyone does.

“A girlfriend, perhaps?” You clarify.

“Ah,” He nods in understanding before shaking his head. “No.” The two of you go quiet for a moment before he asks, “Have you gotten all of your shopping done?”

“Not all of it,” You sigh.

“What do you still need?”

“Something for my roommate—and uh, probably something for her parents. We’re going to hers for Christmas.”

“What about your family?”

“They live in Metropolis.”

“Are you from there?”

“No, no, I’m from Gotham. They moved there last year.”

“Why?”

“It’s just more affordable.” It feels like something stupid to say to a billionaire, but it’s the truth—and considering his comment on your manager’s countenance, you think he’s pretty good at seeing through falsity. But he just nods a little bit, looking forward.

“Here,” You gesture toward the display of gardening gloves, tucking your hands behind yourself. Wayne hums, taking a step closer and peering at the selection with the same interest that he looked at the tie clips and cuff links.

“Are there any that stick out to you?” You ask, looking around.

“He has a scarf similar to…Those,” He points to a check-patterned pair by you. You let out an interested hum, nodding and taking them up.

“They’re cute,” You turn them over, eyeing the fingertips, “And they’ve got little pads so that you can text while you’re wearing them.”

“I’m not sure Alfred would worry about that,” Wayne smiles, “Though I’ll be sure to mention it to him.”

You smile a little before nodding to the display. “All set here?”

“Mm, let’s make it two pair…You choose one.”

You consider, looking down at the gloves in your hand. If he’s getting one patterned pair…Maybe a plain pair? You look around, drawing your lip between your teeth as you consider. Then you reach out, snagging a pair of forest green gloves. Wayne reaches out, taking them from you.

“He’ll like these,” He says softly. You smile, relieved.

“Now,” Wayne adds, looking around. He seems to be squinting and pouting for emphasis. “On to the…shrug?”

“Trug,” You correct, “But I think you know that, Mr. Wayne.”

He catches your eye, his brows twitching in surprise. Then he smiles warmly, giving a small nod of concession, muttering, “Touché.”

“They’re this way,” You nod around the corner.

It doesn’t take the two of you long to choose what he considers a suitable trug—a light grained wood base with mahogany handles and silver fastenings. You expect to leave it there—to lead Wayne to the counter, to thank him for his business, and to go back to work. Instead, Wayne tells the clerk that he’ll be back for the gloves and trug, and then turns to you.

“Walk me to the elevator?” He asks.

“Of course.”

You ignore your coworker’s stunned expression and turn, leading the way down the aisle. Maybe he wants to go back upstairs and get the cuff links and tie clip. But—

“What are you doing for lunch?” He asks.

It feels like an illicit rush to get out of there—redirecting Wayne to the staff exit so that you wouldn’t be clocked by the security guard for leaving. He’d put his coat around your shoulders as the two of you had stepped into the Gotham chill. You hadn’t gone far—you’d insisted that you couldn’t. You’d wound up at a diner just a few blocks away from the store.

You glance at Wayne now, and smile as you watch him look around the diner.

“Why’d you ask me?” You ask after a moment. “Wanted to see how the other half eats?”

He chuckles, leaning back in his seat a touch and meeting your eye again. “I’ll have you know that I ate at plenty of places like this when I went to Princeton. Besides, you said you wanted to come here.”

“If I had asked to go somewhere else—”

“We would’ve gone there instead.”

“Even if it was some five-star something something?”

“Especially if it was some five-star something something. I’m guessing the wine list here is a little lackluster.”

You snort, looking down at your menu.

“...Why did you ask?” You press nervously. He doesn’t answer for a moment, and you glance up at him from beneath your lashes. He’s watching you closely, eyes wandering your face.

“Because you spoke to me like a person. Not like how your manager spoke to me, not like I’m ‘Bruce Wayne’.”

The admission is surprising. You hesitate before you argue, “But you are Bruce Wayne.”

He smiles softly.

“I know that and you know that,” He leans in, folding his arms on the table. “But I like it better when neither of us act like it.”

Part Two

Tag list: @amneris21 ; @elen-aranel ; @brandyllyn ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight

#Bruce Wayne x Reader #Bruce Wayne x You #Bruce Wayne/Reader #Bruce Wayne/You #Bruce Wayne fic #Bruce Wayne imagine #Bale!Batman #Fluffcember #Fluffcember 2022 #Winter Writing Prompts #The Other Half

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mylifeisfruk4ever · 11 months

Text

“Do you think those two are making out?” Lois asked as she and Selina went to sit down.

“Is your friend willing to take the first step?” Selina asked, not-so-carelessly stepping on the foot of one of the guests. She didn't feel guilty. The guy was about to put his hands on her and Lois's bottom. Selina had just reminded him of his place.

The other woman snorted, “Why would Clark make the first move? Mr. Wayne seems to know what he wants."

“A boy wants to be wooed,” Selina retorted.

Lois gave a delightful giggle, “Is the rich boy old fashioned? I would never have said it."

“You wouldn't say many things about him.”

“Yeah, in fact I had no idea that he was interested in men…”

Selina shrugged, “He had a very strict upbringing and only recently came out as bisexual.”

Alfred seemed like a good guy to her, but certainly not the best one to ask questions about why guys were hot too. Though she had to give him more credit considering how much he had to put up with Bruce.

Lois accepted the explanation. She then asked, “And what does he think of Superman?”

“Superman?”

“You in Gotham have Batman, we have Superman.”

Selina smiled, “I know, I'm surprised you ask about Superman.”

“Oh, you know…curiosity. Now it seems like everyone has to have an opinion on something.”

Nice save there. Lois Lane lived up to her reputation. But Selina certainly couldn't tell her oh Bruce is a first rate paranoid and is convinced that Superman is secretly evil or something.

There it was necessary to maintain a certain image.

“He enjoyed flying with Superman Airlines, and he would probably repeat the experience at the first opportunity.”

“Because of the arms,” Lois said.

“Because of the arms,” Seliana agreed. “He couldn't stop singing them to me. They were so toned Selina. They could have broken me in two and I would have thanked him.”

“Very interesting,” the reporter said, a mischievous glint in her eyes. Who knows what her brilliant head was working up at that moment.

Selina didn't investigate. What she had to do was direct Lois towards the conclusion she wanted.

They finally took their seats. The chairs next to them were still empty. She smiled.

Read more Mission: seducing Superman

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finniestoncrane · 1 month

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If I could request Reevesverse penguin with an absolutely needy as fuck reader. Like they’ve already cum like 3 times but they are BEGGING FOR MORE 🙏🙏🙏

Please and thank you! Your writing just… goosebumps

Farrell!Penguin x Fem!Reader, word count: 700 good god i want him to dehydrate me to the point that i'm just a wee withered crisp sitting on his lap HNG 💜🐧 request info • prompt list • send me a request • kofi • masterlist minors DNI!! 🔞 cw: fingering, kissing, groping

Oswald lifted his hand to his mouth, inhaling as he brought his fingers into his mouth, parted lips closing around them as he savoured the taste of you. Your slick, your arousal, your satisfaction, all of it dancing on his taste buds as he sucked his fingers clean of you. Even at your third orgasm, you tasted as sweet, as strong, as you did the first time he'd made you cum that evening.

Through almost closed lips, too fatigued to even open your mouth properly, you mumbled your pleas.

"Ozzie... I could... I could go again..."

"Are you kiddin', sweetheart? You'll pass out."

He looked at your eyes, glazed over, lust-filled even after your two previous orgasms, both of them pleasurable and satisfying, but clearly not enough to completely cure your hunger.

"I'm fine, I can take it. I want it, please. Please."

It was hard for him to say no to you. A lot of his sense of pride, his affections, his dominance, his masculinity even, they all hung on his ability to spoil you. To treat you as he knew you deserved. But there was a little bit of him that delighted in teasing. And beyond even that, there was a distinct pleasure in hearing you beg him. It made his cock throb each time your lips formed the elongated vowel in the middle of your "please". Being wanted felt good, being needed felt even better.

"Whaddaya think this is, baby? Some kind of charity case? I'm a busy man, sweetheart. I gotta get back to work."

You reached out for him, catching the sleeve of his suit jacket as he moved to flatten the collar down, pulling him back to you and finding him surprisingly easy to control, almost like he was expecting you to keep begging, or that he wanted you to. One he was seated again, you shifted yourself onto his lap, ample space for you on his thick, wide thighs to get comfortable.

"No, please... come on, Ozzie. Once more, just a little more. It won't take much, I swear. Just your fingers again... I'm so close already."

You were writhing in the seat, jerking your hips a little as you tried to find the friction you were desperate for him to give you. Oswald watched your body moving, how it seemed so desperate, so needy, and the familiar stir at the front of his pants threatened to give him away.

Reaching down the front of your already soaked underwear, his fingers trailed over your swollen, tingling lips, the cool of his ring making your whole body twitch, head thrown back with a gasp as he spread your folds open. One finger tickled up the length of your entrance, teasing over your clit.

He cooed, a warm rumble from his chest that sent a shiver over you. As you digested it, let it warm you, surround you, he leaned in, a soft kiss pressed to the front of your throat, Oswald's strong nose against you, nuzzling into you.

"Please... please, Ozzie... please..."

Begging him always worked. He liked to be needed, to be wanted. To have you so desperate that you were willing to debase yourself just to get what you were pleading for.

You were close already, riding on the high of your previous climaxes, rocking yourself back and forth on Oswald's fingers as he kissed your throat, tongue flitting out over his lips to taste you, not quite satisfied with how much of you he had already savoured.

With you fucking yourself on his fingers, he let himself grab at your body, anywhere his hands could reach he touched, held, aiding you in the rough rocking that was getting you off. And he pulled you closer as you whined, shaking and convulsing as you orgasm took control of your muscles and limbs, the heat spreading through you, dissipating slowly with the relief it always brought.

Holding you to his chest, Oswald sighed, satisfied in his own efforts. He was a man of his word, it was important to him to stick to it. But if you asked again, for just one more, he would have to oblige.

#reeves!verse #finnie writes #oswald cobblepot #the penguin #the batman 2022 #colin farrell penguin #the batman fanfic #the batman 2022 fic #oswald cobblepot x reader #oswald cobblepot x you

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ellesthots · 21 days

Text

Fateful Beginnings

XXX. “gut feeling”

parts: previous / next

plot: in an untoward evening, Bruce gets protective.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, violence, drugging, aggression, description of injury, angst, nausea/vomit, basically Gotham being Gotham

words: 6.7k

a/n: oooowieeee Bruce is really starting to show his more flustered side 🤭

PHOTOS: EMT Says Bruce Wayne “Lucky to be Alive" After Harrowing Crash on Tower Grounds

You'd been walking the sidewalk just before Rai's when you got the news alert. Even with his warning, one that left you for a few seconds when first staring at the phone, it was like being pummeled by a brick. Tethered to your screen, flipping through the photos TMZ posted like they were scripture. After a few heavy exhales, you gathered yourself enough to walk inside. The familiar 'Welcome in!' before a double-take. "Y/N? What are you doing here? You said you left?"

In all honesty you'd forgotten about your last conversation, the last moments before tragedy, and hadn't prepared for what you'd say to people outside of what you were to tell Mar. You did your best to laugh it off, but he wasn't taking it. He walked around the register and stood in front of you, right by the Oreos. "Always been able to read you, friend. Tell me, what's on your mind?"

Ding! The door opened to a cluster of women and Rai gave you a playful finger wag. "Foiled this time."

You joined half of the pack as they perused the drink aisle, then the other that clustered by the deli. He was almost out of tabbouleh, and the second best thing in your opinion—baklava—was being thirsted after by the two people in front. You decided to get some pita and hummus to go.

Rai didn't have time to talk to you with the line of people behind you, and for a brief moment you thought about staying—but your bed was calling your name, so you kept it simple. "I decided to stay for a few more weeks, at the very least. I'll be back soon for more tabbouleh." You winked at him, smiled, and found yourself right back where you had rotted the past 36 hours.

Rai sent you a text about fifteen minutes later. Heard you're a big journalist now girl! How does it feel to be published?

The message stopped you in your tracks; it was the first time someone had mentioned the interview without also mentioning Bruce Wayne. It brought tears to your eyes. He was the first person truly interested in your experience with it, about how it was just a project, not the person, that was the cool part.

I'm staying a bit longer for the election. Especially with how much traction my interview got, I think I carved out some legitimacy for myself to maybe make a difference reporting on the mayoral campaign.

He must've gotten swamped because your next text from him wasn't until an hour later. Whatever keeps you near Gotham and tabbouleh makes me happy. Bouleh on me next visit.

It was a running joke how often you ordered it; it was almost a hyperfixation, the flavor of it orienting you to time and place whenever things got harried. You learned a few months after being here that you needed some routine and, well. That was yours. The glow of your iPad screen was also an ever-present friend:

SEARCH: Marian Grange

Google showed that Grange was the former district attorney, a big-time lawyer taking on some very high profile cases in her time. A handful of years ago she had made her way to Gotham—notably, with just enough years of residency to run for Mayor this calendar year. Since coming to the city, she hadn't taken on any more cases, submitting wholly to the pursuit of... socializing? She was often pictured with the elite, holding hands with a beaming smile, endlessly pictured throughout her public-facing Instagram going to various fundraisers and luncheons. Per her campaign website, she wanted to stop the 'targeting' of the city's rich. Out of the many filler words on her 'issues' page, that was the only information you could glean.

SEARCH: Sebastian Hady

Hady's 'issues' page was a bit more complex: in addition to his position of taxing the churches, he wanted to put out an immediate hit on the batman. He'd attempted to run for mayor in the past two elections, falling short of winning enough votes to make the final matchup, and it was clear why: his politics were inconsistent. Tax the churches, but don't tax the wealthy; increase taxes on the poor, so they could 'bootstrap' their way out of their 'unfortunate predicament'. As out of touch as Grange was, Hady made your stomach flip. He'd been a political science major, with no real experience due to being denied access to Gotham University's Public Administration graduate program. Outside of running incessant campaign ads on late-night television and blaring his oversaturated frame across the city streets, he'd mostly laid low.

SEARCH: Lincoln March

BRRT BRRT. BRRT BRRT. "Mar?"

"Have you seen the news? I didn't have any reception in the lounge."

Every time she went to the Iceberg Lounge you wanted to hold her by her collar and give her a desperate talking-to. You gripped the phone tighter. "It's dangerous, you know the type of shady shit that's gone down there the past few years?"

"So you haven't seen it." She slurped away on a drink. “Sour as hell.”

Ding! You pulled your phone away from your ear to see the TMZ article. Your gut cinched.

"It's all anyone's talking about. People are getting into massive arguments on Scypher about it, it's fucking crazy."

"Arguments?" You bit the inside of your cheek.

She scoffed on the other line. "You're joking, right? Some people are saying he was DOA and had to be revived!"

A lurching clump of bile hurtled into your mouth, forcing you to double over and squeeze your mouth shut. Everything about that sentence haunted you, from the almost incredulous way she delivered it to Gotham's colloquial use of shorthand when describing being killed. He might've been fucking dead? Fuck, fuck...

"Hello? Y/N? Hello?" She groaned. "You're acting weird. Haven't even told me why you're still in the city."

"Don't you think it's a heavy fucking thing to talk about like that? You can't throw around someone being, someone being fucking, dead!" You were more shrill than you meant to be, but you didn't exactly have the resources to control your tone while you clutched your stomach and held your breath, not wanting to taste the vomit you'd just swallowed.

"Shiiit, I thought you didn't like him." If she turns this into a conversation about dating...

"I already saw it earlier."

"Think it'll interfere with your interview?" The sound of background whistling and whooping created an unsettling soundscape.

"I really don't care if it does."

"Pretty rude of the guy, in my opinion. Stealing your thunder like that?"

She's drunk. She doesn't know any better. Hell, might even be wasted. Still, your hand shook with anger to the point you had to set the phone on your comforter and scoot back from it. You pressed your palms flat against your mouth to keep from screaming. Screaming what, you didn't know. You were beginning to understand what it was like for Bruce to talk to you as you struggled to speak through gritted teeth. "That's really disrespectful, Mar."

"I'm jooookingg!" She cackled and you heard a clatter. "Oh shit hahaha, my phone. Hello? Still there?"

Don't want to be. "Yeah. Do you need me to call you an Uber?"

"Nahh, this guy's taking me home."

"What about Gianna?" She always hung around Gianna; you'd only met her once when Mar got picked up, and only for about five seconds, but after a brief look over her socials (and an impressive LinkedIn) you were inclined to think she was a good influence. Gianna had to be with her.

"I haven't asked her to be exclusive yet, you know that." Her words were beginning to slur.

"Who's the guy?"

"Some dude I met at the bar, he's super fuckin' rad."

"I'm sending an Uber to your location. Come up to my apartment, we'll spend the night together." Did she always leave with someone when she didn't go out with you? You pictured her being preyed upon, studied in the pulsing lights of the club. It made you sick.

"Okay bossy. No." She giggled to herself. "His apartment is like half a mile north, he's walking me." She hung up. Jesus. You threw on your sneakers, grabbed a taser, and raced outside, scanning your apartment fob to access the free-use bike garage. Iceberg Lounge was about a fifteen minute walk south.

It was terrifying biking on the streets of Gotham. Half the street lamps didn't work, and the drivers were all fiendish assholes who drove like they wanted to smear bodies on the pavement. You'd almost thought yourself lost until you spotted a glint of her neon pink cami.

"Hey!" You tried not to sound too menacing; maybe this was a rare good guy in Gotham, and he was gonna tuck her in safely to his spare bed and make sure she had a nice, non-laced drink of water at her bedside. No fucking way. "Hey,"

"Y/N?" Mar looked shocked at your arrival.

You dismounted your bike and grabbed her hand. When you did, the man grabbed your forearm. You ignored him and spoke directly to her. “Let’s head back to my place.”

”Interrupting our date.” The man laughed, but it was indignant. He still wasn’t loosening his grip on your arm. Getting a closer look at Mar, she was disheveled; her straps were sliding off her arm, exposing the top of her bra; her belt was halfway undone, yet her lipstick was pristine.

“We have a rule to not go home with people when we’re drunk.” You flashed him a smile, his green eyes dark and menacing. Why do I always notice the eyes?

“Sounds like BS to me.” He tried to laugh again when he said it, which only pissed you off. He probably thought he was one of the ‘good guys’ and didn’t understand why no one ever called him for a second date. You snaked your left arm around her shoulder, pulling her closer to you. A quick once-over noted him wearing a thick leather jacket with white cuffs, and dark blue jeans with rips in the knees. His shoes were a nondescript pair of white Nikes. “You seem perfectly sober, interesting.” Mar was unsteady in your grasp, her weight leaning slightly too much into you, her knees wobbly. Did he fucking slip her something?

You swatted away his hand, which had a butterfly effect; he swiftly grabbed your ponytail, yanking on it so you were removed from between them. He grabbed her by the elbow as you stuttered back, tears springing into your eyes from the tension of having your hair yanked. He couldn’t quite walk as fast as he wanted to, her legs catching on every crack in the sidewalk. In this city that meant a long, treacherous walk anywhere, and an opportunity for you to strike.

You pulled out your taser and ran closer to him before slamming your finger on the trigger. A small catch of electricity came from the tip, then faltered. It’s not charged. Fuck. He turned toward the nearest apartment complex, and you lunged for his neck. He was tall, but not too tall, and there were a few steps he’d climbed to the doorway. You were able to wrap your palm around half of his neck, pulling him down hard on the concrete. Before he’d even smacked the ground you jumped down the stairs and slammed your foot into his balls, as hard as you could, your left foot skipping atop the concrete with the force as it struggled to balance. He cursed, spit flying out of his mouth as he clutched his groin. Mar was barely holding onto the siderails at this point, confirming she’d been slipped something. His legs thrashed wildly, his grunts filling the empty sidewalk. He caught your ankle and you fell back, smacking your head against the bottom stair. For a few seconds all you could do was breathe, the air knocked out of you and your vision blurry, stilted. He rose to his knees, and you scrambled back. By the grace of whatever God may or may not exist, you were able to get back on your feet before he did. The transition made you wildly dizzy, and before you knew it you fell to your knees again.

Mar was barfing off the edge of the railing, crying. You figured she had no idea what was going on, just knew that it was bad; the first and only time you’d been roofied was out with Mar one night. You’d tasted your drink and within a few minutes you were feeling woozy. Make it ten minutes later, and the room was a glowing haze of smoke and mirror—literally. You were seeing double everywhere you looked, locked in your own cage of whatever someone else did to you. Thankfully Mar had enough experience to notice the initial signs of being drugged (at least, in someone else) and had immediately called an Uber and notified the staff of the bar. She’d tended to you the rest of that night, and when you woke up her eyes were buggy and bloodshot. “I stayed up all night watching you. I didn’t want you to like, choke in your sleep or something.”

You attempted to raise your head, but it was pounding, whiting out your vision when you tried to support it with just your neck. You grabbed your phone and managed to open it to your phone app, but he smacked it away. You watched through bleary eyes as it soared into a bit of bark dust beneath some shrubs, landing face-down. All you saw was a gentle emanation of dark blue light. It called someone.

“HELP!” You shouted, hoping that whoever it was would hear you. Most of your contacts (you didn’t have too many) had access to your location information. You’d gotten scared after a few harrowing abduction stories in the Gazette and sent a mass text to the people in it with your info. Someone would call, and it would be fine. “CALL 911.”

Mar slumped to the ground and balanced her head against the railing, tears streaming down her cheeks. This part of town was deceptively barren, of course it was. The man grabbed you by the ankles and you screamed, jerking your legs until one broke free. “HELP!”

A part of you thought it would be okay—until you remembered Batman wasn’t on patrol tonight. Your heart sank as you watched him latch both hands onto your other ankle… and then he dropped you. He turned and walked halfway between the road and the apartment doors—why wasn’t anyone coming out to help?—and faced you, his mouth slobbery and in a slack grin. He shook out his body and flexed his fingers, taking a moment to hype himself up. You tried to sit up again, grinding your molars with the effort, but you nearly blacked out. The only thing that came to mind were the earthquake drills from elementary school, of hiding under your desk with your hands over your head to protect from falling debris. He was falling debris. Inevitable. You wrapped your hands around your aching head. Pressed your elbows together in front of your nose. Tucked your chin, barely, to protect your neck. He took off in a sprint for you, his sneakers connecting brutally with your thigh. You screamed, and he kicked it again. And again. And again. “See how you like it, fucking bitch.”

Mar screamed behind you; weak, but undeniable. “Stop it,” She stumbled toward you as his foot barreled into you with unbridled ferocity. She grabbed onto his arm and he shoved her off. She reached back out, her nails digging into his skin. He shouted and shoved her hard against the railing, turning his attention on her. She had enough bearings now to dodge a single hit, rolling out of the way before another landed square between her shoulders. You were busy incrementally lifting your head from the cement, centimeter by slow centimeter sitting upright. The man wiped the arm of his jacket against his mouth, muttering. “Bullshit fucking cunts.” He slammed his foot between her legs, and she yelped, rolling over onto her stomach. A wave of nausea stormed through you.

She was slowly rising, but he slammed his fists into her back and she buckled. Her face hit the pavement so hard you hoped her nose wasn’t broken. She started coughing, stringy spit dribbling off her lips. At this point he turned back to you with a sneer. “Guess I’m getting double tonight.”

Sick freak. The pain was edging out your fear, and resignation was teetering towards fruition. You only needed a few more minutes to get your bearings. Long enough to heat up a fucking hot pocket. He slapped you across the face, and you fell back to exactly where you were. Flat against the ground. Thundering head. Unable to sit up, arrested by searing pain.

The sound of skin slamming into skin disoriented you. Thudding, smacking sounds pierced the air, peppered with the man’s grunts and yelps. He sounded like a hit dog. What, the fuck? You shoved your palms against the ground to support your weight, but it wasn’t working. You physically grabbed your jaw and the back of your head and tilted it up, holding it there to watch the scene unfolding a few feet in front of you. A horrible hollow sound echoed just as the man was hurled against the opposite railing, his chest nearly touching his shin as his body bent around the metal. His opponent was adept at fighting; fully hooded with a black shirt wrapped around the bottom half of his face, a thick, baggy jacket bulking his frame, gauze wrapped around his knuckles. You couldn’t make out his full face, but the feeling you got told you all you needed. It wasn’t quite fear, not quite comfort, or peace, but an indisputable sensation of safety. You let your head fall back, too fast, as you sobbed cries of relief.

The mystery man kept trying to fight back, but not a single hit landed. You saw it all in the lower half of your vision. Saw the guy try, fight, and run, and the other stoop down to Mar and help her sit up. Once she was in a safe, neutral position he turned to you—Bruce’s eyes were framed with black, paint smearing down his cheekbones and into his brows. He took your arm and attempted to pull you up to the same position, but you squealed. “I hit my head,”

He sat back like he was calculating something for a moment before cupping his left hand at the base of your head. Holding you like an infant, he slowly tilted you upright. He held his hand just above your neck a few seconds longer. “Gonna let go.” Tentatively, he did, and you resisted your torso’s urge to flop back down.

A car pulled up right then, one you hadn’t seen before. It was flashy, but not a sportscar. He noticed your eyes follow it and lowered his voice. “It’s mine. I’ll take you both home.” He paused, gesturing with his head. “Do you know her?”

You tried to nod but you felt like your head would snap off your neck. “Yeah. My friend. I think, she was drugged.” The pulsing in your thigh was violent, and you worried you might have fractured something. He gave you a once-over, then looked back to her. “I’ll help her in first.”

Bruce tried to help her stand, but she shook her head. “Y/N,” she called out weakly, moving to her hands and knees to crawl toward you. She managed to make her way to your side, panting with the effort. “Who is, why,”

Shit. “Um, he’s my friend. I called him when, when the guy, shit,” Your head was in agony. You struggled to form coherent thoughts, let alone speech. How, clear is she? Recognize? Him? Disguise?

“I trust you.” Her voice no stronger than a whisper. She reached her arms out to him, and he walked over to help her up. He wrapped his arm around her back and to her armpit, hoisting her up and steadying her to the car. The side door opened as he walked up, and he helped her sidle in. He waited a few seconds while she adjusted, then grabbed the seatbelt. You heard him say something, but couldn’t… only if you want maybe? About the seatbelt?

You blinked and he was holding out his hands for you. The scarred, dirty hands that now had traces of fresh blood from reopened knuckle scabs soaking through the gauze. It made you faint thinking about him at the… Arkham. All at once you sat up, the motion sending you reeling. “Fuck!” Your hands trembled as pain ravaged your head, all the blood simultaneously leaving and filling it. “No, you shouldn’t, fuck,”

He squatted to your eye-level. His stare didn’t waver once. “You’re, recovering, I don’t, thanks,” Between every word was a gasp of pain.

His tone was firm, leaving no room for disagreement. “I’m glad you called. I’m taking you home.”

“Are you—”

“I’m fine.” He held out an expectant hand for you to take. You anticipated having to pull your own, but to your surprise he pulled you up with you barely feeling the ground whatsoever. He carried the bulk of your weight, snaking his arm on top of your shoulders instead of under, allowing your neck not to bobble as you both walked. The last time you’d been this close to him you hadn’t known his identity. You recalled his hold being so firm you couldn’t escape, how afraid that had made you until you’d realized it was him. You stopped trying to force your balance and let him guide you the last steps to the car; the door opened automatically again, and he helped you slip in beside Mar. She had her head against the back of the seat, eyes half shut.

“Need help?” He had a finger looped around the seatbelt. Your cheeks heated, and you stammered out a no. He shut the door, and you painstakingly buckled yourself. A part of you wondered what he’d do if you refused to buckle up, and how long he would sit there demanding you put it on before you finally gave in, having sufficiently annoyed him.

When Bruce climbed in, you felt like a child who forgot their lunch on the way to school. You asked him to retrieve your phone, explaining it was under some shrubs by the entryway. Not ten seconds later he was back in, wiping dirt off the screen before handing it back to you. He was so fucking fast.

Mar didn’t talk during the drive, and neither did Bruce, so neither did you. You kept one eye on her at all times, making sure she didn’t fall asleep before you could check if she had a concussion or not. You figured you did, and you were not looking forward to checking in the mirror later looking at the damage done to your left leg. Now I match Bruce. A bitter thought.

You’d had the wherewithal prior to leaving to bring your keychain with you, tucked nicely into your pocket. By some stretch he hadn’t kicked just a few inches higher, which would have probably left you with a gaping wound from the jagged ends of the keys fileting your hip. You held the fob out the window when he pulled up to the garage, and in another blink he was helping Mar out.

“Can you stand?” Mar was slumped into his shoulder as he supported her weight. “Might have to carry her.” She looked exhausted, with her eyes glazed over, her face sweaty. You watched her chest with diligence, and per usual he sensed you, reading you like he was superhuman. “Her respiration’s normal. You can check the rest of her when you get your bearings.”

You unbuckled and tried to stand, but even shifting halfway out the car scared you. The ground phased in and out of your vision, the depth completely lost. As much as it burned… You sighed. “Take her up first. I think I need help walking.”

You handed him your keychain and he went on his way. Only after he’d disappeared up the elevator did you question it. I let her go up alone with a man? In this state? You couldn’t berate yourself much though, because a strong swell of defensiveness ravaged you. It was like the you before and you now were dueling. Condemning your judgment and rationalizing it, back and forth.

There was truly just something about him. Maybe you were infantilizing him and the past week was clouding your judgment. Maybe he moonlighted as Batman to cover up his serial killer tendencies. Keep the cops trained on an alternate identity, a vigilante. But he made you feel safe. He always made you feel held. Even when your mind took over and convinced you he was wrong, convinced you you should be afraid, your body never internalized it. That gut feeling you got around other men; the other men at city hall, the other men at the club, some of the men in your undergrad classes, even some of the professors… your stomach never curdled like that around him.

You didn’t think about it any further.

Bruce jogged out the elevator and helped you out. You ignored how your stomach fluttered being pressed so close to him, fought the tears that begged at the edge of your eyes, and let yourself sink into his chest. At some point you closed your eyes and concentrated on the roughness of his jacket against your cheek, and the patter of his heartbeat. Warmth. Alive. Breathing. Secure.

You being so close to him made him keen to his breathing. His body felt tingly and dizzy. He held you tighter. Every exhale fluttered the hair in front of your face, wisping it across your eyelashes. Was his breathing too loud? Were you falling asleep? He rustled you slightly, just taking a step slightly too hard, not wanting you to—your lashes fluttered, having caught you right before slipping into dreamland. He needed to keep you awake, at least long enough to do a proper assessment. Long enough to make sure you weren’t going to die.

Walking through your doorframe was a beast he realized too late; too narrow to both walk through wide, after your left hip caught on the strike plate and you cried out. He hated how much it felt like someone squeezed his chest when he saw you in pain; if you or your friend had been any less injured, he would’ve taken more time on the perpetrator.

He sat you delicately on the couch, instructing you to sit upright as much as you were able. He unwrapped the cloth from over his mouth, shoving it into his jacket pocket. He asked if he could touch the back of your head, and you agreed. His fingers were as gentle as a cat’s whisker, delicately sifting through sweaty clumps of hair that, if it weren’t for even the air moving past it causing flinching pain, might’ve made you soft, weak. You startled when he removed his hand. “Can’t feel any bleeding, no cuts.” His voice was soft, his eyes scanning everywhere but yours. You were glad.

He asked the date, gave you a few words to recall back, and shined a light in your eyes. You recoiled like he’d slapped you when he pulled out his flashlight, the light causing physical pain. On the jump back, your leg brushed the pillow to your left, and he stared down at it. “May I?” You nodded and he pulled up your shorts; you were biting down on your tongue as his pinky grazed the bruise. “How bad is it?” It was at this point, when he didn’t immediately respond, that you realized he’d turned off the lights in your apartment and only left the lamp on in the corner. Thoughtful.

“Already bruising.” He grimaced, seeing the speckled outline of the shoe’s leather binding indented in harsh red streaks along your leg. His grimace made your face fall; he hardly grimaced like that when he had a fucking gaping wound in his leg. “What? Tell me.”

He shook his head. “A bad bruise, that’s all.” He grabbed your shin lightly and asked you to bend your leg. Then put weight on it. Twist left to right. Flex your hip. Everything worked normally. Still, his brow was twisted together, looking like he was gnawing on his cheek. You eyed him skeptically. “What?”

This was the second time he’d pulled someone off of you in less than six months. Your entire thigh would be lit dark scarlet in just a few days. He’d called Gordon the second he got into his car, and whispered an ID to his watch to ping over when he went to get your phone. He was sure they got him, but all he could think about was brutality; he didn’t like the things he was imagining, the drive to crack all the fingers off the man’s hand and shove them into his petrified, quivering mouth, and the equal drive to wrap you in a hug that never ended to make sure no one else harmed you.

You saw the movement of all these thoughts across his face, but the only source you could track them to was hesitation to tell you the extent of your injury. “Do I need to go to the hospital?”

He wanted to scour every inch of you to look for more lacerations, bruises, bleeds. For possibly the first time ever, he didn’t trust his estimation. You needed a professional, just in case. In case he missed something. In case you’d jostled your brain too much, in case the man had loosened a clot in your leg. He nodded. “I think you should.” He could take a back way there, walk you up to the doors and then put you in a wheelchair at the entrance. His mask would cover up enough, probably. He’d bring your friend with you. She could be checked out too.

You looked to his bloodless palms and fingertips that had just explored your scalp. Down to the splotches across your leg. “Why?” You felt like shit, yeah, but…?

“I might be wrong.”

”About what?”

”The extent of it.”

”What, like a brain bleed?”

”Exactly like that.”

You flicked your gaze up to your bedroom door. “I can’t leave her. Is she okay?” You moved to get up, and it was painful, but you managed. You slammed your hand on his shoulder for emergency balance, and you begrudgingly accepted his support across the living area. Mar was on her side in bed, squinting at her phone that seemed to already be on the lowest brightness. You whispered. “I got it.”

He let you go and walked back to the living room, and you shut the door behind you. You limped over to her and sat on the edge, tapping her ankle to alert her. Slowly her eyes moved to yours. The lipstick that had been untouched was now smeared across her cheeks, and her eyeliner bled and cracked off. “Are you, okay?”

”I think so. Are you?” You were doing exactly what Bruce just had; scanning her body at rapid speed, analyzing for any signs of injury. She looked a bit scraped up on the heels of her hands and knees, and you asked her to turn to take a look at her back. There was still the rough, muddied outline of his shoe from where it connected on her spine, but nothing else of note. Some general redness, and when you touched it she groaned, but didn’t shriek.

You looked into her eyes, but knew you had no idea what to look for. “Did he check you out already?”

She nodded, leisurely. “Shined something in my eye and told me to say stuff, I don’t remember what though.” Her words were still slurred, and the top of her nose was scraped, but nothing looked broken. You thought of the kick he’d done between her legs, and asked if she felt any pain there. She almost giggled. “Bastard forgot I don’t have balls. But, how,” She winced as she adjusted, her back rippling with it. “Cool is it he thought, I did.” She sighed and returned her attention back to her phone.

“Do you have pain anywhere?”

She glanced down at her palms and then pointed to her nose. Her biggest thing then was being drugged, and yours was whatever head thing you had going on paired with a throbbing leg. The thought of leaving your warm bed to go to a bright–fuck, BRIGHT–hospital made you want to actually die. You were gonna take your chances tonight. Oh, it was making you sick thinking about it…

“I’m gonna get some meds. Want some?” Whew, just a few steps through to the kitchen. I can do it! I’ve done it a lot! At least half of the journey is carpet, if I do eat shit. She nodded again (you were very jealous she was able to bob her head), and began your slow shuffle to the kitchen. The second you appeared in the doorway, Bruce jumped to your aid. You waved him off. “I think I’ll stay home.” You grabbed the counter for support.

“I’m taking you in.”

Furrowing your brow hurt your aching head. “I’m gonna take some meds, it’ll, be fine.”

“Then I’m staying.”

He sounded like a scolding parent. You shot a look at him and felt the ground wiggle beneath you. You squeezed your eyes shut which only made it worse. Tried to refocus on the medicine cabinet. So high…

“Let’s go.” He made his voice a bit louder, sterner. You finally scooted close enough to reach the handle, and now worked up the courage to grab it. You rustled around in there for a moment.

“You’re not really going to take that, are you?” His tone was biting. Footsteps, then he snatched the bottle of ibuprofen out of your hand. “Do you want to have a brain bleed?”

Shame coursed through you, another one of his thousand cuts. When you were able to look back at him, he had his eyes shut tight and his lips pursed, one hand holding the bottle and the other gripping the counter. He saw you looking at him and hastily turned away. The pop of the plastic bottle on the marble punctuated his apology. “Sorry.” He ran his fingers through his hair, his hood removed somewhere between your bedroom and the couch. He huffed and tilted his head back to stare at the dark kitchen light. His shoulders rose and fell with every cycle of breath, one for every three blinks. The room was silent like that for a minute. He was so angry… no, he was nervous. Upset.

He caught your eye when you turned and his face fell into something softer, more vulnerable. “You’re not going, right?” He gave the smallest shake of his head and flicked the bottle a few inches. He didn’t wait for your answer. “I’m staying.” He made his voice strong, though you both knew you could kick him out and there was nothing he could do about it.

“Bruce,”

“You’re both incapacitated, leaving you here alone, it’s, it’s not an option.” He was getting flustered. You always took him there. He didn’t stutter, he never caught on his words, never caught on the sidewalk, never overlooked a pedestrian, fuck. His voice was raising, only slightly. His breathing got shallower, his fingers feeling chilled. “I need a minute.” He put his hands over his head and walked to the other side of the room, pacing in front of the couch. The fact the silence felt thick made you want to cut it. “I’ll be fine,”

“Please!” He dropped his hands at his sides and stood facing the cushions.

Deep breath in. Hold… exhale. Inhale, hold… exhale. Inhale, hold… exhale. Inhale, hold… exhale. He felt his chest start to release. Inhale, hold… exhale. Hold. Inhale, hold… exhale, hold… the feeling was coming back into his fingertips. Inhale, exhale. Hold… Inhale, slow, hold… exhale, slow, hold. Blink. Blink. Look at the wall. Couch. Hands. Jacket. In, out.

Another big sigh and a small shake, and he looked over his shoulder. He swallowed back globs of saliva that threatened to drown his vocal folds. His cheeks were pink, from what he had no idea. “I’m upset this happened to you.” He figured some transparency wouldn’t hurt, seeing as he’d just watched you get bludgeoned on the sidewalk and the… events of the past weekend. His jaw flexed. “And your friend.” He groaned, feeling frustrated tension fill him again. “I heard your shouting from blocks away. There were plenty of people.” His hands tightened in and out of fists, a motion you never failed to dial into. “No one did a damn thing.”

“Seems about right.” You slowly reached for the ibuprofen and put it back in the cabinet, letting it fall shut with a small tap.

Bruce was facing you now. “You don’t seem fazed.”

You shrugged, but couldn’t raise your shoulders in any meaningful capacity. “People don’t give a shit here.” You winced, as another blow of pain emanated the circumference of your skull. “Of course you don’t,” You flinched, speaking causing coils of pain to vibrate in your head. “Get it.”

He held back the full extent of his response, because he had a full argument sitting on the tip of his tongue. “I’ve seen the worst of it as him. I get it.” His enunciation begged no comment, but it was steamrolled.

“You don’t.” It was going to hurt to push all the words out at once, but the adrenaline of more friction with him was enough fuel to edge it out, momentarily. “You’re only able to be him because of your very unique, situation.” It was suffering to continue talking. “Even if people wanted to, to be you.” You took a small breather, placing both hands on the edge of the counter as the world whizzed by. “We can’t. We have, work, school, people are, shit.”

“We can talk about it later.” He walked to the cupboard and drew some water from the sink. You noticed him rinse it twice before filling. He held it out to you. “Drink. Sips.”

Some muscle in your finger had to have direct access to your brain because when you extended your arm fully to grab it, as soon as your pinky gripped the glass, you shuddered like you’d flicked a nerve. The glass clattered to the ground, exploding shards across the floor. When you ventured to move, he stopped you with a firm hand on your shoulder. “I’ll get it.” He didn’t want you tripping with how unsteady your gait was. He moved to your side and grabbed some paper towels, squatting once more to gather the biggest chunks. “There’s a, broom. In the closet by the door.”

“Y/N?” Mar had made her way out of your room in a drunken shuffle. She’d said your name but her squinted, hazy gaze was focused entirely on Bruce, who was now facing her without his hood, without his mask, almost entirely exposed save the black around his eyes. Her eyes widened. “Is that…”

In your periphery you noticed Bruce’s eyes flick up to yours as his hands slowed. For once he was silent, letting you take the lead–naturally, it was the first time ever you didn’t want to. Fuck.

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hollandorks · 1 year

Text

fright

battinson! bruce wayne x gn! reader

summary: in the midst of investigating a drug that kills people with their own fear, Bruce is drugged.

**not affiliated with middle of the night**

a/n: I'm back with something new, finally! I've been wanting to write this for a while, just for fun, because the battinson brain rot still hasn't gone away in over a year. Hopefully I'll be doing more oneshots from here on out! I tried to make this reader as gender neutral as possible but if I slipped up anywhere let me know so I can fix it!

word count: 7081

The abandoned subway station is cold and damp but comfortingly familiar.

Alfred had simply waved you downstairs to get started on your work while Bruce was out on patrol. That was one thing about constantly being around a vigilante–it turned you into a night owl, the changes almost imperceptible until you can no longer fall asleep on your own before two in the morning, even in the comfort of your own apartment. Sometimes you aren’t sure if it was because you’re used to working late on your nights working with Bruce…

Or if you couldn’t fall asleep until you knew Gotham’s vigilante was home safe again after another night.

So since you’re a night owl these days, you’ve taken to doing your work in the darkest parts of the night, comfortable with commuting after dark. Though Alfred and Bruce both insisted on you keeping a guest room in Wayne Tower when you work late, as neither of them are comfortable with you walking Gotham alone at night. Sometimes the city’s resident vigilante watches over you, but for those other times–those other times you stay in the drafty room set aside for you, one floor below Bruce’s bedroom.

You aren’t sure you’re supposed to know where Bruce’s bedroom is, exactly. But unbeknownst to the man himself, you’ve helped Alfred twice now haul his huge frame to bed when he’d passed out from either exhaustion or severe injuries. And as it was, it never came up in conversation that you had seen his bedroom, the space just as cluttered as the subway station belowground was.

You wouldn’t admit, either, that may or may not have snooped. His bedroom was neat, but organized in a way only his mind seemed to understand, the same as where he kept everything Batman-related. The bedroom closet was full of dark colors and clothes that were at least a decade old, and a full row of the black work boots he preferred to wear with his armor, some scuffed and torn beyond recognition, a couple of pairs almost new.

It isn’t a secret, exactly, but you knew Bruce well enough by now to know he probably wouldn’t like that you’d seen his bedroom without permission.

It’s his bedroom you think of now as you sit down to work at your designated desk in the abandoned station. The space was less lived in that the basement around you. Did Bruce prefer the bats for company? Or was the tower above too full of ghosts for him to face? Either way, he spends more of his time downstairs than up. There’s even a ratty secondhand couch shoved to one side where he seems to do most of his sleeping. You’ve seen him crash there more times than you could count.

You stretch already-cold fingers and boot up the multiple computer screens that have become yours even though you only own the laptop.

You’ve been working with him for a few months now, the connection pure chance, as most things in your life were. Your move to Gotham, your skill with computers, your meeting with a kevlar-covered vigilante. It was all chance, a force you believe in almost as much as you believe in gravity.

It had been a beautiful night that night, which really should have been your first clue that it was all going to hell. You were taking a simple walk to clear your head after a long day at work. You’d hated the corporate job you were working at, which was, ironically enough, at Wayne Enterprises.

That night was the first time you were acquainted with Gotham’s dark, violent underbelly. It was also the first time you met the man you’d thought was simply an urban legend–the Batman, a shadow turned savior at the moment you thought it would all be over.

He’d disappeared as your thanks rose to your lips, swallowed up by the night before you could utter the words.

The second time you met Batman was by chance, too. You’d gotten some information on a crime and, well, you had done the not-so-smart thing and used your computer skills to follow the lead.

Batman had followed the same lead through different methods.

Showing up at the same place at first led him to suspect you, but once you’d pulled out your laptop and proven how you’d gotten the information by using Gotham’s surveillance cameras to track the assholes down, he was curious. He wanted you to show him exactly how you’d done it. He’d revealed his curious mind to you that night, and that was the first piece of him you developed a crush on.

The sharp jawline didn’t hurt, either.

You smile to yourself as your fingers work over the keyboard to the computer in front of you. These days, he has you scouring surveillance cameras, police scanners, and internet forums for leads on cases. You also have your not-so-legal hacking skills to accomplish those things. And that’s in between the research you do on current cases. Not to mention the extra work you do behind his back to keep Batman’s identity from ever getting out–not that he needs to know that, not yet. It’s mostly deleting everything you can get your hands on that discusses his possible identity, whether it’s really far off base or a little too close to home.

It’s a lot of work, but you love it. You’d barely given it a thought when Bruce–before you’d known his identity–had asked you to help him. You’d said yes before the question had been fully finished.

Tonight, Bruce is staking out the seedier parts of Gotham trying to track down a new drug. At least, you think it’s a new drug. Several people have turned up dead, their features marred by their own hands, with something unknown in their bloodstreams. The medical examiner said it seemed as if they had all been…frightened to death, the levels of cortisol and adrenaline in their blood sky high.

Right now you have your computers working in the background to monitor police chatter, any hints from the dark web, and anything else you can think of to track down the source of the drug. While the program works to search for keywords and phrases on one of your three monitors, the other two screens are split between all of the ME reports and the information on each victim and real-time video feeds from every camera in the city you can get your hands on.

Bruce doesn’t know that you’re trying to watch his back while working the case.

You worry about him, even though he’s probably the most capable person you’ve ever met.

The third time you’d met him he’d shown up at your apartment bleeding everywhere. He hadn’t even known he was bleeding everywhere. He’d gotten into a fight while tracking you down to get you to use your skills on another case and simply ignored his injuries in favor of keeping his goal.

Luckily, a few days earlier you’d sliced your finger open while cooking and had some of the weird liquid bandaid stuff you’d been using. There’d been a ghost of a smile on Bruce’s face when you’d run and gotten it for him. He’d thanked you softly, and then gone back to being all-business as you worked on the gash on his arm. As you’d bandaged the cut, he told you about the case he was working, and how your computer skills would really help him out.

He started turning up more frequently after that, asking for help on cases. Until the day he’d asked if you wanted a permanent position helping him–paid and everything.

And now here you were, in his innermost circle, allowed to know everything about him. At least, as much of everything as he let anyone know.

Your computer pings right as Bruce grunts over the comms. It’s another thing he might not know about, your nightly tuning in to the comms as he goes out. Not that you aren’t allowed, but it’s something you won’t admit to unless directly questioned.

You sit up straight so fast it sends your desk chair rolling backwards. Fumbling for the edge of your desk to pull yourself forward, you frantically click through tabs to figure out where the alert was coming from.

A connection.

Your breath leaves in a rush as you scan the information.

Then you’re scrambling back for the comms, flipping the mic on, and trying to string a coherent sentence together.

“I found a lead,” you finally manage. It sounds like he’s in the middle of a fight. Oops. You push on, knowing he can hear you even if he can’t respond. “They were all patients at Arkham Asylum at some point. And they all were treated by the same doctor, Jonathan Crane.”

Bruce starts cursing. There’s a strange hissing noise over the comms. You lightly shake the computer, trying to figure out the source of the static.

“I know,” he finally says. The hissing has stopped, but now there’s a new noise. A familiar noise. The sound of his motorcycle revving to life.

“Wh–how?” you say, unsure how he found out before you did.

There’s more cursing and the sound of the bike speeding up.

“I’m–shit.” He coughs. “I’m on my way back. Tell Alfred to–” His breath stutters for a moment. “I don’t–”

“Please tell me you haven’t been stabbed to death,” you say with more bravado than you feel. With one hand, you text Alfred to come downstairs with the first aid kit.

But the comms have gone silent. Bruce is breathing heavily, the only way you know he’s still there.

“Where were you hit?” you ask. “What street? How bad is it?”

No answer. Bruce makes a noise that raises every hair on your body.

It sounds like he’s…afraid.

You scramble to pull up every feed you have and find out where he’s been so you could see what happened.

In all your months knowing him, you’ve never heard Bruce make such a noise. You’ve never heard him afraid like that. Something about it raises every hair on the back of your neck.

You search camera after camera on the streets of Gotham, looking for any sign of Bruce at the moment he said he was on his way back. You curse quietly to yourself, the sound of Bruce’s motorcycle engine through the comms filling the echoing space around you.

Then–there. Grainy as all get out and the only angle is available from a building across the street. But it’s him–there’s no denying the hulking shadow that is the Batman. He’s helping someone, a woman who appears to be screaming though the video has no audio attached. She thrashes and hits at Bruce, seemingly hysterical.

Then she goes utterly still. You realize that it was about this time where you flipped the comms on to listen.

Someone steps out of the shadows of the alley in front of them and there’s a sudden small cloud of fog.

Bruce darts away, hopping on his motorcycle as the figure moves fully into the light. He–because you can see now that it’s a man–looks down at the woman dead on the sidewalk. Then his face tilts upward and you see why Bruce said, I know.

It was the doctor himself, the one who’d been treating all of the dead patients.

Jonathan Crane.

Even with the shitty quality, his face is a clear match for the identification photo linked to Arkham.

You immediately save images of the video for Gordon to see. Here’s the proof you need–this and the Batman’s testimony of an attack surely are enough to at least get Crane investigated properly.

Hopefully.

The small printer starts to spit out the pictures as the roar of a familiar engine abruptly cuts off in the tunnels outside of the station.

You straighten.

“Bruce?” you call out uncertainly. Normally he comes tearing in, hopping the motorcycle up on the ramp to be worked on and showing off a bit as he does it, or parking haphazardly near his work tables so he can get straight back to work. In the months you’d known him, he’d never stopped outside of the station for any reason.

Your heart is somewhere near your feet as you tentatively step forward.

“Bruce?” you say again, this time much quieter.

You’re suddenly yanked backwards off your feet as a gloved hand presses against your mouth. You squirm, panicked, trying to get away. You lament all the times you refused Bruce’s self defense lessons.

“Shh, be quiet,” a familiar voice says.

You relax all at once.

It’s Bruce.

Even through his armor, you can feel his heart pounding rapidly. His breath comes in sharp gasps that he struggles to keep quiet.

He lets you turn in his arms. His eyes are wild, panicked.

“Where are you hurt?” you murmur quietly. Your eyes track over every inch of him. There’s no blood that you can see, but he’s still in his all-black armor and you’re both tucked in the shadows near the hangar door that opens into the tunnels. You probably wouldn’t be able to see the blood if there was any.

Bruce is still panting like he’s been running. “They’re coming,” he whispers. You frown. You already checked all the cameras from his route home and the security cameras in the tunnel. He came in alone.

There’s a quiet noise somewhere in the distance, probably just a bat going to bed for the day, but Bruce yanks you close against his chest and whirls with one fist raised.

Now you’re afraid, too. Has someone followed him all this way and you missed it somehow? Has someone found his inner sanctum? Are you both in danger?

Another noise startles you both.

The elevator descending.

Bruce’s eyes are wild beneath his mask.

“It’s Alfred,” you whisper, but Bruce seems not to hear you.

“I’m not letting you out of my sight,” he murmurs into your ear, dragging you along with him into the recessed shadows by the elevator. You stumble along, still tucked against his side, the feeling of his breath on your ear lingering and making you shiver. Even though you’re afraid, you feel safe. “We’ll get you help, I promise.” You’re not sure what you need help with, but you remain quiet.

Bruce has always protected you, whether he knows it or not.

He physically protects you, sure, watching your back as the Batman, keeping you safe in a city as turbulent as Gotham. But Bruce also has always looked out for your mental health, too.

There have always been nights where things are just…bleak, whether or not for any particular reason. You withdraw into yourself during those times, much like Bruce himself does. Somehow he always, always knows how to draw you back out. Sometimes it’s a quiet joke, sometimes a request to help him with something, sometimes it’s only his quiet company as he sits and works next to you.

So even now, as you fear every moving shadow, every noise, thinking someone might be coming after you…

Even now, you know you’ll be safe and protected with Bruce.

It’s part of why you love him.

Not that he’d ever know that.

“Stay put,” Bruce says into your ear, making you shiver all over again.

He pushes gently on your shoulders in a stay put motion and steps away on silent feet. Even now his grace surprises you, even after months of watching him, being around him. He is a wonder to behold, a massive shadow that becomes weightless in a single breath. It’s like he becomes incorporeal at will, turning into shadow and smoke before he strikes.

The elevator gates rattle open and Bruce leaps.

Alfred is on the ground, first aid kit scattering to all corners of the station with a clatter, in barely a blink.

“Bruce!” you half-shout, the instinct automatic. Your voice overlaps with Alfred’s, the echoes sending the bats into a frenzy overhead.

Bruce goes utterly still, one fist raised like he’s going to hit Alfred. Alfred of all people. He flinches at the bats but his focus is on Alfred.

Alfred is as calm as ever despite the figure looming threateningly over him.

“Are you alright?” he asks. “Are you hurt?”

“Alfred,” Bruce chokes out and the sound is agonized. He seems paralyzed. “I’m sorry, I was too slow–”

The three of you don’t move.

You approach slowly. “Bruce?” you say softly, like he’s a wild animal backed into a corner. Because that’s what he looks like–wild, feral, and most of all, scared. You think of the ME reports and have to bite your lip to distract yourself from the fear that brings.

“You have to–you have to tie me up,” Bruce says, his arm trembling like he’s holding himself back. “He dosed me with–whatever it is.” His eyes dart around the space.

You straighten as if shocked. “Dr. Crane did?”

“Yes, he–” Bruce flinches and then refocuses on Alfred, still beneath him and as calm as ever as if it were an everyday experience. “Oh God. No, no, no. No. I’m sorry.”

Then Bruce does something even more shocking.

He sobs.

You startle as if a gunshot has gone off.

You’ve never heard Bruce cry. You’ve never even really seen him sad. Angry, sure. And frustrated. Those seem to be his two main moods, other than generally quiet. The happiness is rare, but you’ve seen that too.

But you’ve never, ever heard him cry.

“Bruce?” you say again, uncertain.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he groans. “I couldn’t save you, I’m sorry.” He scrambles away from Alfred. His eyes are still wild, darting every which way, his expression frantic under the mask.

Your brain works quickly through all the evidence you’ve been digging into.

“It’s making him afraid,” you tell Alfred as the older man gets unsteadily to his feet. Bruce whirls and throws a punch, but there’s nothing there. “Whatever he was dosed with, it’s making him afraid.”

What you don’t tell Alfred is that this drug most likely scared the other victims to death.

Your heart pounds with enough fear that you wonder briefly if you’ve been dosed too.

“If he’s like this, he won’t react well to being tied up,” Alfred says, but he starts moving efficiently, pulling zip ties from Bruce’s belt as he fights invisible foes.

In one swift movement, Alfred grabs Bruce’s wrist, kicks him in the back of one knee, and grabs the other wrist.

You gape as he tightens Bruce’s hands behind his back even as he thrashes.

“No!” Bruce shouts. “Let me go! I have to get there before it’s too late! No!”

“How did you–?” You stare at Alfred with your mouth open slightly. Alfred is a man of many hidden talents, apparently.

“We need to get him more secure,” Alfred says, still calm as ever. And maybe, with as long as he’s been around Bruce, this sort of thing is normal. You’ve only been around a few months–Alfred’s been around since the beginning. You wonder just how many times Bruce has gotten himself into messes like this.

Alfred grunts as Bruce tries to get away. Apparently, Alfred’s strong, even with an old leg injury. You hold the man in high esteem but it just gets higher as you watch him.

“Tell me what to do,” you say as you straighten your spine. Bruce needs you, and that’s all that matters. You need him to make it through the night–that’s your focus right now.

“See if you can calm him down long enough for us to get him upstairs. His bed should be sturdy enough for us to tie him to.” Alfred grunts and manages to shove Bruce back to his knees as he rises.

You quickly kneel in front of Bruce and take his face in your hands. “Bruce? It’s me. It’s okay. Alfred and I are okay.”

Bruce’s eyes roll around without focus. His breathing is even worse now, each breath rasping out of his chest, his whole body heaving with it.

You try to push the memory of the crime scene photos out of your mind. Bodies twisted with fear. People who were dosed with whatever this was who died scared out of their minds.

You’re terrified for Bruce, but you push it away.

“Bruce, please,” you say, softer now, fingers pressed tightly against his cheeks. You can feel the slight scrape of stubble on your palms.

Bruce’s brilliant blue eyes finally meet yours. “No,” he says and the desperate word is like a bullet to your heart. His whole body strains towards you. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please don’t die.”

“Bruce, I’m okay,” you say. Your hands fumble before gripping the mask and pulling it off. Bruce cringes away. “I’m okay, I’m not dying.” Your fingers card through his hair. Damp with sweat, it sticks up with the movement. Bruce leans into the touch, and his breathing seems to ease slightly.

“Y/n,” he mumbles. His eyes close for a second.

“Bruce, let’s get you upstairs,” Alfred says in a low voice.

Somehow, the pair of you get him up, hands still tied behind his back, and into the elevator. Bruce keeps repeating his apologies, every sound from his lips pained and terrified.

“Alfred we need to–to get the drug out of his system somehow, if we can. I don’t know what else to do.” You whisper the words because you’re worried about setting Bruce off even further. You hold tight to his armored elbow.

“I can get an IV started once we get him settled, that might work.” Alfred furrows his brow. “Y/n…how bad is this drug? What have you found in your research?”

You hesitate, staring up at Bruce for a moment. His arms jerk in their restraints, but there’s nowhere for him to go in the small space of the elevator. “I don’t know how many people were dosed with it and survived,” you finally admit.

Alfred goes still and stares at you while absently wrangling Bruce back into the corner. “How many died?”

“I don’t know. Five, I think. Three for sure. Bruce watched a woman die from it right before he got hit in the face with it.” You chew your lip. Your eyes fill with tears as you meet Bruce’s anguished blue eyes.

“Then we will do everything in our power to keep him alive,” Alfred swears. “After he’s secured, I’ll get the IV started first and then we’ll make sure to monitor his vitals. If it gets too bad…”

“He won’t be happy if he has to go to the hospital,” you say, but part of you wants to insist that you take him anyway.

“No!” Bruce shouts as the elevators open.

You don’t know what he’s responding to, but suddenly he’s frantic again, whatever slight semblance of calm he had in the elevator abruptly gone. He aims a kick at the wall and somehow leverages his bound hands in front of him.

Alfred curses and shoves Bruce against the same wall. He braces the younger man with his whole body but his bad leg trembles.

“Go get the medical bag!” Alfred says. “We need to sedate him.”

You pause. “But what if something reacts with the drug?”

Alfred curses again. “There’s nothing else to do. We’ll give him as low a dose as we can and keep an eye on him. Go!”

So you run. Your feet slip over dusty hardwood floors as you scramble as fast as you can for Alfred’s medical bag. The bag is full of everything Alfred might need in a Batman-related emergency in case Bruce couldn’t make it home or even upstairs. The first aid kit is for general injuries–this bag is for when things go to hell.

It feels as if hours have passed in the short amount of time it took to grab the bag. When you reach the elevator again, Alfred and Bruce are gone. You can hear them in Bruce’s bedroom now and hurry towards them.

“Get his other arm!” Alfred says as he handcuffs one of Bruce’s hands to his massive wood headboard.

You scramble up on the bed and over Bruce to do as Alfred says.

“Let me tie you up, Bruce,” you say gently even though you aren’t sure he can hear you. “Please,” you say as he fights your grip. He’s so much bigger and stronger than you, it’s nearly impossible to even get the handcuffs on his wrist, let alone connected to the other side of the headboard.

“Alfred,” you say around a grunt. You’re fully straddling Bruce now but he doesn’t even seem to notice. He’s seeing things that aren’t there. It sounds like he’s having an asthma attack, he’s breathing so hard and wheezing so much. God, what if he stops breathing and passes out from his panic?

It takes several more minutes of you and Alfred both yanking on Bruce’s arm–because damn is he strong–before he’s finally, finally secured against the headboard.

You immediately start taking off the armor on his arms as Alfred preps the IV. You sit on Bruce’s legs to stop his incessant kicking, murmuring soothing words to him the whole time. You and Alfred will both be covered in bruises tomorrow, but you don’t even notice any pain at the moment.

Bruce freaks out when Alfred sticks the needle in his arm. He shouts wordlessly and thrashes so hard the bed moves away from the wall. You curse under your breath and get off of him.

“Hold this arm as best you can,” Alfred says.

“Who knew he could cause so much damage while handcuffed?” The joke comes out wobbly, though, your worry seeping through your words. Even leaning all of your body weight on Bruce, he still makes it nearly impossible for Alfred to get the IV in.

You both breathe a sigh of relief when it finally goes in. Alfred works quickly and efficiently, still the perfect picture of calm even though he must be freaking out as much as you are–if not more.

After another minute, Bruce relaxes marginally. He stops trying to escape and settles back into the pillows, still awake and staring with wild eyes around the room. Every so often he jerks one of his restraints, as if testing them.

You blow out another breath.

“I’m going to monitor his pulse and blood pressure,” Alfred says as he pulls the necessary things out of the giant medical bag. “We’ll have to keep an eye on him until the drug passes through his system.”

You nod, staring down at Bruce, feeling utterly helpless. How are you supposed to fight someone’s own mind? There’s nothing you can do that isn’t being done already–and there’s still no guarantee Bruce will survive.

As quick as it comes, you shut the thought down. Bruce will make it through this, even if it kills you.

You finish undoing his chest plates and set them to the side. You brush Bruce’s hair back from his face.

“You’ll be okay,” you say solemnly. “You’re too stubborn to die, and Alfred and I are too stubborn to let you.” When you look up, Alfred is frowning at the blood pressure machine and the pulse oximeter on Bruce's finger. “What?”

“Talk to him again,” is all he says.

You raise an eyebrow but turn back to Bruce. “Who knew Alfred was so strong, huh?” you say, aiming for lightness, but the words seem to fall short.

You reach out and smooth his wild, dark hair.

Alfred’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “I think you calm him down, my dear.”

It’s your turn to frown. “What do you mean?”

“Whenever you talk or touch him, his pulse drops a little and his breathing gets easier.” Alfred gives you a knowing look.

Alfred’s the only one who knows about your crush on Bruce. He’s told you, repeatedly, to admit your feelings, but you’re too scared. Bruce is so far out of your league it’s laughable. Just because he trusts you enough with his secret doesn’t mean he feels the same way you do. Bruce has so few friends–his only two are, in fact, you and Alfred–that you know he opened up simply because he could. Bruce needed a friend, a confidant, a partner. You were able to give him that. That’s all.

You stare at Alfred then, resigned, climb up over Bruce to sit by his head.

“How about a scalp massage?” you ask Bruce. “Because apparently it makes you feel calmer.”

Alfred chuckles. “His mother used to do that. Rub his head to get him to sleep or to get him to calm down when he was upset.” The older man softens as he stares down at Bruce.

Something inside you melts. You reach a slightly trembling hand out and run it over Bruce’s head. You feel for a moment like you’re taking advantage of him. You never get to touch him like this, to simply watch him, and you relish it.

“Here,” Alfred says, handing out a small package. “For the black around his eyes.”

You take a wipe with your free hand and gently rub at the makeup on Bruce’s face. Both of his arms jerk against the restraints at that first touch. He starts panting hard again.

“The blood–” he says with a pained moan. “The blood–”

“There’s no blood, Bruce,” you say. Each touch is careful, gentle. “Everyone’s alright.”

But he keeps yanking at the restraints. His wrists underneath his long sleeve shirt are turning redder and redder with each movement.

“I couldn’t save them,” Bruce says around a small sob. He stares at you but you don’t think he actually can see you. “It’s my fault. I couldn’t save them.”

“Save who?” you ask with one final swipe of the wipe over his eyes.

“My parents. Alfred.” A tear slips over his cheek. “You.”

“Alfred and I are alive, Bruce,” you say as you sit back on your heels on the bed. You carefully reach over and tug each of his sleeves over his wrist underneath the handcuffs.

But Bruce doesn’t hear. “Stop!” he shouts at an unseen foe. “Don’t hurt them!”

His sleeves have ridden up again, exposing his wrists to the handcuffs. You can see a small bit of blood on the wrist closest to you.

Alfred hands out a bandage. “This should help.”

You each bandage a wrist even as Bruce continues struggling. His pleas fade to pained noises that rip your heart out each time.

“We should give him more of the sedative,” Alfred says. He rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “Where are the autopsy records? Maybe I can find out what this drug contains and see if there’s anything we can safely give him.”

“They’re all at my workstation downstairs.”

“I’ll be right back,” Alfred says. He hurries off, his limp even more pronounced now.

Bruce continues straining against the handcuffs. His face is red with effort, his chest still heaving, the veins on his neck sticking out. He brings his knees up and leverages himself so his back smashes against the headboard. It creaks and groans.

Whatever Alfred gave him must not have been enough. He’s just as frantic as he was before. Except now he’s trying to break his wrists and the headboard at the same time.

“Stop that,” you say calmly even as your heart pounds. You wouldn’t put it past Bruce to snap the entire thing trying to get free. You run your fingers through his hair again. He immediately settles somewhat, his tugs on the handcuffs slightly easier.

You decide to use both hands and give him the promised scalp massage. The longer your fingers work through the tangles, the more he seems to relax. You glance at the small device on his finger. His heart rate is still too high, but it lowers slightly at your prolonged touch. It’ll have to be good enough, you decide. Anything to keep his heart from giving out.

When you look back up, Bruce is staring into your eyes.

“I thought–I couldn’t be afraid anymore,” he says quietly. He seems more lucid now. Maybe the dose wasn’t that strong. You silently pray to all the gods and entities that might listen that it’ll be over soon. “But seeing you die–” His breath catches in his chest. “I couldn’t save you.”

“I’m here,” you say. You wish you could take his fear and pain away, but there’s nothing else you can do. “I didn’t die.”

Bruce makes a noise in his throat that you can’t comprehend. “It’s my–worst nightmare.” His eyes close. He grimaces.

You keep trying to sooth him with your fingers in his hair. “You’re hallucinating, Bruce,” you say. “I don’t know if you’re able to tell what’s real right now, but all the bad things? Those are hallucinations.”

“You’re real,” he murmurs softly. His body is a lot more relaxed.

“Yes,” you say. “I’m here. I’m real.”

Alfred bursts back into the room, laptop tucked under his arms. “I think we can give him more.”

“Are you sure it’s safe?”

“No, but if this doesn’t work…He’ll need an ambulance.”

“He seems a lot calmer,” you say. Bruce’s eyes are still closed but he hums. “I don’t think the dose was very strong. He probably took the guy by surprise.”

Alfred injects something into the IV, and Bruce’s body goes slack after a few moments. Alfred checks his pulse and blood pressure for several quiet moments, watching each of them improve slightly minute by minute.

“That should do it,” Alfred says. He brushes a hand over his salt and pepper beard. “You can go on to bed, my dear.”

“No, I’ll–I’ll stay, keep an eye on him. You go.” You expect him to argue, but Alfred nods and leaves you alone with Bruce.

Now that things are calm, all of your fear and adrenaline start to fade. Bruce isn’t completely out of the woods yet, but he’ll make it. You think.

You think back to the surveillance video you saw. Dr. Crane was likely experimenting on the woman who died when Bruce showed up–and used whatever drug he had leftover on him. So it was likely it hadn’t been a full dose, especially with the way he seemed to calm down some.

It was lucky. Extremely lucky. You think about the way the force of chance, of luck, has worked in your life so far, and can’t discount this instance either.

When Bruce wakes up, you’ll give him all of the evidence he needs to get Dr. Crane arrested. You’d call Gordon now, but it’s so late it’s early. It can all wait until you know for sure Bruce is going to be alright.

Exhausted, you lean back against the pillows next to Bruce. You glance around and can’t help but laugh at the situation. Here you are, in the place you most want to be–in Bruce’s bed–in the least romantic way possible. You don’t even have permission to be here. Bruce will probably ask you to leave once he’s in his right mind again.

You turn your head to watch Bruce sleep, your own eyes heavy. You want to undo the handcuffs, but you’re afraid he’ll wake up in a panic again. Better to leave them on just in case.

Without meaning to, your breathing syncs with his. You watch his chest rise and fall and try to let the motion comfort you. You glance at the little device on his finger again and feel even better when you see that his heart rate has calmed significantly. It’s still a bit high, but it isn’t in dangerous territory anymore.

You always knew being Batman was dangerous. You’ve seen him come back injured a thousand times. A couple of times he was half-dead. But something about this was worse. Maybe because it isn’t an actual injury–it’s his own mind fighting him. His worst nightmares come to life. Bruce is the strongest person you know and seeing him brought low is like…a physical blow. It was terrifying. Bruce had always seemed so…untouchable. Like a man who was never afraid.

His fear is the most terrifying thing you’ve ever witnessed.

Your eyes slip closed as you watch him breathe. His bed is startlingly comfortable. You half-expected Bruce with his martyr complex to sleep on a brick. But this bed…this bed is definitely the kind of bed a billionaire would own.

You wake with a jolt sometime later.

Bruce is watching you. His breath catches and he lets out a long sigh. He closes his eyes and seems to gather himself.

When his eyes open again a second later, they’re wet.

“I thought you were dead.” His voice is rougher and lower than usual, like he’s been screaming. The sound of it scrapes over your skin like sandpaper.

“I’m not,” you say, still struggling to shake off the cobwebs of sleep. The room is dim. You were pretty sure the lamps had both been on but now only one is lit–and you have a blanket over you now too. Alfred must have come in at some point.

“I know, but–” He takes another deep breath. The handcuffs rattle as he shifts. “For a moment, I didn’t know if it was real.”

“What did you see?” you ask slowly. You see the handcuff key sitting on the nightstand closest to you and grab it.

Bruce shies away from you. “Don’t unlock me yet. I don’t–I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Bruce,” you say. You soften towards him. He’s scared again, but it’s different. You don’t know if it’s a leftover effect of the drug or if it's his propensity for self-flagellation, but he’s afraid of hurting you. “You won’t hurt me. You didn’t even hurt me when you were drugged. You protected me. Granted, it was from nothing, but…” You flash him a smile. He doesn’t return it. “Have you been awake long?”

He ignores the joke and the question, eyes staring into the middle distance. “I saw…every variation possible of the people I love dying,” he finally says as you unlock the wrist closest to you. He groans quietly as he stretches the arm out. He must be in a lot of pain from having his arms lifted for so long, but he says nothing. “I saw myself killing you. Or I saw someone else hurting you because of me, to get to me. You kept getting hurt and I was always too late to stop it.” He’s breathing hard again.

You can feel his breath on your face as you lean over him to unlock the other handcuff.

He catches your wrist and keeps you close, staring up at you. His lashes are long and dark, his blue eyes bright as stars. He’s so beautiful it takes your breath away, even in his disheveled state. You still aren’t used to the sight of him.

“Y/n, do you hear what I’m saying?” he says, voice almost anguished.

And your brain finally catches up.

I saw…every variation possible of the people I love dying. I saw myself killing you. Or someone else hurting you because of me, to get to me.

You suddenly can’t breathe. People I love.

“Bruce–” All the other words get caught behind his name.

“I’m sorry,” he says, and yet again you aren’t sure what he’s sorry for. “But seeing all of that–I couldn’t stand the thought of something happening to you without knowing…all of it. The way I feel about you. How badly I–” He shakes his head and presses his lips together.

You want to pinch yourself. You’re still asleep, right? There’s no way in any universe that Bruce Wayne feels for you like you do for him.

But he’s including you in the list of people he loves.

You’ve been silent for too long, still hovering over Bruce. His eyes shift away, a wall coming down behind them as he shuts himself off.

“I just…wanted you to know. That’s all. I won’t mention it again.” There’s a slight pink tint to his cheeks. “It’s okay if you don’t…feel that way about me.”

“Bruce,” you say again, softer this time. You sit back a little. “I–I’m sorry.” He deflates a little, rubbing one wrist absently. He still isn’t looking at you. “I’m not really good with words, but I want you to know I feel the same way about you.” His gaze snaps to yours. You can feel heat creeping up your neck to settle in your cheeks. “I was so scared last night. I thought–all the other victims we knew about had died and–I couldn’t handle it if you died, too. You are…so important to me.” Your voice catches slightly.

He reaches for you, calloused hands soft as the touch of a butterfly wing against your cheek.

“Please tell me this isn’t the drug,” he says after a long moment.

You grin. “It isn’t. It makes you scared, remember? Are you scared now?”

He smiles back. The sight of it steals your breath. “I’m terrified.” But his smile only grows wider.

You lean down, very slightly, going slowly so he has time to change his mind. Because it still doesn’t feel real, doesn’t feel possible.

But Bruce stretches his neck up and closes the gap between you. His lips brush yours and you feel a relief so complete you want to melt into the bed. His other hand comes up to join the first and he cradles your face like you’re something valuable, something breakable, something to be cherished.

As his lips move against yours, your entire body seems to say, Ah, I’ve been waiting for this.

His mouth parts slightly, an invitation that you quickly take. His hands are still careful against your face, but one of yours fists around his shirt.

When you pull away, you smile at each other.

“As much as I want to stay here like this,” you murmur with another kiss pressed quickly to his mouth, “I think we should get Gordon to arrest Dr. Crane as soon as possible.”

Bruce sighs but nods. “You’re right.”

“I usually am.”

He laughs. “And maybe after that’s done with…we can talk more.”

You can’t help but kiss him again. “Of course. We can talk and kiss.”

Needless to say, it takes a long time for you and Bruce to get up to contact Gordon.

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