#Bruce Wayne X Reader

[honeybrucie]

Bruce wears the sluttiest pair of reading glasses while in bed. Ankles crossed, silk boxers on, and his lip softly chewed between his teeth, is often how he is found relaxing in bed with a good book or newspaper puzzle. If he’s reading something important, he’s certainly circling key information with an ink pen, making annotations in scratchy handwriting in the margins.

Occasionally he will be in the north wing library, skimming old journals and slip his glasses on, soon reading the fine print with ease. If there’s a late night as Batman (or as a father), he turns up to Wayne Enterprises the next day with a small headache, a packet of aspirin, and his glasses firmly on. Not many people bother him that day. Except his wife, who adores them on account of making her smart sexy man look that little bit cuter, and a hell of a lot sluttier.

[ellana-ravenwood]

Official Bat Soother - Batfam x fem!Reader

Synopsis : “Batmom, official Bat soother” is the ridiculous nickname your friends from the League gave you because…Well. That’s what you were. More often than not, when your husband or your children were upset, only you could sooth them. And this story ? It tells that tale exactly. 

Popping up here to drop this story. Sorry for not being around much my dudes, life just...happens, you know ? It happens, in the best of way. Hope y’all are good (and some are still around), and hope you’ll enjoy this : 

Please, do not repost my stories anywhere else, under any other form. Do not translate and then repost them either. Thank you.

My masterlist : @ella-ravenwood-archives

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BRUCE 

Bruce was upset. 

So upset. 

And he had every right to be, of course. The League had just came back from a big mission, which almost turned into a catastrophe after a mistake someone made. His son, HIS SON, almost got killed. 

Listen, when it was about his own safety, Bruce never really thought twice before jumping into danger. As long as he could save even just one life, he wouldn’t hesitate. 

But his kids ? And because of someone else’s mistake ?! 

“He does NOT have powers like you ! You don’t even realize how reckless this was, don’t you ?” 

And sure, some people might say : “Maybe...don’t put your kids into harms’ way if you don’t want them to get hurt ?”. And, fair enough. But Bruce and your family ? Your children ? The need to protect, and to not let anyone feel the same trauma you all went through was strong. Bruce always thought the choice was your kids’. They needed to be here, too. And he usually would make sure to always have an eye on them, and never bring them to such dire situations. 

And that was the problem. Dick did end up in a dire situation, a place he was never supposed to be. And all that, because of someone else’s mistake. 

In a few years, or even a few months, Bruce wouldn’t even remember who did said mistake. To be fair, even now, recalling the story, he wasn’t too sure. But on the moment ? 

He was upset. 

So damn upset. 

It was rare, to see him in such a state. He would usually stay neutral, calm and stoic. He could be quite asinine with his words, but rarely did he show he was upset. But when he did- 

You definitely didn’t want to be the person he was upset at. 

So when you arrived (Damian had called you as reinforcement), it was a relief for...Everyone really. 

Step 1 : Reassure him that your son is fine, that Dick barely has any bruises thanks to his quick thinking. Mistakes are human. Even super, can make some. Blahblahblah. 

Step 2 : If he’s not responsive to this, be a little more stern. 

Step 3 : In private, lots of hugs, kisses, and soothing words. Step 3 could never, NEVER happen in front of others. 

Step 1 and 2 though ? Let’s go. 

Some, like Clark or Diana, would even say there was a “step 0″, which simply was : your presence. It was already soothing in itself. 

No matter how upset, if you came in his field of vision, Bruce would (often without even realizing it) lose some degree of “upsetness”. 

Your voice then, had this instant “soothness” effect, where he felt visibly more relaxe once you started to talk to him. Especially since you always found the right words to put things in perspective. Today, step 1 (and 0) was enough. Rarely, did  you have to go to step 2. Step 3 though was unskipable. 

That day, you soothed him in record time, and from this point on, your legend was born. 

You had to shake your head there, in exasperation. “Legend” ? Damn it Barry, you always have to be so extra. But, well, it was true. Nobody could soothe a bat like you. 

If Bruce was even slightly irritated, your simple presence would soothe him. If he was angry, well and truly upset ? Only you could calm him down. It already happened so rarely, for him to lose it in front of others. 

But, to be fair, sometimes, he would be upset without it showing on his face, or in his words or body langage. He learned to hide his feelings, to protect himself. He would rarely show how he wanted to lose his cool. 

In those moments, his neutral face, closed to any emotions, wouldn’t lie to you. You always seemed to sense, when he felt upset. Maybe that was what it meant, to be soulmates ? Always sensing each other’s feelings ? 

A hand on his shoulder, or slipping in his own hand. A smile from across the room, across the table. A kiss on the cheek. A little massage of his temples. A small caress on his back. 

Such small gestures, that meant so much for him. Such small gestures, that would instantly soothe him. Such small gestures, that your friends at the League learned to notice. 

He didn’t have to be visibly upset for you to soothe him. You just knew when and how to do it. Which slowly started this “legend” of yours, and that nickname : “Bat Soother”. 

Bruce wasn’t sure how to feel about it. He wasn’t sure he liked that nickname, and what it implied about his friends’ view of you. Thing is, he couldn’t really be upset because- 

Well, you were his personal soother after all. 

DICK

Out of all your kids, Dick was the easiest to soothe. 

Especially when he was a kid, he would be prompt to spit of rage, to sudden anger, anger so big it would consume his entire world. 

He calmed down as he grew up, but Dick could hold a lot of anger. Upset at the unfairness of the World, a world which took his parents. 

What “saved” Dick though, was being adopted by you and Bruce. By Bruce, who knew all too well this seething anger that came with the grief of loosing such precious people. And because he understood so well, he knew exactly what mistakes not to do, what he could bring to Dick so he could feel better (that’s in large part why Dick became the first Robin, because he needed an outlet to let his anger out, a meaning to his life).

And by you, because you just had a magic trick to soothe him. He really wasn’t difficult. Despite the huge fit of anger, he was the easiest to soothe. 

All you really had to do was- 

Take him in your arms. 

That’s hit. Hold him against your heart, let your fingers run in his hair. No need for any words, just your presence. And your touch. 

It was as if his anger would fly away, sometimes, he could swear he literally felt the heaviness leave his body. 

Even as an adult, when he felt upset, he would sometimes drive from Bludhaven to the manor just to have a hug, and those kind words you had the secret of. 

It was hardly something he was ashamed of, still needing his mother after all those years. I mean, try to get in his shoes : if you had a sudden magic way to release all your anger, a magic way to not feel upset anymore, would you let that go just because you’re an adult now ? 

Of course not. Between, who says that you can’t have hugs from your parents after a certain age ? This always seemed like an odd “rule” to Dick. If he doesn’t feel good, and needs parental support, why couldn’t he just come see you and ask for it ?

It would be ridiculous, not to. At least, that’s what he always felt. He dreaded the day you wouldn’t be there anymore, to “chase the upset away”. 

JASON 

You had to make Jason laugh, to soothe him. Which, despite what people would think, was pretty easy. 

Before his death, Jason was a very happy kid. 

He had finally found a family that cared for him, that loved him (which made it so hard to swallow when he “died”, and thought Bruce had abandoned him). He was living the dream, having a loving home, with parents that were always there for him, a big brother that he admired, and even a “butler” that really was like a grandfather. He had his own bedroom, anything he wanted because Bruce tended to go overboard whenever he thought he liked something (”Oh he likes cars ? Let me buy him every single toy car in existence”), warm meals three times a day...What more could he want ? 

Nothing. But having everything he ever dreamed of didn’t make him permeated to sadness. 

Whenever he thought of his biological mom, of his dad, of what happened to him before he came to you - he would feel awful. 

He still had so many panic attacks, especially at night when not on patrol and sleeping in his bed. He would have horrible nightmares, and would wake up terrified. 

And because his worst fear was to be a burden for you, he wouldn’t call for help. Call it motherly instinct, but you would usually feel when such nights came. The smallest of whimper would wake you up, and you’d run to his room. 

Holding him and telling him everything was going to be okay didn’t work with Jason. You had to make him laugh. 

And it was easy, to make Jason laugh. A silly joke, a few tickles, and he would have a broad smile and hug you back, and boom, he would be upset no more. 

Before his death, it was really easy. 

When he came back...

Making him laugh was harder. At first. And then, the more he opened up to you again, the more he forgave you all, the easiest it became. 

Once again. 

And oh, how it would surprise everyone when he would be upset, angry even, and suddenly his mom came along, made a stupid joke and- 

“Ha- Haha- Hahahaha !” 

He still had a cute laugh, in your opinion, albeit with a deeper voice than when he was a kid. 

Oh the number of time you would enter a room, and would see him seethe in the corner for whatever reason. 

A fight with his dad or siblings, an altercation with other League member, an upsetting event of any kind. 

Nobody could make him smile again, when he was stuck in his own head like that. Nobody except-

His mama. He found it embarrassing, sometimes, how he would laugh for the stupidest thing (like a fart joke or something). But the more time passed, the more he realized it wasn’t really the quality of the joke, but your presence, he found soothing. 

You always just cracked him up. It was one of his favorite thing about you. How, just like that, you could make him forget all his trouble, if only for a few minutes. 

He still had the cutest laugh... 

Nobody dared to tell him, though. And once you weren’t in the vicinity again, his death stare meant one thing only : “Mention what you just saw, and you’re dead !”. Not even Clark, would make a comment. 

And, I mean, everyone was happy to see Jason smile again. 

TIM 

Tim was upset. 

And he had the right to be, of course. 

He had just entered your life not so long ago, and didn’t take well how Bruce treated him sometimes. 

Your husband never recovered from Jason death. Could never recover from it. And sometimes, he was definitely lacking some tact, to talk to Tim. 

“No.” 

“But why ?!” 

“No, means no.” 

And he would just leave Tim, without further explanation. Even if he did make effort, Bruce never quite managed to be open with his feelings. He couldn’t find the words to tell him how terrified he was of loosing him too (even if, saying just that would certainly suffice). 

Bruce was also, sometimes, a bit of a jerk. It’s not that he meant to be, but his reaction weren’t always easy to decipher for other people. You had to be around him for a long time, to crack the code of his behavior. 

And Tim ? He didn’t really get it yet. And so, he was upset. The unfairness of the situation made him so damn upset. 

That day, you discovered that Tim wasn’t too receptive to hugs. He loved them, of course, but it wouldn’t soothe him. Neither did kind words. He had, maybe, a mind way too rational to just be soothed by a “it’s going to be okay”. 

You had to admit, Tim was a tough nut to crack. It was difficult to find what would soothe him. But then, it hit you. It was so obvious !

You had to literally take his mind off of the issue. And how to occupy a literal genius’ mind ? Riddles ! Mysteries ! 

You often battled with Tim so he could take his mind off “work”, but when he was upset ? Giving him challenging enigmas and problems to solve was the way. 

It could sound so emotionless, but not everyone needed hugs and “there there” to feel better. Some people worked differently, like Tim. To soothe him, he had to think. Think hard about something he needed to figure out. 

You and Bruce came up with a huge bank of data with things for him to work on when he was upset. It always worked. If your son was not feeling alright, taking his mind off of it was the way to feel better. 

It wasn’t unhealthy, as if he never spoke of what upset him. Oh no. He communicated really well. It was just a way of distracting him from his pain, so he could come back on it later with a new view of things.

Taking a few steps back was important, especially for people like Tim. He needed to analyze his own feelings. And to do so, he had to solve mysteries. Cold cases, worked quite well too. And when his mind was at ease again, then he would get the hugs. He would even seek this motherly love. 

Maybe it’s because he grew up for quite a bit with parents who seemed detached from him, but that was how Tim was. He needed to distract his mind, to not be upset anymore, and then maybe he would seek the hug and kinds words. 

It was difficult, to find ways of soothing him. But even him couldn’t resist your ideas, and your expertise on soothing techniques.  

CASSANDRA 

Cassandra was never visibly upset. 

She grew up learning to hide all her feelings, and to always stay neutral. As if she wasn’t a person, but a weapon. An object to be used. 

But, well, let’s say you had a lot of practice with Bruce, Mr “I hide my feelings deep inside in fear of breaking down”, Mr “Behind this emotionless mask, I actually really want to cry”, Mr “I like people to think I don’t feel anything, so that they’ll never know that I actually feel everything”... 

Yes, Cassandra and your husband were very similar, in that way. Maybe that’s why Cass instantly trusted him ? After years of learning not to trust ? 

Maybe that’s why it ended up being “easy” for her to see him as her dad ? To see you as her family ? 

Maybe. The fact that Bruce had such a hard time showing his true feelings definitely made her feel at home, at first. 

It was quite a process, to learn how to communicate her true sentiments. 

Even more so since she wasn’t much of a “talker”. Words, still were difficult for her. Even easy ones, like “please” and “thank you”. She’d much rather gesture, or show with actions, than talk. This was still a difficult step to climb. 

In any case, any other person wouldn’t notice if she was upset or not. Any other person, who didn’t have YEARS of experience with their husband being the exact same. 

It was a slight change in her posture, a micro-purse of her lips, or a vein tilting slightly on her forehead. Anyone else wouldn’t notice. It was so small. But you did. Because Bruce would do the same things.

And whenever you noticed, you’d simply stand beside her and- 

Her frown would truly deepen, and she’d show sign of upsetness. She’d let herself be upset, something she was taught not to do. 

And that was as simple as that, for her to slowly be soothed by you. You were a catalyzer, someone who made her feel like it was okay to be upset. Someone who would never judge her for that, and who instead encouraged her to make it known that she was upset. 

Thanks to this, she would rarely be angry, or sad for too long when you were around. And wouldn’t bottle everything up, making it almost impossible to stop being upset. She’d acknowledge her feelings, and let them show on her face, in her entire body. 

And then she’d feel better. 

It was like, how sometimes, crying for a while makes thinks less hard, how crying actually makes you feel better. Accepting the fact she was upset, without trying to hide it, was what soothed her. 

DAMIAN

Damian was upset. 

So upset.

And he had reasons to be. You understood. Truly. 

Nobody ever taught him how to deal with his negative feelings. As a result, he only knew how to lash out, and look for a fight. 

That was how it was, before he came to your house. You couldn’t blame him, for his excessive reactions. It was survival of the fittest, in his old World. If he wasn’t agressive enough, strong enough, he would’ve died. 

But now, it was different. Yet he still didn’t know how to react, when he was upset. Today, he had a non-consequential fight with one of his older brother. Dick, out of all of them. 

And though Dick moved on quickly from the small altercation, Damian couldn’t let it go. He was upset, and had no outlet to just...lash out, like he knew how. 

He was making such grand efforts, not to act out of anger, not to turn to violence. Dick left the batcave to go fetch some cake, and Damian was just upset. 

It was such a silly fight. Damian didn’t like to admit when he was wrong, and Dick just wouldn’t have it that way. Which, understandable too. Your oldest son was trying to help his little brother, even if he didn’t see it that way. 

Since Damian didn’t really respond further, Dick just moved on, and went for cake...Which infuriated Damian even more. How dare he just go eat cake, when he was so upset ? And why wouldn’t he see that he had upset him ?! 

Maybe he was supposed to fight him ? Maybe he was suppose to break things ? But that was how he did things before, and you and Bruce told him that wasn’t a healthy reaction....aaaaaaaaah ! What was he supposed to do ?! This was so unf-

“Damian ? Are you okay ?” 

Damian turned on his heels, ready to yell that NO, he was NOT okay, but then-

It was you. And he didn’t want to yell at you. And so he took a deep breath, but his heart didn’t seem to want to slow down. And he felt so-SO upset. 

He felt silly, and a little shameful, that being proven wrong would upset him so. But he couldn’t help it. And damn, he was just a kid ! It was already difficult to regulate your emotions as an adult, when you were a child ? Especially one who grew up in his conditions ?! 

All he could see was red. He wanted to scream, he wanted to-

One hand on his cheek, turning his face towards yours. The other hand on his shoulder. He could barely feel that hand, you were so gentle and careful with him. 

“Hey there Damian, are you here with me ?” 

At first, he didn’t understand the question. What silliness was this ? Of course he was here, right in front of you. Couldn’t you see ?! 

But then, then it dawned on him. The more you looked at him, right in the eyes, the more he understood. 

When he was upset, his mind was miles away, stuck in a never-ending hamster wheel of thoughts, unable to find an outlet for all this anger. 

And here you were, with such simple words, such simple gesture. It downright stunned him. All his anger melted away all of a sudden, and he just answered : 

“Yes. I am.” 

“Good. I’ll be right there if you need anything”. You said with a smile, and then you gave him some space. And he was left on his own, wondering where all his anger went. 

How could he be so upset, and then suddenly so calm ? What kind of sorceress were you ? He had to admit, that at first, he truly thought you had magic powers. It took him a few years, to realize why you had such an effect on him, why it seemed you had access to the “off button” of his anger. 

You simply paid attention to him. Without judgement, without spite, or anything of the like. You genuinely asked him if he was okay, and if he needed anything. From your heart, you just wanted him to feel alright. 

Was it truly this simple ? Someone giving him attention, and not just because he was "destined to do big things” ? Someone just wanting him to be alright, to feel at ease ? Someone genuinely just worried about his...well being ? 

It’s thanks to you, that Damian realized he didn’t really have anger issues. If he did, then how come from that point on, whenever he felt upset, instead of thinking of violence he would just think of how your care made him feel and- Instantly calm down ? 

Official bat soother indeed. And it even worked with baby bats. 

Because you just needed to ask him if he was alright, and if he needed you to do anything for him, and he would just calm down. Hell, even the thought of knowing you would be there for him would instantly soothe him, and make him upset no more ! 

Maybe there were a little sorcery in this. The strongest sorcery of all. 

The joy of feeling love. 

How could he be upset for too long, when he knew his mom was waiting for him somewhere, with warm milk and cookies, and a listening hears ? 

DUKE 

Duke grew up in a loving family, up until his early teens. He had already very healthy coping mechanism when it came to soothing himself when he felt upset. 

Did that mean that he could handle everything on his own all the time ? Oh no. His way of feeling better when upset, was to seek those he loved. And so if he was particularly around you or his siblings, you knew. 

Your presence seemed to soothe him the best. And it’s with you, that he developed even healthier ways of dealing with his emotions when upset. 

Breathing was key, to go back down. Then, admitting to himself that he was upset, anxious or angry. Then came the “reframing of his thoughts”. Instead of seeing things negatively, what is at least one good thing about the situation ? Oddly enough, he found that there were (almost) always something. Then, he would release his anger, or anxiety, and his thing to do so ? Dancing. Listening to music, and letting his body follow the flow, made him feel like the pressure was slowly getting smaller. 

If it didn’t work, you and him found that if he focused on an object, and tried to describe it as accurately as possible in his mind, he would slowly feel less upset. It worked wonders, when dancing didn’t do the trick (or when he didn’t feel like dancing). 

If this didn’t work either, he would seek you out for a hug, or seek the family dogs for the same thing. He found that he liked to be alone when upset, and only in horrible situations would he come to you. Sure, you helped him develop coping mechanism, but Duke had always been quite independent. 

Nevertheless, dogs ? It always helped him. Playing with them, being near them, instant stress relief. 

But sometimes, being alone or with animals didn’t quite cut it...and then he would come back to his original technique : being surrounded by those he loved.  

Yes. Duke always had healthy habits when it came to him being upset, and sometimes, the easier thing was to just talk about it and hug it out with siblings or parents. You helped him find his ways, and helped him find his own self-soothing techniques. 

BRUCE, again

"It’s ok, it’s ok my love.” 

There’s very few times, when you weren’t able to soothe Bruce. 

Like when you discovered that Jason was still alive, and what he became. Bruce blamed himself for his death (and if you’re being honest, you also blamed him in the beginning...but the only one to blame, was Joker). His heart never quite recovered after you lost your son. He wasn’t quite the same. 

The arrival of Tim gave him a little light, and of course, you were there. But still, Bruce was a broken man, after his son died. And he blamed himself so much... 

Even at that time, it was hard for you to soothe him. In big part because you were in deep pain too, Jason was your little one too. But you managed. You were strong for him, when he couldn’t anymore. 

Bruce was always so stoic and strong, always locking deep inside himself his emotions, his feelings. Except when with you. He held on in front of Dick, when he yelled at him for what happened to Jason. He held on in front of Alfred. He held on- Up until he was in front of you. 

“Sorry, sorry, sorry...” he kept repeating, and it took everything in you, to be strong for him. He was strong for you so many times. It was your turn. It had been hard, but you managed. 

But today ? 

Today, you guys learned that Jason was still alive. That he was with the Al’Ghul all these times. That he...changed. 

And that was difficult for Bruce to live with. Not only his own son hated him, but he was- He was turning into something the old Jason would not like very much. 

Despite appearances, your Jason was a sweet sweet boy. Always wanting to please those he loved. And now he was- 

It was too difficult for Bruce. And the sadness he felt ran deep. 

That day, you didn’t manage to soothe him. Proof your “power” wasn’t infallible. It couldn’t always work. And that day, it didn’t. 

In the long run, it didn’t matter. Because you were still there. And Bruce still found solace in your arms. He was still upset, and sad, and felt awful...You didn’t manage to soothe him. But you were there. 

He ended up falling asleep in your arms, and didn’t have any nightmares. He woke up feeling a little better, knowing he could climb this mountain if you stayed by his side. 

Yes. Sometimes, you couldn’t soothe them. But after the rain, comes the sun. And in the end, you would manage. 

THEY SOOTHE YOU 

Sometimes, you’d need their help to feel less upset. 

You could get SO worked up if someone spread lies about your family, and Bruce would be there, calming you down with his words and hugs. 

You could get so upset when they were hurt, but Alfred was always here to ground you. 

You could get sad, for so many reasons...And you knew at least one of them would be here to pick you up. 

Maybe this was the meaning of family ? 

No matter how upset you get, there’s always someone there to soothe you. 

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And here we go. Hope you enjoyed. Don’t hesitate to reblog/leave a lil comment, it’s always greatly appreciated ! See you another day, for maybe another story. 

[devotedlyandrogynousyouth]

It does something to BRUCE WAYNE when he sees you playing along with Wayne Gala guests' children. Your smile is just so bright, so soft, so genuine... So pure.

And so are the childrens', with their chubby, rosy cheeks and cheeky laughter. Each one of their bright eyes so closely resember those of their parents, the unique features darting from spot to spot as they drag you along.

And when you crouch down to pick up one of the younger children? His heart is in his throat. Everything feels too warm, too tight, too perfect.

Everything feels like you.

And right now? All of that combined has him thinking. What would your child look like? Would they have your eyes, or maybe his nose? Would they have little dimples in their cheeks when smiling mindlessly at a picture book?

Would he be good at parenting?

Those thoughts keep coming back each night, with his arms around you and your head on his chest. But so do the other thoughts.

He wasn't great at the whole 'father' thing the first couple of times around. Dick stopped talking to him for months at a time. Jason passed far too young and only came back for vengeance. Tim had come close to an untimely demise far too many times for Bruce's liking. And Damian... He missed everything with that boy.

But his breath catches in his throat as your lips press against his bare chest, your breath warm against his scarred flesh.

"I love you," are the only three words uttered in the darkness of your shared bedroom.

And, for once, he lets himself believe it. Maybe with your love, he could be a better father. Maybe he wouldn't miss out on all of the 'tiny years' if you were to try again.

Maybe.

Just maybe.

Masterlist

[neellscapsule]

the sunshine gentleman

summary | after discovering batman's identity, you continue your work as a secretary for bruce, keeping the secret; then, some days before christmas, your brother visits you. 

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader ; platonic clark kent x reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, jealous bruce, clark being the best big brother ever, mentions of drunk sad bruce

word count | 4.5k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past.  this can be read as wayne's secretary part 2.

taglist | @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01

YOU WENT BACK TO WORK LIKE NOTHING HAD HAPPENED.

Well… almost like nothing had happened.

Because things had changed, and even if neither of you said a word, you could feel the shift humming beneath the surface like a quiet electrical current. You knew he knew that you knew. And Bruce Wayne—professional, stone-faced, emotionally constipated Bruce Wayne—wasn’t exactly the type to bring up rooftop vigilante confessions or bloody couch collapses during your Monday morning coffee run.

Still, he was watching you differently now.

You’d catch it sometimes—those moments when your head was bent over your keyboard, fingers flying across the calendar updates, only to glance up and find his eyes already on you. Not in that fleeting, distracted way he used to. No. This was different. Intentional. Like he was studying you, trying to memorize something he didn’t realize he’d forgotten.

You never mentioned it.

You didn’t mention the fact that your salary had mysteriously doubled, either. One morning you just… opened your paystub and blinked at the number for a solid five minutes.

You almost choked on your coffee.

Then you laughed—alone, startled, dryly amused.

Not because you weren’t grateful, but because part of you worried what it might look like. You hadn’t told anyone about Bruce’s second identity. Not even Clark. And yet, here you were, getting a suspiciously generous raise right after patching up Gotham’s most elusive vigilante on your couch.

Still, you didn’t say anything to him about the money. Just like he didn’t say anything about the fact that you’d seen him half-dressed and bleeding.

Silence was your shared language now.

Christmas crept closer on the calendar, your week-long vacation to Smallville already approved—and then extended by Mr. Wayne himself without warning or comment. You noticed it on the scheduling software one quiet Wednesday morning and blinked, eyebrows furrowed.

“Two weeks,” you said under your breath, squinting at the screen. “Did I… request two?”

You hadn’t.

He couldn’t say he wanted you to rest. Couldn’t say he wanted you safe, far from rooftops and broken ribs and the kind of darkness Gotham swallowed people in.

You could’ve marched into his office and asked—but you didn’t. You figured this was Bruce’s way of doing something nice without ever being seen doing it.

You let it go.

Instead, you buried yourself in your task list: confirming board meetings, answering endless phone calls, redirecting holiday invitations, scheduling the year-end Wayne Foundation charity appearances, finalizing travel logistics, fixing one of Mr. Wayne’s glaring calendar conflicts that would’ve had him at two galas and a board retreat on the same night.

Currently, you were typing out an email to the Metropolis city hall offices—following up on a donation Wayne Enterprises had pledged—when the phone rang.

You didn’t even glance at the caller ID.

Your hand reached for the receiver automatically, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you continued typing.

“Mr. Wayne’s office,” you said brightly. “This is Y/N.”

There was a slight crackle on the line, followed by Eloise’s chipper voice from the front desk. “Hi, sweetie. Sorry to bother—there’s a man here—”

“Oh, go ahead and send him up,” you said, not really listening, half-focused on the typo correction blinking at you on screen. “He’s probably here for Mr. Wayne.”

“Wait—”

You hung up.

Exactly three seconds later, Bruce’s office door opened.

You didn’t even turn at first.

“Who was it?” he asked, his voice low and casual, but there was something in the tone—something tense, like a wire pulled too tight.

You glanced over your shoulder. “Don’t know. I told Eloise to send him up.”

He stared at you.

You blinked. “What?”

The tension crackled between you like static. Like the moment before lightning splits the sky. And you hated how you couldn’t stop remembering the look on his face when you asked if he wanted to stay. The way he’d looked at you when you called him complicated. The way he hadn’t denied it.

You opened your mouth to ask if he wanted you to bring water or coffee or a distraction, but then—

“Y/N?”

Your head whipped toward the elevator. The voice was warm. Familiar. Deep and smooth and impossibly safe.

Your heart leapt.

“Clark?” you gasped.

And then you were running—faster than you could remember moving in heels—across the office floor, the thick plush carpet muffling the sound of your footsteps.

Your brother stood in the doorway, tall and broad and unmistakable in that sweet, dorky way only he could manage. Thick-rimmed glasses sat on the bridge of his nose, and his soft dark hair flopped gently against his forehead, a few strands damp from the misty Gotham air. He wore a gray pea coat and a warm smile so wide it nearly broke your heart in two.

You threw yourself at him.

He caught you with one arm like you weighed nothing, like you were still six years old and couldn’t reach the cookie jar, spinning you around as you clung to his neck and laughed, genuine and warm and glowing from somewhere deep in your chest.

“Oh my God, you’re here!” you squealed.

“I’m here,” he laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. “You didn’t think I’d miss seeing my baby sister before Christmas, did you?”

You beamed, still in his arms, eyes damp with happiness. “You never come to Gotham.”

“Well,” he said with a sheepish grin, “someone had a pretty rough week.”

You pulled back just enough to frown at him, though your eyes sparkled with amusement. “Ma called you.”

He raised his brows in mock innocence.

“Clark.”

“What? She was worried!”

You snorted, finally sliding down to your feet, still holding his forearms as if to make sure he didn’t disappear again. “Unbelievable. She ratted me out.”

“She said you cried.”

You groaned. “I did not cry. I got champagne on my dress.”

“She said you sobbed.”

You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my God, I’m never telling her anything again.”

Clark just pulled you into another one-armed hug, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

“I came to check on you,” he murmured. “Because you’re my girl.”

You blinked back something wet in your lashes.

You’d always been his. His first little sibling. His shadow. His anchor. His soft spot.

“You still have the same glasses,” you muttered.

“They’re iconic.”

“They’re huge.”

Clark laughed again, his smile wide and impossibly bright behind those dorky glasses. His hair was messier than usual, curling faintly from the cold, and his eyes—those soft, sea-colored eyes—shimmered like safety itself.

“You look good,” you said, brushing invisible lint off his jacket. “You’ve been flying more, huh?”

“Trying to,” he admitted, sheepish. “Kara says I’m too slow. Which is offensive.”

You snorted. “You’re a blur. I’ve seen it. Remember when you caught that meteor? Like. Mid-air?”

He grinned. “What, this old thing?” He mimed catching something, flexing obnoxiously. You slapped his arm.

“I missed you,” you said, more softly now.

He smiled at that, the kind of smile that reached all the way into your chest and stayed there.

“I missed you more, bug.”

There was a quiet cough behind you.

You turned and—

Oh.

Right.

Bruce.

You’d forgotten he was standing there. Your boss. Who was watching all of this with an expression so perfectly neutral you would’ve missed the sharp tension in his jaw if you didn’t know exactly where to look.

Oh.

He thought—

You stepped back slightly, placing a hand on Clark’s arm. “Oh! Sorry. Uh. Mr. Wayne—this is my brother.”

Bruce’s shoulders shifted almost imperceptibly.

“Clark Kent,” Clark offered warmly, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Reporter. From Metropolis.”

There was the barest flicker in Bruce’s eyes—recognition, maybe?—but it was gone just as fast.

“Bruce Wayne,” he replied coolly, clasping Clark’s hand.

“Pleasure, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce took his hand, shook it once.

“Likewise.”

You didn’t notice how tight Bruce’s jaw was, how his eyes narrowed for just half a second when Clark touched your shoulder again in that brotherly, protective way.

Didn’t notice the split-second flash of relief that flickered across Bruce’s face when you’d said the word brother.

He’d been bracing himself.

You’d never know that.

You didn’t see the look that passed between them—brief, measured, masculine.

Your smile widened, the tension in the room bleeding out like a pulled thread. “I was just finishing an email. Clark, you wanna sit while I wrap it up?”

He nodded, then threw a glance at Bruce. “Unless I’m interrupting?”

Bruce’s face didn’t move, but his eyes—those eyes—lingered on you.

“No,” he said finally. “Not at all.”

You turned toward your desk again, heart beating a little faster.

You didn’t miss the way Bruce looked at you then.

Not as a secretary. Not as an employee.

But as the girl who knew his secret. The girl who’d wrapped gauze around his ribs with shaking hands. The girl who hadn’t said a word—because she didn’t need to.

 “Do I get a secretary badge too?”

 “No, it's mine only.”

Bruce watched you go—your arm looped with Clark’s, relaxed, the sounds trailing like music behind you.

He stood there, quiet, still, gaze unreadable.

But inside?

Jealousy had come and gone in a blink. And now, it left something softer behind.

He’d seen the way your eyes lit up. He’d watched it all.

And for one agonizing second—before the word brother—he’d hated the thought that someone else could pull that joy from you.

Not because he didn’t want you to have it but because he wanted to be the reason you smiled like that.

And maybe—just maybe—he already was.

The rest of the afternoon went by in a warm blur.

Clark hung around your desk, alternating between leaning on it, teasing you about how fast your typing was, and wandering through the executive suite like it was a museum exhibit. He made small talk with a few assistants from legal—charming as ever, harmlessly polite, somehow looking both like a bumbling reporter and a walking supernova at once.

You finished wrapping up the weekly emails, flagged three reports for follow-up, and cleaned your desk like you always did before a long break. Clark had taken your swivel chair hostage, legs folded in like a grasshopper as he spun slow, lazy circles, absolutely unbothered.

“Clark, people work here,” you said for the third time, nudging his shoulder as you reached to log out of your terminal.

“And I’m helping morale,” he offered brightly, spinning again. “Look at you. All cheered up.”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, because watching my older brother act like a caffeinated toddler is exactly what my coworkers needed.”

“You’re just mad I didn’t bring you cookies from Ma.”

You stared at him.

His mouth dropped open. “I knew I forgot something.”

You gasped. “Clark Joseph Kent. You monster.”

He laughed, shoulders shaking, your favorite kind of sound in the whole world. That laugh could turn a whole day around. Could mend a broken afternoon in three seconds flat. It’d been that way since you were little.

“Pa had eaten half of them,” he said between chuckles. “Said something about quality control.”

“Ugh.” You folded your arms. “I bet it was the molasses crinkles.”

“Yup.”

You narrowed your eyes. “I would’ve killed for those.”

Clark smiled as he leaned back in the chair, hands behind his head. “Well. Guess you’ll just have to come home for the rest of them.”

“I am going home. You knew that. You just didn’t want to share.”

“I’m not denying that.”

You kicked the base of the chair lightly, and he spun again, grinning wide.

The sun had dipped low over Gotham, tinting the skyline in shades of copper and soot. Snow hadn’t started falling yet, but you could feel it in the air—the crisp weight of it just waiting for nightfall. It was almost six. You’d already told Mr. Wayne his schedule was cleared. Everyone else in the suite had trickled out.

You closed your laptop slowly, dragging your fingers along the cool edge. “That’s it,” you murmured. “Last one for the year.”

Clark leaned against your chair, his warm hand tousling the top of your hair like he always did. You swatted him, but not with much force.

“You made it,” he said, all soft pride.

You beamed. “And with minimal trauma.”

That’s how Bruce found you.

You didn’t hear his office door open, but you felt it. That soft shift in the air, that weight of a presence even before a single word was spoken. You looked up instinctively—knew without knowing.

Bruce stood at the threshold of his office, silent and sharp in the dim light of the evening, his expression unreadable as ever. He didn’t look at Clark right away. His eyes were already on you.

And for a breath—just a breath—it was like the room quieted.

Clark noticed it too. The sudden stillness. He sat up straighter, adjusted his glasses, and gave a small, polite smile.

Bruce’s gaze didn’t move for a beat longer. Then, finally, he cleared his throat and said, “Y/N.”

You blinked. “Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

He paused.

Clark stood up beside you, suddenly less playful, picking up on something unspoken in your voice.

“I need a moment,” Bruce said.

You glanced at Clark. He gave you a tiny nod and turned toward the hallway, very obviously not listening. 

You stepped over quietly, hands loose at your sides. It felt like stepping into a conversation that neither of you had planned. One that had been waiting in the shadows since that night on your couch.

Bruce’s jaw was set. His eyes flicked to yours, then away again. You waited, patient as ever.

This time, you noticed.

The persona was slipping.

There was no flirty billionaire here. No polished playboy with a champagne flute and a model on his arm. No clever, offhand remarks. No perfectly rehearsed charm.

And he wasn’t Batman either.

This wasn’t the man who bled on your hardwood floors and let you bandage the hidden parts of him.

This was just Bruce.

And somehow, that was even harder to look at. Because he was the one you wanted. Not the mask. Not the myth. The man who looked like he’d spent the last days thinking about something he didn’t know how to say.

You kept your voice soft. “Something wrong?”

He shook his head once. “No.”

You nodded, waiting.

He studied you like a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Something tightened behind his eyes.

“I just…” He hesitated. “I realized I hadn’t said anything.”

You tilted your head. “About what?”

“About Christmas. Your time off.”

You blinked, surprised.

“Oh.”

Another pause. His voice was gentler this time. “I hope you enjoy the break.”

You smiled slowly. “Thank you.”

He glanced down for a moment, then back up. “You deserve it.”

Your heart twisted.

The words were simple—but coming from him? They struck deep. Like a hand brushing the side of your cheek that never quite touched, but left warmth anyway.

“I wanted to… thank you. For your work this year.”

That caught you a little off guard.

You softened, lips quirking gently. “Thank you for not firing me after I spilled coffee on the Q3 reports.”

That pulled a flicker of a smile from him. The briefest upturn at the corner of his mouth. It made your chest ache.

“You’ve been… indispensable,” he said finally.

You blinked again.

You could count on one hand how many times Bruce Wayne had complimented you. And it had never sounded like that before.

“Wow,” you said softly. “That almost sounded like praise.”

He glanced up at you now. There was something in his eyes. Not softness, exactly. But… honesty. A peeling-back, quiet and raw.

“I’ll be with my family,” you said quietly, watching him. “My Ma and Pa. Clark, obviously. My . . . cousin, Kara. And all the pets in there.”

His eyes softened at that. “Good.”

You hesitated, then added, “There’ll be snow. And pie.”

“You like pie?”

You gave him a look. “Everyone likes pie.”

That earned you the smallest hint of a smile. “Then I hope there’s a lot of it,” he said.

You smiled back, not sure what else to say. A knot sat heavy in your throat.

This felt like goodbye. Not just for Christmas. Like something deeper was trying to end itself before it could bloom into something neither of you could handle.

He took a slow breath.

“Merry Christmas, Y/N.”

Your name in his voice was a quiet thing. Almost reverent.

Your chest tightened.

“Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

It was the first time you’d said it like that. Just his name.

No title. No distance.

Just him.

He didn’t correct you. Didn’t move. Didn’t say another word.

You gave him a tiny nod and stepped back, walking down the hallway with your heart throbbing in your chest.

Clark waited by the elevator, arms crossed, his smile patient.

“You good?” he asked, stepping inside with you as the doors opened.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He watched you press the button. “That was not a professional goodbye.”

You elbowed him gently. “Shut up.”

The elevator ride up was filled with the familiar hum of holiday music through cheap speakers. You leaned against the wall, arms folded, mind still back in the office.

Specifically… in his office.

The words he’d said. The way he’d looked at you. Something unspoken itched at your ribs.

By the time you reached your apartment, the city had gone dark. Snow dusted the sidewalk in soft, fresh layers. The heater hummed as you kicked off your boots, Clark shrugging out of his coat like he lived there.

You gave him a look and then dropped your bag by the couch and flopped down with a sigh. Clark joined you a moment later, settling beside you with two mugs of cocoa he’d made in a blur of super-speed.

“You spoil me,” you muttered, sipping the top layer of whipped cream.

He smiled. “You’re easy to spoil.”

You curled your legs under yourself and leaned your head against the back of the couch.

Clark waited half a beat.

“So.”

You groaned.

“So what?”

He looked sideways at you with the kind of smirk only an older brother could perfect.

“You know what.”

You groaned. “Don’t start.”

“I’m not starting, I’m just observing.”

You turned your face just enough to look at him sideways. “Observing what, exactly?”

He tilted his head, mock-thoughtful. “Oh, you know. Just the way you turned into a blushing schoolgirl the second Mr. Billionaire said your name.”

“I did not blush.”

“You absolutely did.”

You sat up, grabbing the pillow and whacking him with it.

He took it like a champ. “That’s not denial!”

“I’m not blushing over Bruce Wayne,” you insisted.

Clark grinned. “Bruce Wayne. So we’re on a first-name basis now?”

You glared at him. “You’re infuriating.”

He laughed. “And you’re in love.”

You made a strangled noise and threw another pillow at his face. He caught it easily.

“I’m serious,” he laughed, ducking. “Y/N. You’re in love with your boss.”

“I am not—!” you started, then stopped.

“You’ve got a look,” he said. “You’re doing that pouty-lip, faraway-eyes thing.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.”

“I always look like that.”

He arched a brow.

You gave him a pointed glare. “Okay. Maybe.”

Clark grinned. “I knew it.”

You groaned. “Please don’t.”

“What?” he said, grinning wider. “I’m not judging. I think it’s cute.”

“Clark, seriously.”

“Hey, hey—look. I’m just saying. I know that look. You’re soft on him.”

You slumped onto the couch. “It doesn’t matter.”

He tilted his head. “Why not?”

You exhaled slowly, wrapping the blanket around your shoulders. “Because he’s my boss,” you said quietly. “And because I’m just… me. A girl from a farm. He has models and CEOs on speed dial.”

Clark’s gaze softened.

You didn’t meet it.

“And besides,” you added after a beat, “even if he did know I care… it’d just be gratitude. Or, like, professional respect. Nothing more.”

Clark looked at you for a long, long moment.

You didn’t realize your fingers were twisting the blanket.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t press. Didn’t say the words hovering between your teeth—that you’d seen Bruce Wayne in another light, one only a handful of people would ever witness. That you’d bandaged his wounds. That you knew who he really was beneath all the masks.

Because you hadn’t told him.

And Clark didn’t need to hear it to know your heart was wrapped in something complicated.

“You’re one of the best people I know,” he said gently, nudging your shoulder. “If he doesn’t see that… he’s an idiot.”

The city stretched outside your window, still dark, still sprawling.

You thought about Bruce’s face. The look he’d given you tonight. Like he didn’t have the words. Like maybe, he wished he did.

You pulled the blanket off the back of the couch and wrapped it around your shoulders. Clark reached for the remote, flipping to some holiday cartoon you both knew by heart.

And for the first time all year, your heart didn’t feel so heavy.

The train pulled into Smallville just past dusk on the 22nd, the windows fogged with cold and lined with frost, and for a moment, it felt like the town hadn’t changed at all. As if the moment you stepped off the platform, time folded itself in half and brought you right back to being sixteen with a knit scarf and Clark’s oversized coat hanging off your shoulders.

The Kent Farm was still there. Still white and peeling in some spots, still crowned with snow like whipped cream on top of an apple pie. The big oak out front was bare now, wrapped in tinsel and glowing red-and-green lights Clark must have strung at super-speed. The porch swing creaked like it always had. And from the driveway, you could already smell pie.

The air was so clean it almost made your eyes water.

“Ma’s been baking for three days,” Clark said, tugging both your suitcases out of the car’s trunk like they weighed nothing. “You might have to fight me for the cherry one.”

“Yeah?” you challenged. “Bet she made me my own.”

He groaned. “Favoritism.”

“Younger child advantage.”

“Still unfair.”

You stuck your tongue out at him, racing up the porch. He let you win.

Ma opened the door before you could knock, her arms already out, smile breaking across her face like a sunrise. “My baby.”

“Hi, Ma,” you breathed, hugging her tight. She still smelled like cinnamon and sugar, soft and warm and a little like sunshine.

Behind her, Pa stood in his old flannel, leaning on the doorframe, his expression quiet but fond.

“Well now,” he said, arms open. “There’s our girl.”

You hugged him next, fitting into his arms like you never left. His beard scratched your cheek, and his callused hands were gentle on your back.

“Thought you weren’t showing up ‘til tomorrow,” he said, though you could hear the smile in his voice.

“Got lucky with the train,” you replied. “Clark met me in Gotham and drove me the rest of the way.”

“Mm,” Ma said, ushering you inside, “well, lucky us then.”

The house hadn’t changed much. The old quilt on the couch. The fireplace crackling with kindling and soft orange light. The tree in the corner—short, squat, and lovingly cluttered with handmade ornaments, some dating back to your first art class in kindergarten. Clark’s old stocking hung beside yours, both sagging a little under their own weight. The radio hummed with classic carols in the background.

It was perfect.

You spent the first evening in pajamas, curled up with your feet under Ma’s legs while she threaded popcorn garland. Clark lay on the floor with Krypto in his lap, absently petting it while you flipped through old photo albums and teased Pa about his seventies haircut.

You didn’t talk about Gotham.

Didn’t talk about Bruce.

Didn’t talk about the new pay bump or the way your hands had shaken when he said your name that last day. You just breathed.

And it felt like your lungs could finally fill.

Christmas morning broke with the smell of pancakes and the sound of Pa whistling “Jingle Bells” while frying bacon.

Snow had fallen overnight. Heavy, soft, glistening snow that blanketed the entire farm in silence. The barn roof sagged under it. The wind was still. Clark had cleared the driveway before anyone woke up.

You padded downstairs in fuzzy socks and a flannel shirt big enough to swallow you whole. Your hair was messy. Your eyes still carried sleep.

Ma greeted you with a kiss on the temple and a stack of warm flapjacks the size of your face.

“Merry Christmas, sweetheart.”

“Merry Christmas, Ma.”

Clark sat at the table, already halfway through a second plate. You plopped beside him and stole one of his pancakes with a fork. He glared. You beamed.

“I have super reflexes, you know.”

“You also have super generosity,” you said sweetly.

The day passed in a slow blur of joy.

You opened presents in the morning—socks and books and Clark’s idea of a joke gift (a Gotham travel mug that said “Bat-teries Not Included”). Pa gave you a new flannel, and Ma gave you a hand-knitted blanket in your favorite color.

Clark got a new camera. Ma teared up watching him unwrap it.

After that, there were pies. All kinds. Ma had made you a cherry one just for yourself. You offered Clark half a slice. He acted like you’d handed him gold.

Later, Clark flew out to visit Lois while you helped Ma with the dishes and watched a black-and-white Christmas movie on VHS. You curled up on the couch with the blanket she made you, sipping cider, belly full and warm.

It was the kind of day that didn’t need anything more.

The kind of quiet that healed something.

Even if you still felt the echo of Gotham under your skin. Even if your thoughts still kept wandering back to a cold tower and a lonely office with dark windows. Even if your heart still ached when you remembered the way Bruce had looked at you—soft, almost apologetic, and just a little too late.

It was past midnight when your phone rang.

You were in bed, tucked under layers, the room cold but your limbs warm. You blinked at the screen, expecting a message from Clark—maybe a picture of a food coma from Lois’s house.

But it wasn’t Clark.

The name on your screen just read: Mr. Wayne :p

Your heart stuttered. You answered on the second ring.

“Hello?”

There was a pause. Then a low, familiar voice, quieter than you’d ever heard it.

“Y/N.”

You sat up slowly, fingers tightening around the phone.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He didn’t say anything for a moment. You listened to the background noise—nothing but silence. No city hum. No movement.

“Y/N.”

Your heart skipped. He exhaled through his nose, slowly.

“Mr. Wayne?” you said. 

Another silence. Then, quieter: “Bruce.”

You blinked. “Bruce. Right. No working hours.”

You could hear him breathing, the faintest rustle of fabric. Something slow, heavy. Like he was lying down.

“Did I wake you?” He asked.

Something in his voice made your throat tighten.

It wasn’t the voice of a billionaire. Not even Batman. It was just him.

Tired. Raw.

“No,” you said. “I… wasn’t sleeping.”

Another pause. You lay back down slowly, pulling the blanket higher.

“Are you alright?” you asked gently.

“I don’t know,” he said, so honestly it nearly knocked the breath out of you.

You swallowed.

“I wasn’t sure if I should call,” he said. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You’re not,” you whispered. “You’re not interrupting anything.”

A faint rustle, like he shifted onto his side.

“It’s quiet here,” he murmured. “Too quiet.”

You hesitated. “You’re alone?”

“…Yeah.”

You bit your lip, thumb brushing the edge of the phone.

“Are you… okay?” you asked again, softer this time.

“I think I drank too much,” he admitted.

There was no bravado to it. No self-deprecation. Just a quiet truth.

You exhaled slowly, curling tighter into the blanket. “Do you want me to stay on the phone?”

There was a pause.

“Yes.”

That one word felt like it cracked something open inside you.

“Okay,” you said gently. “I can do that.”

Neither of you spoke for a while. Just breathing. Just… there.

And then:

“Merry Christmas,” he said, his voice so low it was barely more than breath.

Your eyes burned. “Merry Christmas, Bruce.”

You didn’t ask what he’d done that day. You didn’t ask if he’d seen anyone or if he’d sat in that big house alone with all those ghosts and memories and shadows.

You didn’t need to.

He’d called you. And that was enough.

You heard him sigh quietly, the sound tugging something deep inside your chest.

“I think I’ll fall asleep,” he whispered.

“Then sleep,” you said. “I’ll stay.”

“Thank you,” he breathed.

The line went quiet after that.

You didn’t hang up. You didn’t say a word. You just lay there, the phone pressed to your ear, the line still open, listening to Bruce Wayne fall asleep to the sound of your voice.

[rainedravens]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[moviecritc]

✦ ˚ : · MORNING SHENANIGANS · : ˚✦

pairing ☆ clark kent x fem!reader x bruce wayne

word count ☆ 3K

summary ☆ you went to celebrate with your best friends your promotion, only to wake up naked between them the next morning

warnings ☆ mdni, threesome, p in v, fingering, pussy eating, dirty talk, alcohol, mention to anal sex

a/n ☆ i am obsessed about writing threesomes when i personally never experience one. also i'm definitely writing more scenarios about this three. i know that Clark tecnically can't get drunk but i don't really gaf

main masterlist | letterboxd

"I will definitely remember this tomorrow!" you said with the biggest smile as Bruce poured you your fourth martini before sitting in the armrest closer to Clark, whose arm was resting lazily in your waist.

✶✶✶

Your head hurt so much that it took you a while to realize you had four arms of two men built like trucks wrapped around your body. Bruce had his chest against your back, one of his legs between yours, and one arm holding your waist, the other above your head. Clark was nestled against your neck, one hand on your hip and the other intertwined with yours. You were touching them too. You all formed a tangle of limbs and breaths that left you speechless.

You didn’t remember how you’d ended up in that situation. You stayed very still, first to organize your thoughts, and second because the men’s bodies were warm and it was cold. Because, obviously, the three of you were completely naked.

Clark let out a low sound against your chest and snuggled closer, freezing you for a moment as his dark curls tickled your collarbone.

You forced yourself to remember. You remembered you had just gotten a raise after closing a sale that would add some zeroes to your company’s earnings. You remembered telling your only two friends who could understand how important it was to you. You remembered Bruce inviting you all to the mansion to celebrate.

Jazz was playing softly on the record player, and there was alcohol. Between the first and second drink, only you moved to the gentle rhythm of the music while talking and laughter grew. Then Clark joined you with his third whiskey, wrapping his arms around your waist as you rested your cheek against his chest, glass still in your hand.

Of course, Bruce refilled the fourth glass and when he finished it, he pressed himself against you from behind, almost imitating the position you were in now.

The last thing you managed to remember was Clark kissing you on the lips while Bruce traced your neck.

Now, you try to move very carefully, wishing to escape that tangle of bodies without causing greater chaos. But as soon as you try to turn your head a little, Bruce growls in discomfort at the interruption and shifts slightly, pressing you tighter against him.

“Shh…” Clark whispers in a hoarse voice. “Don’t move.”

You try to take a deep breath, but the pressure of their bodies, the heat pressed against your skin, and the sound of their breathing make you hesitate. Still, you decide you need a little space, even if just to think.

You try to lift an arm carefully to separate yours from Bruce’s, but then his strong hand closes around your wrist and pulls you back, nestling you again between them.

Bruce, half asleep, opens his eyes a little and with a deep, hoarse voice, a mix of complaint and sleep, says:

“You’re leaving already? It’s still early.”

Clark looks at you with sleepy eyes but full of a tenderness that melts you, and traces a finger along your cheek as if to make sure you’re okay.

The movement breaks the delicate balance and, unintentionally, you end up moving a leg abruptly. Bruce stretches like a cat, and you take advantage to slide slowly to the side, between them.

“What did we do last night?” you ask slowly, clearing your throat.

The room is dimly lit, only a few sun rays coming through the curtains. You try to find some of your clothes, but the floor is clear. When had you gotten undressed?

“Don’t you remember?” Clark raised an eyebrow while Bruce placed a hand on your waist to keep you close.

You shook your head slowly, turning to look at them directly. Clark had propped himself up a bit, back against the headboard, his bare torso shining with the leftover sweat and cum from the night. Bruce and Clark exchanged a quick glance. Clark tried to smile, but it was more of a nervous grimace.

Bruce brought a hand to the bridge of his nose and murmured, almost guilty:

“I don’t know about Clark, but I remember from the first toast.”

“And the second. And when you started dancing,” added Clark, the smile a bit more honest this time. “You looked happy. We wanted you to stay that way.”

“And then you clung to me like two human muscle blankets,” you scoffed, brushing hair from your face.

“Technically, you let us,” Bruce pointed out calmly. “You leaned on Clark. Then you kissed both of us. It wasn’t one-sided.”

“I kissed you?”

“First Clark,” Bruce confirmed. “Then me, while you still had his shirt in your hand.”

Clark looked down, visibly embarrassed, but not regretful. His voice softened as he said:

“You were so excited about your promotion… you talked about everything you’d sacrificed to get there. You said you never celebrated anything, always moving on to the next goal. You said you wanted something unplanned.”

“And then,” Bruce continued, with the same analytical neutrality as if describing a chess move, “you said if you were going to lose control for one night, at least let it be with us.”

You brought your hands to your face, stifling a moan of embarrassment.

“God. How poetic I get when I drink.”

“Don’t regret it,” Clark said with a slight tenderness. “No one here regrets it. It was… well.”

You sighed, massaging your temples. “Wish I knew what.”

Bruce and Clark exchanged another glance, more knowing, with a lighter smile. Clark lifted his back off the headboard, moving closer to you again.

“We can help you remember,” Bruce whispered in a deep voice, a bit more confident now, brushing your skin with fingertip in a slow, deliberate path from your thigh to the curve of your hip.

“If you want,” Clark added, getting too close to your back.

You felt his breath on your neck and knew he was perfectly hearing how fast your heart was beating.

You recalled some sensations: Bruce’s firm touch sliding along your back, his fingers confidently exploring every inch of your skin; Clark’s touch trailing down your neck to your collarbone, his deep breath by your ear; jazz music wrapping the room, the dim light tinting everything amber.

You nodded slowly, first looking at Bruce and then Clark over your shoulder. “Okay,” you whispered shyly.

Bruce slid his hand from your waist to your thighs, squeezing deliberately while Clark’s fingers climbed your abdomen, playing with the edge of your ribs, exploring gently but firmly.

“Remember this?” Bruce murmured in a deep voice as he laid you on his chest.

With one hand he caressed your breasts, nipples reddened and already nibbled by them. You found yourself sensitive to every touch of those four hands, wondering how they’d treated you last night.

Clark kissed you first. Not like the previous night, not awkward or hesitant. This time he kissed you hungrily. With the certainty of someone who had already tasted you and wanted to do it again, slowly, without the filter of alcohol or euphoria. His lips moved rhythmically over yours, with intention. His hands circled your waist, and you felt the electric contact when he slipped between your thighs.

And Bruce was behind you, his hands on your hips, his mouth on your neck. He kissed you like marking territory, like reminding you he was there too. That he had been there since the first toast.

Clark pulled away from you with a trail of saliva between you, wiped the rest off your corner of the mouth, and leaned over again, this time catching Bruce’s lips a little above you.

You were about to say something, but Clark’s hand had already slipped between your thighs, exploring your wet folds. You covered your mouth with your hand, stifling a moan. Bruce, without removing his tongue from Clark’s mouth, took your hand off your mouth, intertwining it with his own.

When they separated, it was natural, as if this wasn’t new to them. As if it wasn’t the first time you saw them like that. You felt a strange flutter in your stomach. It wasn’t jealousy, not exactly. It was something more like vertigo. Like peering into a part of them that had always been there, waiting for you.

“That happened last night too?” you asked quietly, swallowing.

Bruce slowly turned his head toward you, still holding your hand. “Yeah.”

Clark nodded, his blue eyes fixed on you. There wasn’t a trace of discomfort in his expression. Only calm, like you could finally talk about it without hiding.

“It’s nothing new,” Bruce noted, kissing your collarbone again.

You made a motion to sit up though Bruce’s hand was still fixed on your waist. “I’m not getting in the way, am I?”

Clark let out something like a laugh, shaking his head. “Don’t say nonsense.”

You couldn’t say anything more as Clark slid between your legs with his tongue already on you. Your hand went straight to his black curls. He settled between your thighs and opened you with both hands like you were something sacred. He licked slow at first. With a patience that hurt, making slow, soft, deep circles. Then he began alternating pressure and rhythm, playing with you until your body arched involuntarily toward him.

“You’re trembling,” Bruce murmured, now with one hand on your breast and the other holding your waist tight against him.

“Fuck, Clark,” you tried to speak but stopped when Clark slipped a finger inside you.

Bruce smiled against your cheek. He released your breast and lowered his hand to your clitoris, pinching it with little delicacy. Clark kept licking you, his hands marking your thighs while Bruce abused your clit and kissed your neck.

“Clark, please! So good, so—Mmh!” You tried to arch your back. “Bruce, gonna—I’m gonna cum!”

“Come for us, darlin’,” Clark whispered against your pussy.

You felt a whip down your spine, squeezed Bruce’s hand as you moaned with Clark’s face still buried between your legs. You ground against him, your red clit against his nose and tongue inside you as you came on his face.

Clark didn’t pull away. He kept going until you trembled a second time, weaker, your whole body vibrating and voice completely broken.

When he finally stopped, he climbed up your body and kissed your mouth softly. You could taste yourself in him. And you kissed him like you could thank him with your lips. You caught your breath, running a hand through Clark’s hair and stretching your arm behind your shoulder to cradle Bruce’s cheek with your hands.

“Did we only do this?” you asked with a small smile.

Bruce and Clark looked at each other. You knew Bruce had his stupid smile, and Clark had blushed a little before letting out a joint laugh. The Gothamite spun you easily, now your back was on the mattress, Clark on one side and Bruce on top of you.

You pulled Bruce to line up with you, eager for him to fill you. But it was Clark who put a hand on Bruce’s chest to stop him while massaging your breast.

“Slow down, doll. You might be a little sensitive,” Clark explained, caressing your left cheek.

“Mmh?” you managed to say, feeling Bruce’s cock against your throbbing cunt.

“You took us both last night,” Bruce said, kissing your knee.

You blinked, scolding yourself for not remembering anything.

“Did I?” you asked anyway, fluttering your eyes.

“You were… beautiful,” Clark said, half-closed eyes as if remembering it more clearly than he wanted to admit.

“You asked for it,” Bruce added, moving his mouth from your knee up to the center of your body, where his breath began to ignite something you didn’t even know you could endure again. “You said you wanted to lose your mind. With both of us.”

Clark leaned to kiss your cheek, then your temple, then your forehead.

“You said you didn’t want it to be easy. That you wanted it to hurt from pleasure. That you wanted to feel us for days.”

You felt a shiver run down your spine. From shame. From surprise. From desire.

Bruce looked up. His lips were red, his eyes dark. “You left us breathless.”

His gaze dropped again, like admiring something valuable. His fingers slid down your thigh to the center of you, opening you carefully. He watched you for a second before looking into your eyes.

“You’re still a little swollen,” he murmured, as if talking about a work of art, not you.

Clark swallowed beside you. His fingers stroked your cheek. He looked at you like you might disappear at any moment.

“We can stop if you want.”

“I don’t want to stop,” you said without much thought. “Just don’t wanna forget it again.”

Bruce climbed on top, settling over you. He aligned his body with yours slowly, letting his erection rest against your entrance, warm, hard, ready. He looked you in the eyes as he lowered his head to kiss you.

He entered you with a slow, steady movement. This time without alcohol’s filter, without the low lights of the living room, without the music. Just him, you, and the way you fit together with an almost painful perfection.

Clark positioned himself by your side, hugging your waist, pressing his body to yours. His breath brushed your ear, his fingers caressed your side with a tenderness contrasting with the strength with which Bruce pushed inside you.

“You’re perfect like this,” Clark murmured, kissing your earlobe.

Bruce gasped each time he entered, deep, sure, as if he knew exactly what you were feeling and wanted to push you to that edge again.

“Later,” Clark said, against your ear, his voice trembling. “I want to enter you when you still have Bruce inside. Like last night.”

“Mmph—You fit so good, baby,” Bruce groaned. He clenched his teeth. Pushed harder.

Clark kissed your neck while his fingers moved down your abdomen, nearing your center again. He massaged your clit, sometimes brushing Bruce’s cock.

“We took our time. You were so brave, so beautiful…” Clark whispered, then laughed softly. “You said you wanted to know how your name would sound from our mouths at the same time.”

Bruce started moving faster, panting over you. “Keep talking, Kent.”

Clark smiled, sitting up to kiss him while controlling the rhythm of his thrusts, slower and deeper, making you feel every vein of his cock. You were completely undone; memories came to you occasionally, only making you arch your back. Clark kept his hand on your clit while you clenched on Bruce.

“You behaved very well,” Clark continued, tracing imaginary lines on your chest that contrasted with how hard Bruce was fucking you. “Both of you,” he added, glancing sideways at Bruce. “Jesus, look at him. You should’ve seen him last night, whining like a bitch when I fucked him in the ass while he fucked you like this.”

Bruce groaned deeply, pounding into you as he pushed your head further into the pillow.

“Holy shit,” you breathed, looking at Clark. He caught your lips without letting you scream their names as you came.

“I—fuck,” Bruce stopped himself, seeing Clark devouring you while you came, your eyes glazed and sweat shining perfectly over you. “You are so fucking pretty, I’m gonna—”

Bruce tried to pull out even though you were sure that night he definitely didn’t, but Clark and you held him so he could spill his seed inside you with a few more thrusts. He collapsed beside you, kissing your neck and whispering sweet nothings.

Clark already had a hand between your legs, gathering some of Bruce’s cum to bring it to his mouth. You tilted his head, asking for a taste of his fingers, taking advantage of all the leftover saliva and cum on them. You let them slip out of your mouth with a dry pop and finally rested your head on the mattress.

You stayed there, between the two, breathing hard, body still trembling, heart racing. The silence filled with that intense calm that only remains after unleashing storms.

Bruce rested his head on your shoulder, his fingers still brushing your ribs with an almost unexpected tenderness. Clark kissed your forehead, his warm lips counteracting the cold seeping through the window.

“I’m hungry,” you said, shrugging.

“Hungry for dick or literally hungry?” Bruce asked, making you and Clark laugh.

“I think she means literally hungry, babe,” Clark pointed out.

Bruce sat up a bit, dragging the sheet with him, revealing your entwined naked bodies completely. He looked around, searching for his clothes. You noticed.

“Our clothes aren’t in the room, Bruce,” you whispered, trying to sit up though Clark held you to his chest.

“Fuck, that’s true,” Bruce ran a hand through his hair with a grimace, arms akimbo.

“Where did we start fucking?” you asked softly.

Clark laughed against your neck and let Bruce answer.

“You insisted on sitting on Clark’s face in the living room,” he said slowly. You closed your eyes, a bit embarrassed, running a hand over your face.

“Don’t ever let me drink again.”

Bruce gave you a look before closing the bathroom door behind him and hearing water run.

“But darlin’ I loved it,” Clark said, kissing the corner of your lips. “No need to be ashamed of anything we did.”

“Mmh,” you murmured to yourself. “And you?” you asked, looking at him intently. “Do you want this… to happen again?”

Clark didn’t answer right away. He looked toward the bathroom door where Bruce was still showering, then returned to you.

“I think I want more than that,” he admitted. “But only if you want it too. And if we can do it without losing what we already have.”

“What we already have?”

“Our friendship. The way you trust us. I don’t want to break that over one night.”

You rested your head against his chest, it radiated strong heat. The heartbeat was irregular, different from any human’s.

“And do you think Bruce will want that?” you asked, biting your lip.

“I can assure you we drive him crazy.”

Bruce came out of the bathroom with a towel around his waist, moisture still clinging to his skin, and smiled with that mix of tiredness and desire that made you want to throw yourself at him again.

“You can take whatever you want from the closet, just Clark don’t stretch my shirts too much.”

He looked so calm. You knew Bruce, how he stressed silently, staying awake until dawn, brooding around everyone. Now he was just rummaging in his closet, sliding some grey sweatpants low on his hips and tossing you a shirt long enough to cover your ass with a Batman logo.

This is definitely more than a two-times thing.

[kitkatscabinet]

bat boys with insanely gorgeous reader…. like im talking typa looks that get u noticed in public.

You and Dick are the IT couple, the stop and stare, run into light posts type of beautiful that have resulted in more than one person accidentally giving themself a concussion. Twitter and TikTok stan accounts abundant of you, Dick and the both of you together. Dick is already considered one of the prettiest men on the planet, not to mention he’s wealthy and charming and now he’s got a partner hotter than the sun? It’s unfair!! Some people really just have it all.

People look at Jason’s intimidating bulk, the perpetual scowl on his scarred face and instantly avert their gaze, only to find you and do a double take. It doesn’t compute, this pretty person practically hanging off Jason’s arm, staring at him adoringly as if he put the stars in the sky. Plenty of people have wanted to approach you but Jason’s a built in guard dog, though god forbid someone flirt with you in the .5 seconds Jason’s not looking protectively over you. The two of you make a lethal combo.

Tim’s attractive enough, and wealthy, with the kind of business acumen that makes alpha dude bros seethe with envy. Especially because he doesn’t fit that mould of sigma male tech bro that incels look up to. Not to mention he’s short!!! So how the fuck did he bag a 100/10 baddie??? It’s a conundrum, one that’s fuelled many a Twitter debate that Tim himself has definitely contributed to. You have to be with him for his money right? Someone as stunning as you could have anyone in the world. Your fans are quick to back you up though, pointing out if that were the case then surely you’d go for Bruce. You’re not sure if you should be flattered by that defence or a little offended. Tim’s an absolute catch!!! Even if most of the world seems to think you could do better.

It’s expected that Bruce’s partner would be an 1000/10 stunner, a given really. So much so that when you started dating you were the one that felt as if you couldn’t live up to that expectation. Both Bruce and the general public are quick to assuage those fears. By the end of the day your relationship is announced, you’ve got more fans than Bruce and pretty much the entire world is heartbroken.

Hal is the smuggest motherfucker in the galaxy about it. He’s the one showing you off like a shiny toy as he flaunts his gorgeous partner to the envious crowds of people. That’s right, you’re his!!! This goes well for all of five seconds because he’s also one of the most jealous and secretly insecure men on the planet. Every outing inevitably ends up with you curled in bed together, his head on your chest and arms locked around your waist as you assure him that you won’t leave him for someone better. There is no one better.

Guy has people screaming, crying, throwing up. What do you mean you’re with him!! Him, the dude with the fuck ass bowl cut and that personality. He has to have the world’s best dick of something (you’ll never tell him he does, he’s already insufferable enough.) Also secretly insecure but just as Guy showers you with affection and love, so do you. Yes he tells you how pretty, gorgeous, sexy you are all the time but his love for you runs beyond skin deep which is more than you can say for your previous partners, and it’s why at the end of the day Guy’s the man you chose.

[hana-no-seiiki]

read this while watching the superman movie lol. amazing work as always.

If you are up for it could write more Justice League x Assistant reader?

That scenario did things to me honestly, and I can't find anything similar 😭

Maybe reader calls in sick and the each JL member goes to check on them unanounced (reader never told them were they lived but of course they'd know *sideeyes batman*) which end up on all the members questioning and pointing at each other *cue spider man meme*, because why are you at my darling's- I mean our Assistant's house!

Reader kicks everyone out except the gourmet chef batman brought to cook reader some chicken soup.

A Day in Life: In Health and Sickness

Synopsis: A day in life were you, the Justice League's assistant, find out that sickness and a bunch of obsessed superheroes are just too much to bear all at once.

Pairing: Yandere!Justice League X Assistant!Gn!Reader; Platonic!Alfred Pennyworth

Tw: Nonconsensual (not sexual) touching; A single mention of obscene acts; Kinda breaking and entering; Reader gets physically restrained; Kinda forced infantilization? But not really, just humiliation; Some members of the League might be out of character bc I don't know them well enough; I was sleepy while revising and editing this so I might fix any mistakes I didn’t see later; English is not my 1st language.

Word count: 2,6k

Requested? Yes.

Extra notes: Thank you so much for your compliments and the request!! Your suggestion really gave me inspiration to write as soon as I saw it. It's not exactly what you asked for but I hope it's the same vibe and you like it!! Also I’ve seen all the requests for a part 2 of “He's My Collar”, but as stated here, I didn't answer bc I’m working on it! I just didn't have any ideas yet!

General masterlist | A Day in Life - Series masterlist

Whatever hit you today, it sucks. Yesterday, in the afternoon, you had a mild throbbing in your head, but not exactly a headache, at night, fever hit you, alongside a cough. Medicine helped enough but today you still felt a little warm, your head hurt, your nose was somehow stuffed and leaking at the same time. You've been awake for an hour and still just couldn't get yourself to care for your basic needs like showering and eating, let alone go to work, so you called in sick. At least you would have some piece for a day.

Or that's what you thought, until you heard some tapping on your window, scaring the shit out of you, and saw Superman outside with a sympathetic smile and holding a pharmacy bag, a crate of water bottles and food.

Ugh, of course you couldn't actually have some peace.

You took a deep breath to prepare yourself and got up, walking towards you bedroom window, and tried sticking your head outside, hoping he wouldn't enter your home if you kicked him out before, but before you could do anything else, he supersped inside and suddenly was at your side, making you dizzier.

— Hey! I heard what happened. How’re you feeling? — The alien’s face showcased his concern on his furrowed brows and he took a step too close (any step in your direction taken by one of the heroes was already too close for you), extending his arm forward to place the back of his hand in your forehead. You took a step back but he didn't seem to mind.

— Uh, I'm fine. You didn't need to come here. — Superman shook his head.

— I wanted to help. Here, I brought som- — Doorbell. The hero looked in the direction the sound came from, most likely using his X-Ray vision to look through the walls and doors, and squinted his eyes. Oh boy. — You called someone? — His voice is weirdly calm, contrasting with the way he abruptly starts marching out of your room and to the door.

Earlier you thought the fast exertion of movements would be too great for you, but apparently adrenaline was on your side, enough to follow him around as if you were the visitor inside your own place.

— I didn't. — You respond flatly and holding back a groan from annoyance, since you also didn't invite him.

Superman immediately opens the door as soon as it's within his reach and what's on the other side surprises you more than when you got the job at the watchtower.

— Superman. — Batman didn't seem surprised, but he also never showed emotions other than anger. — (Y/N). This is Penny-One. — He is surely referencing the old man well dressed on his side. — He is here to take care of you. — You raise an eyebrow, almost speechless.

— T-Take care of me? — You helplessly watch them invading your residency, painfully aware there's nothing you can do. Superman crossed his arms.

— This is not necessary, I came here to do just that. — Superman’s protest unfortunately doesn't give you any hint of how this will all turn out, nor does it scare Batman and his friend away..

— You have your own responsibilities. — Batman simply states. — You should go.

Penny-One simply turns to you.

— It's a pleasure, Miss/Master/Mx (Y/N), even in your condition. Master Batman talks a lot about you. — You don't know what to stay and it probably shows, since no one waits much for your reaction before Penny-One is moving towards your kitchen and Batman and Superman continue with their argument.

You just go and sit down on your couch, questioning your life decisions and escape plans, which will have to wait until this damned curse leaves your body (and your home).

Your hands raise to rub your face and maybe give you some clearance, maybe wake you up from this nightmare, but keeping your eyes closed and sitting down only remind you of your condition. You feel worse or is it just your spirits? Either way, you let your body slide down until your side rests on the couch cushions, arms hugging your own body to try to have some warmth back. When did it become so cold?

At least their voices were low, as if trying not to bother you, it's a little soothing, especially with the promise of having food. Your eyes hurt just from staying open so you don't. At some point, some type of fabric is thrown over your body and a hand combs through your hair. You are too weak to do anything.

Next time you open your eyes, it's due to disturbing noises, your head is no longer on the arm of the couch and instead is laying on someone’s bare thighs. A pair of hands is running through your locks, and a really nice smell is in the air.

Did you fall asleep?

That would explain why your head is on fucking Wonder Woman's lap and she is looking at you lovingly. Also the fabric from before is Superman's cape.

You quickly shoot up, although just as fast, four or five pairs of hands, coming from seemingly out of nowhere — startling you even more — push you back down, you don't go without struggle, and soon, all hands disappear, green lights catch your attention and you can't move your body a single inch anymore. Somehow, you ended up restrained by a green and bright cocoon, as if you were soon to be a butterfly, only your face is free. Green Lantern’s construct.

— Hey, hey, calm down, hot stuff. I know she’s scary and you would never want to be close to anyone else but me, but you still need rest. — You're turned to the ceiling against your wishes. For some reason the fact that your whole body is covered doesn't give you the comfort nor the protection it should give you, instead, it reminds you of how vulnerable you are.

Your wide and paranoid eyes try to search for anything, since your head is being held in place. You can see Wonder Woman above you, glaring at something outside your line of vision, you are still in her lap. A bit of Aquaman’s blond hair on the bottom of your vision. And Batman, towering over you and the amazon, just observing as always.

— You can release them now, Green Lantern. — It's Superman's voice.

— He is not going to. — You see Batman saying at the same time another voice speaks the same sentence, making all of them turn in the direction of the sound, somewhere you can't see, but you recognize the voice. — He thinks they're weak and incapable of making decisions. — I'm sorry, who is weak and incapable of making decisions here? — He also wants to prove he is the only one capable of protecting and taking care of (Y/N), and impress them so they will fall right into his arms, call him a hero and give him a kiss… And other obscene things. — Batman smirks. Wonder Woman and another new and deep voice loudly laugh, the masculine voice being more obnoxious. Someone scoffs indignantly.

— Okay. Get out of my fucking head or I will make you. — The Lantern's voice sounds angry and you hear hurried footsteps. They wouldn't fight right here, right?! Right beside your sick body and in the middle of your crumpled apartament… It would make such a mess…

— I wasn't inside your head. Your thoughts were too loud, it's like you are screaming in my ear.

— I will make you scream! — You hear Superman superspeeding, probably getting in between the fighting duo.

— Ha- Green Lantern, calm down. No one will make anyone do anything here.

The agonizing feeling of restriction grows.

— WHAT IS HAPPENING HERE? — You scream in a husky voice, panting right after. Everyone is silent and the next second, the construct moves you around until you're sitting up, back to the back of the couch. You are still being held and manhandled, but at least you're not in someone's lap and you can see something other than your ceiling.

Martian Manhunter is standing a few meters away from you, Superman by his side. Wonder Woman was still sitting beside you and doesn't look like getting up any time soon, Green Lantern makes his way to sit down on your other side, placing his arm around you, gladly you can't even feel it. Batman is still standing on the side of the couch, his cape covering his body. Aquaman is sitting in your armchair, his face laid on his hand, watching amused, if not a bit annoyed.

It's so weird seeing all of them, suited up, in the middle of your living room, and in plain daylight.

— We came here to nurse you back to health. — Wonder Woman speaks.

— Uhh, don't you think this is a little too much? — The heroes look at each other as if looking for the issue.

— I mean, yeah. I could do it alone, but for some reason when I got here, these freaks had already broken into your house. — Freak Lantern says, pointing an accusing finger at the other freaks in question, the trinity, Batman, Superman and Wonder Woman. — Those two came in later. — He nodded at Martian Manhunter and Aquaman, not giving them a single look, his eyes solely on you. Like everytime he insists on overly making eye contact with you, it's a bit uncanny. — Worry not, beautiful. I will kick them out for you. — Superman and Wonder Woman snort at his arrogance.

— You could go with them. I'm fine, I don't need help. I’ve been taking care of myself for years and can still do it. — You've been nice long enough, they crossed the line, they invaded your apartment, which is so unprofessional, and you need to set limits. They just look at you with pity.

— I am are aware of my neglect. — Neglect? — But it's going to be different now that we are reunited… — Uh? What is Manhunter talking about?

— Exactly. History has proven how men are unreliable and indifferent to others. I'm the only one you need, darling. — Wonder Woman caresses your face. — I don't even know what they think they are doing here…

— What are you doing here, princess? Don't you have mommy issues to fix or a guy named Steve Trevor to talk to? — The amazon furrowed her eyebrows and glared at the one sitting on your other side.

— Don't listen to him, (Y/N). I left Steve a long time ago, when I met you. — Girl, why? Go back to your man! Leave me alone! — What about Aquaman? Doesn't he have a kingdom to rule? — The man in question dismissed her answer with a hand movement.

— I’m protecting Atlantis’s future by making sure none of you get any ideas and (Y/N) survives their illness. — Batman shook his head.

— I’ve already made sure they're taken care of. You shouldn't be here. There's more important matters for us out there.

— Then why aren't you there?

Their battle of egos is just too fast for your slowed down brain to process and try to formulate any form of strategy. Before their banter gets worse, the older man from before reappears.

— Your soup is ready, Miss/Master/Mx (Y/N). — Penny-One seems unbothered by the commotion around you, walking in with the source of the heavenly smell. Your mouth waters.

— Let me do it, Penny-One. — Wonder Woman gently offers and takes the bowl from him, along with the spoon. The Justice League makes sounds of disgust when they start watching her spoon feeding you (they wanted to be in her place).

You groan, complain, try to wiggle out of the construct but nothing works, especially with your fatigued and sick state. If you weren't claustrophobic before you might be from now on. You are clearly uncomfortable and practically begging to get out but for some reason they just won't listen. It gets to the point where as soon as you finish your soup — after realizing, again, that with those people it's just easier to surrender —, and take your medicine, Green Lantern’s temper apparently gets done with your whining and resistance, and he simply makes another construct. Now you have a pacifier in your mouth. It's your limit.

They start fighting again because some of them find it degrading, some like to hear your voice even if they know how close to cussing them out you are, and some think it's cute and prefer your quietness over your cries.

You can't move. You can't spit it out. You can't bite it off. You can't ask for help.

Green Lantern is rubbing your cheek while — slightly — mocking you. Wonder Woman is cooing at you, while trying to convince the Lantern to stop with his antics. Aquaman is clearly expressing he is on the Lantern’s side. Batman, Superman and Martian Manhunter are threatening him.

Frustration gets the better of you and the dam breaks loose. Now you are wrapped, with a pacifier and crying. Like a baby. In front of your bosses. In front of people who think you are vulnerable and need them. They're practically keeping you hostage. You didn't want them here. You told them no, countless times, and they just blatantly ignored your boundaries.

You have a pa-ci-fi-er. In. Your. Mouth.

And they are talking. They are ignoring you. They're been doing it for hours. No. Months. That's abuse.

This is the most emotion they ever got out of you and it immediately quiets everyone down. They're just staring at you, shocked. This whole thing is just a shitshow. A disaster. They're a curse. You are cursed.

It's so distracting that it makes Green Lantern lose his concentration, which is what fuels his ring’s power, and the constructs start dissipating.

You immediately get up and put as much distance between you and the team, who all have wide eyes and maybe had just now realized the gravity of the situation, while thinking about control damage.

You are searching desperately for how you could effectively kick them out, while also experiencing just the aftereffects of a new trauma, when it looks like it will get even worse. Flash zooms into the apartment.

— Hey, (Y/N)! Sorry I took so long! Busy Day. N-Not that I wouldn't quit anything and everything just to help you. I just now saw the notification that you took a day off today! W-What… W-What are you guys doing here…? — The speedster noticed after his rambles the he is not the only one in the middle of your living room, and points at the whole team, who is on the complete opposite side of you. They also point at him.

— You’re late. — Batman states.

— Slowest man alive. — Green Lantern calls out his friend.

Flash looks around as if gathering his thoughts and notices your distressed state. He turns completely to them, his back to you and him being between you and his team.

— What did you do to them? — At his demand, all of them start pointing at each other and giving some sort of explanation or their side of the story at the same time, turning it into unintelligible sounds, until your yell interrupts them.

— GET. OUT!

— But-

— OUT!

— But, (Y/N)-

— NOW! GET OUT NOW!

They grumble but comply. Penny-One, who was totally unfazed during the while ordeal, just sighs, and starts making his way with them. Until you take a timid step toward him and stop him.

— N-Not you… I-I mean the soup was really good and I don't think I will have the energy to cook later… I-If it's n-not bothering you… — The older man smiles placantinly at you.

— Of course, dear. I'm getting paid either way, might as well just finish my job here.

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Taglist:

@wandalfnation

[athenalvss]

Hey, you know, the young justice show, right? I was wondering if you can make one with like hot bombshell batmom and she visits dick at young justice league's base and like Wally and all the rest of the guys, start flirting on her.

YOUR MOM IS SUCH A MIL- ( batmom )

Summary: You didn't want to attract attention, you just wanted to spend a few minutes with your oldest son.

batmom!reader, Dick grayson

open request - dick grayson masterlist

There weren't many occasions when you went to visit Dick, the boy still lived in the mansion but perhaps spent a few weeks away busy, since the young Justice was created, and Bruce decided that his protégé was ready to work as a team, the weeks began to feel longer.

So once or twice, when your schedule wasn't jam packed with charity events, Wayne Enterprises meetings, or nights spent patrolling with Bruce, you'd indulged yourself in a quick trip to Mount Justice. Sometimes just to see him for five minutes, to leave him a gift, or other times, like today, with a small, foilwrapped box filled with those coconut cookies Alfred taught you how to make.

What you didn't expect was to cause a little chaos in the group of teenagers as soon as you set foot inside the place.

"Isn't that Mrs. Wayne? Look at her shoes, Z!" you heard someone whisper.

"It can't be his mother, she's not old enough," said another.

"Maybe the league sent her to show us something, I'd like it to be her locker room."

You turned with a friendly smile, letting your dark glasses slide down the end of your nose. "Hey girls, how are you? I'm looking for Robin."

M'gann's eyes widened, dropping the rag she'd been wiping the table with. She'd seen you several times in the magazines she'd bought about the world of entertainment, or on television when there were galas and all the cameras were waiting for Mr. and Mrs. Wayne to arrive. You were definitely more imposing in person. Zatanna giggled nervously. Her friend's mom? She was truly dazzling, and Artemis simply crossed her arms, sizing you up and down with a raised eyebrow, trying to hide her surprise at your arrival.

"I knew it was you!" Zatanna exclaimed, delighted. "Wow... Mrs. Wayne, it's a pleasure."

“And a sight,” Artemis muttered under her breath.

Behind you, a burst of speed announced the arrival of Wally, his hair tousled and his expression ecstatic. "I knew it was your perfume" he said breathlessly, stopping right in front of you. "How are you, Mrs. Wayne?"

You smiled at him with the same warmth you used years ago to serve him hot chocolate in the mansion's kitchen. "Oh, Wally boy, I'm doing great. Thanks for asking. How have you been?"

Wally smiled like he'd won the lottery. "Better now, definitely better now that I see her."

Dick arrived just in time to stop the conversation before it escalated, as always. His gaze flicked from you to Wally and back to you, visibly irritated… and blushing. "Flirting with my mom again? Go away."

Wally threw up his hands as if he were innocent of it all. "Hey! I'm not flirting, I'm being cordial, polite, im appreciating your mom, bro"

"Take your words back, she doesn't want you to like her," Dick muttered, crossing his arms. "Do you realize she's my mom? You son of a b-"

"Boys..." you interrupted, your voice soft, but enough to silence both of them immediately. You walked over to Dick and gently smoothed back a strand of his unruly hair. "Don't fight with your friend over me. I came to visit you, and it's too early for a jealous scene."

"I'm not jealous!" he said, almost indignantly.

"Okay, enough with the drama," Wally came up from the side, his expression pleading. "Can I get a pity cookie?"

"I don't know... Are you going to keep staring and saying things to my mother?" Dick snapped.

"Only the truth."

"Then no."

M'gann appeared at the side of the table, smiling curiously. "What are the cookies made of?"

"It only have coconut and love," you replied, opening the box and showing the perfectly arranged cookies.

Zatanna came over too, intrigued. “Wow. Did you make these?”

"Some of them are mine. Others… Alfred, obviously the best ones are Alfred's."

Wally sniffed from a distance. “Is that… coconut with white chocolate chips?”

Dick squeezed the lid of the box tightly. "Don't even think about it.

"You're cruel," Wally replied, turning to you with an expression that sought mercy. "Could I at least touch the box?"

"Do you want to have both hands?

Wally paused for a second, assessing the threat and still, he reached out. "It's worth the risk."

Dick growled. "Don't touch the box."

But it was too late. You had taken a cookie and offered it to him yourself.

Wally grabbed it like it was an Olympic trophy. "I promise that... well, I don't really promise anything," he said, and brought it to his mouth before Dick could swat it away.

Dick sank into the armchair with a dramatic sigh. "Can we go back to the part where my mom came to visit me and not steal the show?"

"What's your mom's fault she's pretty?" Conner asked before popping a cookie into his mouth, completely ignoring Dick's glare.

That was the last time you visited Mount Justice at Dick's request. He truly loved you, but he preferred you not to go there. From then on, you'd see him at the mansion. Or he'd come looking for you after a mission, but you never returned to the Mount.

But never say never, even though it wasn't common for you to visit the new facilities. In fact, you hadn't done so since your son asked you to years ago.

But this time it was different. It was necessary for you to go there since your husband had asked you to carry classified information and couldn't leave the computer, so you were the only person trustworthy enough available to carry the sensitive file.

Although your clothes were more sober than before, you were still yourself. You liked comfortable clothes that didn't look like you were at home, something elegant that allowed you to feel confident. But even though you made a great effort with your appearance, the common room fell silent as soon as you entered.

"Who... is that?" Bart whispered, stopping mid-comment about video games.

"Oh, Nightwing and Robin's mom"M'gann approached to look at the situation."Hello Mrs. Wayne!"

"Wow, is that their mom?" Jaime asked, his eyes wide.

You just smiled, politely and distantly. Greeting the team was quick, efficient, maternal, yet professional. You handed the sealed envelope to Kaldur, and when you saw Dick appear in the hallway, you gave him the same gentle smile as always.

"I didn't know you were coming," he said to you in a low voice as he approached.

"Bruce didn't have many options available to him," you replied. "So here I am."

"Yes, it shows, Mom."

You spent a few minutes talking with him. Not much. Just enough to catch up. You asked him if he was eating well, if he was sleeping at least five hours, if he was talking to Alfred more often. He pretended to be bothered by the questions, but he didn't take his eyes off you; he had a pending visit at the mansion.

When it was time to leave, you walked back toward the Zeta Tube without rushing. Dick accompanied you for a few meters.

"Thanks for coming," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "I know you don't like being in the middle of all this."

"I don't mind," you said. "I just don't want to inconvenience you."

Dick smiled faintly. "You don't. At least the rest didn't show up."

You stroked his face with your fingers, just like when he was ten. "You have a good team, and you're doing a good job."

Dick blushed, as if he hadn't expected to hear that from you. He looked down and nodded. "I'll call you tomorrow" he promised.

"I hope so." And you were gone, the sound of the Zeta Tube filling the room for a second, and then, nothing. Silence.

Just at that moment, the side door opened.

Wally and Conner entered, carrying bags of food and chatting animatedly. They both stopped when they saw the blue light trail from the portal dissipate.

"Who left?" Conner asked, putting the food on the table.

"Was it... a visitor?" Wally raised his eyebrows, turning to face the group. "Don't tell me your mother finally came!"

Jaime nodded, trying not to laugh. "Three seconds ago. He was here."

Conner turned to Dick. “Was that your mom? She looks… prettier than last time.”

Dick glared at him. “Conner…”

But it was too late.

"Yeah, dude. Your mom's such a milf" Wally said cheerfully, as if he'd just made the most harmless comment in the world.

Dick froze for a second, until he exploded. "WHAT DID YOU SAY!?"

"THAT'S A COMPLIMENT!" Wally shouted, backing away.

"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!" Dick launched himself after him without a second thought.

Wally was already running, but he was laughing. "Say it with pride, bro!"

The shouting moved away through the corridors at an absurd speed.

Conner looked at the rest of the group. "I just said she looked pretty."

Tim sighed. “Can we just agree that no one else talks about our Mother? Thanks.”

“Still… your mom is gorgeous,” Cassie murmured with a smile.

And from the hallway, an angry voice shouted, “DON’T CALL MY MOTHER A MILF!”

[l0s3rd0wnt0wn]

Wait wait what would the batfamily or Bruce when he finally realised what he pr team did

Trying frame little reader for being a spoilt brat

Would Alfred confront Bruce or let it go?

It would be your mom who would confront Bruce about what the PR team did. I'm pretty sure she would walk all the way up to Wayne Manor, across a flight of stairs and in high-heeled pumps, and slam his office door open just to cuss him out. Yeah, there's no escape from this one; he obviously fires his PR team after that. And what's your mom yelling at them for, as long as she needs to? But the type of comment she leaves Bruce with before she leaves, quite honestly, changes his thoughts: "What kind of man are you, Bruce Wayne? How can you call yourself a father when you let your PR team bash your own child? Half of the internet calls you a spoiled brat. What kind of dad is it to ignore you every single time you come to him, to say 'later, darling' or another time? What type of man is he? You try so hard to get back into his arms, to get him to trust you, to get him to like you, to get him to see you with those bright, sparkly eyes like you're the moon and stars, to have you praise him like he's the only one in the world. But now it's too late. All that praise, all that love, all that adoration is going straight to Oliver, and he just can't handle it. His own rival taking the heart of his only biological daughter. You're calling for Ollie when you have nightmares. What happened to calling for Bruce or for Batman? He won't even hold your hand when it's time to cross the street. He knows that you're a big girl, but it's a habit that he's used to. The cold got the memories now stinging his fingers, the ones that used to grip for dear life crossing the sidewalk. At every gala and every socialite event, you're at Oliver's side. You tell him almost everything; you even told him about your elementary school graduation. How come you didn't tell Bruce? You told the rest of the bats; you even told Alfred, but you didn't tell him. You've started to slip away from him even more over some stupid dance. It's just not fair.

[bizbat]

Thinkin abt . . .

When they're obsessed with eye contact . . .

~ Smut

🕸️Spiderverse Masterlist🕸️

🦇Batman Masterlist🦇

🐼JJK Masterlist🐼

Guess who's back you guys . . . It's me :(

The Ones Who Can't Help but Stare . . .

He tries not to, really, he does. But he can't help it!! They way your pussy is crying out around him, squeezing his thick length as he thrusts so, so, so deep inside you. His eyes can't help but dart back and forth between your face and the pretty space between your legs. He's got you on your back, your legs spread wide, or maybe thrown over his shoulders as he fucks you from above in the most perverted missionary you've ever seen.

All he knows is that it's hot and wet. Your faces, your bodies, the room itself-fuck-it's just hot and wet. He's breathing heavily, eyebrows pinched as he tries so hard to make you feel as good as he does, his hips stuttering as he fucks the both of you into overstimulation.

Just because you're clawing at his back, screaming out his name, and gushing down his thighs, doesn't mean you feel good in his mind. He's so unsure and willing to please that he convinces himself he won't stop until he knows you're not faking, the poor baby :(

You'll just have to keep looking him in his strained, teary, eyes, convincing him with your own dazed out gaze that "yes, baby-fuck!" you feel good. His eyes keep bouncing back and forth, torn between his two favorite girls: you, and your pussy. He'll just have to wipe away your tears with his thumb, cupping your face in his clammy hands while constantly guaranteeing your pleasure is just as great as his.

-"Fuck, baby-is that good?"

-"There? Is that where you need it?"

-"Please, baby-fuck-please take it, take it, take it!"

~ Peter B. Parker, Peter Parker, Choso Kamo, Yuta Okkotsu, Yuuji Itadori, Ino Takuma

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The Ones Who Can't Take Their Eyes Off You . . .

So pretty. So, so pretty. They think you're the most gorgeous thing on the fucking planet. Every part of your body is covered in a thin sheen of glossy sweat, your skin absolutely glowing in the low light of your bedroom, or living room, or kitchen, or wherever they decided to take you.

The way you cling to him so tightly, like you don't want them to pull away-even an inch-it's driving them insane. You keep shouting his name, his cock/strap driving a cute lil bulge into your tummy, but all they can do is stare at your face.

Has your skin always been this soft? Have you always been this wet and warm? Have you always tasted this sweet? Fuck, they don't know, but they're taking everything in now.

It's almost more perverted, the way they smile sweetly at you while they drive their hips into your, the way they kiss your drool stained cheeks as you soak their thighs, the way they give you the gentlest, most loving praises, whisper them into your ear, all while brushing against your g-spot with Every. Single. Thrust.

Your eyes can't even meet theirs, rolled back into your skull, but it doesn't stop them from acting like you're all there, like you even have the capacity to kiss them back.

-"There you go, sweet girl, nice and deep. You got it."

-"I was waiting all day for this. God, you feel so fucking good."

-"There she is, that's it baby. Fuck, one more? I know you can take it."

~ Cassandra Cain, Dick Grayson, Satoru Gojo, Tim Drake, Peter Parker

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The Ones That Don't Let You Look Away . . .

Maybe there's a mirror in front of you, maybe he's gripping your hair and forcing your head to look where he wants you to, either way, he's got full control over where your bleary eyes land their gaze.

His thrusts, deep and powerful, are almost punishing. They don't have to be fast to turn your brain into pink goo, they just have to hit those special, specific spots. He doesn't need your cute gasps and moans to to tell him where they are, but they're appreciated-don't let his palm covering your mouth or holding you down by the throat fool you.

Even when he's got a handful of your hair, he thinks you're utterly gorgeous, which is why he makes you watch. After all, with how addictive your ass bouncing against his hips? The way your tits bounce with every powerful thrust?

That beauty is meant t be shared, and he's nothing if not a giving lover.

He'll spit on your sweet, messy cunt, spread your legs as wide as they can, and hold your head up by the hair so you can watch his thick cock sink into your folds again, and again, and again. Your back may be in a painful curve, your eyes may be filling with tears, but fuckkk he feels delicious, and you can't pull your eyes away.

He's mean. He's so, so mean, but you can tell with every resounding smack of skin on skin that he reallllllyyyy loves you.

-"Fuck, pretty, takin' me so well . . ."

-"Look. I said fucking look, baby."

-"Huh? Did you say it's too deep? Shut up, I know you can take it, whore."

~ Toji Fushiguro, Jason Todd, Bruce Wayne on occasion, Kento Nanami on occasion

─ ⊹ ⊱ ☆ ⊰ ⊹ ─

The Ones Who Like to Watch . . .

Give him a break! He works hard to keep your hair and nails all nice and did! He spends too much time wasting his already limited energy on people too stupid to even exist. By the time he gets home to your warm embrace he's exhausted.

Which is why he lets you lead him t that chair, or press his back to the headboard, and straddle his lap. It's why he lets you wrap those pretty lips around him, just enough to get him sufficiently wet. It why he rests his hands on your hips while you bounce up and down on his fat, fat cock.

He knows it's a stretch, and trust you me, if he wasn't as dead tired as he is, he'd flip you over and stretch you out properly with his fingers and tongue. But where is stands, he's just happy to let you take control of both of your pleasure.

He occasionally thrusts his hips up if he wants to see your tits bounce a little harder, or your ass bounce faster if you're riding him reverse cowgirl, but besides that, he just stares up at you with love. Fuck, you are too cute, with your eyes rolled back and your mouth agape.

Even when your legs start burning and you feel his hands tighten on your hips, ready to take over, you put your hands on his shoulders, shake your head, and force your hips down harder, riding him so deeply you can feel him in your tummy.

Of course, never being one to make his pretty girl hurt when she doesn't want to, he does end up taking over, fucking up into you with a tenderness that can only be brought out of him after a painfully long day.

-"You feel so good, my love."

-"Can you keep going? Tell me if it gets too hard, baby."

-"F-fuck. Just like that, pretty. Just like th-hat."

~ Bruce Wayne, Kento Nanami, Shiu Kong, Hiromi Higuruma, Miguel O'Hara, Spider-Noir, Sugaru Geto

[kristinthegeek]

Stop why was I literally tearing up when no one came

𝓕𝓪𝓶𝓲𝓵𝔂 𝓝𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 - 𝓑𝓻𝓾𝓬𝓮 𝓦𝓪𝔂𝓷𝓮

A family night shouldn't be so hard to happen, right? At least it was what you believed. You were dating Bruce for six months, and still, his kids were avoiding you in the manor. Till one night when Bruce needed to go on patrol, and Dick saw you all alone in the living room, looking... sad.

warnings: kinda angst with a fluffy ending, Bruce having a lot of ex-girlfriends, insecurity.

pairing: Bruce Wayne x Batmom! Reader

W.C: 1.016

⭐️ Their ages are not right, okay? I just wanted the "batkids" to be... well, kids, then they are teens/kids, Dick being the oldest and Damian the youngest.

I had this idea randomly, and I didn't plan something too deep.

“But it's Friday night.” You said, quietly, when Bruce started to wear his Batman suit. 

“I know, sweetheart, but it's urgent” He kissed your cheek in a featherly touch, caressing your skin right after. “I promise, you won't even miss me.”

“But…"

“I promise everything will be okay. Alfred is reading a book in his bedroom, but you can call him if you need help, and the kids are in their rooms.”

“Today was supposed to be a family night!” The plea in your voice wasn't subtle, and Bruce knew why.

You were trying to win his kids over since the first month you two began to date. You tried, a lot, actually. You went to the school presentations, helped doing homework, made cookies and even tried to buy gifts.

Three months ago, you made a plan. Every Friday night should be a Family Night, and you would make popcorn and everyone would sit on the couch together to watch a funny movie, maybe you could even play some jigsaw puzzle or board games with them.

First Friday? No one appeared.

Second one? No one as well.

The third.

Fourth.

Fifth…

Just Bruce kept you company during all those nights where you made five bowls of popcorn and waited for them to appear.

And today you wouldn't have him apparently.

“I am really sorry, love.” A gentle squeeze on your arm was the last thing he gave you before he headed to the door, passing by it and disappearing.

You sighed, looking at the window, seeing soft raindrops tapping against the glass. Even the weather was mocking you.

The clock was the only audible sound in that damn manor. You walked all the way towards the kitchen, knocking on the kids' doors to ask if they would watch a movie with you.

Dick was practicing gymnastics.

Jason was reading.

Tim and Duke were doing homework.

Cass didn't answer.

Stephanie said she was busy.

Damian just huffed.

Alone, as always.

You didn't want to bother Alfred, then headed to the kitchen. Maybe you could still make some popcorn and watch something, right? Maybe the board games that you bought months ago could be useful even with just one person. Maybe if you made some popcorn, they would still appear.

Maybe…

“Dad said that you don't need to wait for him.” The childish voice startled you, but your eyes softened when you saw Dick, still wearing gym clothes, behind you.

“Thanks, Dick…” You tried to smile, a soft action that made him smile as well. 

He looked at the counter, three bowls filled with popcorn just waiting there.

“Will you… eat everything?” He looked surprised, curious even, as his gaze switched from the popcorn to you.

“No, I just…” You sighed, again, looking at him. “Am I a bad mom?” 

Dick widened his eyes. “What?”

“I mean… I am trying, I am really trying, Dick. But I don't feel like I am enough here.” You said out loud what your mind was saying to yourself these last days. That you aren't enough.

And you would never be.

“Forget it.” You turned your back to him, reaching to grab some popcorn. “I will just watch something till I fall asleep.” You mumbled, grabbing the bowls.

But Dick frowned slightly, seeing you so depressed.

***

“She is not even our mom.” Dick pinched Damian's cheek when the words came out from the little boy's mouth. “Ouch! But it is true!”

“Honestly, Dick, Dad had enough girlfriends for a lifetime.” Jason rolled his eyes, looking at his oldest brother. “Who will guarantee that she's not like the others? Maybe in two weeks she won't be here anymore.”

“What if you're wrong?” Dick asked. “What if now she is the definitive mom that we will have?"

“What if she is not?” Tim sighed, looking discouraged. “You can't promise me this.”

Everyone was silent after this, looking at each other. Stephanie hugged her own small legs, the blonde hair falling over her shoulders.

“The last mom just wanted money…”

“And the one before called us a nuisance.” Cass added, quietly, leaning her head on Steph's shoulder.

Damian looked away, almost looking sad.

“But she is not a bad person” Duke muttered, looking at his own hands, playing with his own fingers.

Dick made a surprised sound, walking next to Duke. “Say it again?”

The younger looked up, nervous. “She is not a bad person. She went to my science fair last month.”

“Exactly!” Dick looked around, his voice louder than before. “Remember how many times she tried to make us happy!”

“She bought me new headphones.” Cass whispered.

“She took me to the movie theater.” Tim did as well.

“She helped me with homework.” Jason said, closing his book.

“Remember every time when she was good to us” Dick said, now looking at Damian. “We could, at least, give her a chance to prove herself.” 

The boy sighed, nodding. “Whatever. What do you want? That we go to the living room to have a Family Night with her?” 

***

The TV was showing a random movie that you chose some minutes ago, but it was already forgotten once you were now in the kitchen, eating popcorn alone and scrolling through your cell phone.

That was, until you heard a loud sound of something falling on the ground. 

You stood up and walked to the living room, looking for the source of the sound when you saw seven kids sitting on the cushions, wearing cute pajamas and holding pillows and blankets.

You froze, confused and impressed, but a warm feeling on your chest almost made you cry when Dick questioned, smiling big: “What movie are we going to watch?” 

“I want action!” Jason announced, raising his hand.

“Romance!” Stephanie continued.

“Mystery!” Tim rambled.

“What about comedy?” You commented, almost shy when all the eyes were on you, and for a moment you thought they were going to leave you alone again. But everyone nodded and looked at you again.

It was the first time that you didn't feel alone.

And you hoped it wasn't the last.

[to-the-stars8]

The Waynes' Nanny

Batfamily and Reader/Bruce Wayne x Reader Chapters Ao3

Tied Together

Bruce was attempting to fix his tie in the foyer mirror, but wasn’t getting very far. Alfred had shown him how to do it the night before, but, between six kids screaming for his attention and you being there, he hadn’t quite absorbed everything. Luckily, Alfred had been resting that night, so, at the very least, he didn’t need to suffer under his butler’s scrutinizing gaze. 

Just as Bruce was thinking about abandoning the tie altogether, you entered the foyer nervously, biting your bottom lip. He turned away from the mirror toward you, hands still resting on the ends of the tie around his neck. 

“Something wrong, Nan?” He asked, voice echoing a little in the room. 

You caught sight of yourself in the mirror as you inched closer and straightened your posture a little. When you faced him, you looked relaxed. “No. Nothing’s wrong. I just came to tell you that the kids are all in bed, save for Dickie. He’s a little persistent on staying up most of the night—it’s almost like he can’t sleep. That, I think, needs a doctor's visit. Just thought I’d say.”

Bruce faced the mirror again, attempting once more to tie his tie. He could feel your eyes studying his face, looking for him to give away something. “I’ll talk to him about it. He’s a teenager, though, it’s common for them to want to stay up late.” 

“He’s still growing,” you pointed out. “He needs to sleep.”

“Hm,” Bruce grunted, still struggling.

You rocked on your feet a little, watching his reflection in the mirror before looking down at your feet. It was quiet, just the soft echo of the shuffling fabric as Bruce continued to fail. He wondered if there was something more you wanted to say, and couldn’t bring himself to bridge that gap. So, Bruce waited, taking a little longer to give up on his tie in case you spoke. 

After a minute, you stepped forward and pushed his hands away. You tutted, beginning to help. 

Bruce swallowed as his hands fell to his sides. He couldn’t decide where to focus: your face, hands, and lips were all perfect places. It didn’t matter, though, as you gave the fabric a good tug, catching his attention as he was pulled a little forward. 

“Watch and you might learn,” you said, voice firm. 

The way your fingers moved against the fabric felt like a subtle seduction. They slid against the silk in precise, smooth motions— ooping and pulling. At one point, your fingers brushed against the side of his neck, and he caught a whiff of something clean or floral. It smelled wonderful. 

Grabbing your wrist, Bruce pulled it towards his nose. “What kind of perfume is that?” Before you could answer, he added almost like an afterthought. “The woman I’m seeing might like it.”

You smiled, looking pleasantly surprised. “Oh! Are you seeing Julie again?”

Bruce nodded, absentmindedly rubbing his thumb along the inside of your wrist before letting go. He had mentioned Julie Madison once or twice when he happened upon you and Alfred’s on your coffee breaks. Much to his surprise, they had been going pretty steady for the past few weeks. 

“I am,” Bruce said, trying to hold back a smirk. “I hadn’t expected to like her as much as I do. You two might actually get along—You’re similar, in a way.”

You tightened the tie before you drew your hands towards yourself, finally letting your eyes look him up and down. It was shameless the way you did it, like you could find a secret just as easily as he could—It made him feel a little naked. 

After a second, you asked, “Should I start practicing my ‘Mrs. Wayne’?” He could see the teasing glint in your eyes and a coy smile on your pretty lips. 

“You’re putting the cart before the horse, and the horse isn’t even out of the stable yet,” Bruce muttered. 

You reached over to button his suit together, fingers working quickly. “It’s always good to plan ahead, or so I’ve been told by a very bossy someone.” Your eyes met his, and Bruce knew he was the very bossy someone.

If you were any other woman, he’d politely set a distance, but you were you. Nan, the woman who loved his children, who openly called him a fool when needed, and the one who somehow managed to flirt—and flirt well— without realizing it. He’d come to be so used to your casual touches, whether it was a simple buttoning of his jacket or smoothing out the cowlick in his hair. At first, he assumed it was out of habit, due to the kids, but had started to suspect it was just your quiet way of showing love. He envied you in that way—to be able to love so quietly and freely. No matter if it was romantic or platonic. 

“See, if you button it, then the suit forms to your body better,” you pointed out as you stepped back. You smiled at your handiwork, nodding silently. When your eyes settled onto his tie, your little grin faltered a bit. “You should have picked a blue tie. That red is tacky.” 

Bruce subconsciously ran his hand over the red tie, now wishing he’d picked the blue. “Really? I thought it went well with the grey.” 

You shook your head and crossed your arms, looking ready to stand on business. “Sure, but blue matches your eyes.” 

“Next time, then,” he stated, turning on his heel. After a second, he turned back. “You never told me the perfume name.” 

You opened your mouth and closed it, eyes widening just a little. A blush had crossed your face as you sheepishly looked down. 

“Oh, uh, I don’t know. It was a magazine perfume sample.”

The laugh that tumbled from Bruce’s lips was so quick and sudden that it left him momentarily wondering who had been laughing. You began to laugh along at the silliness of it, because, of course, it was a sample. You loved the magazine samples in Cassie's Teen Vogue; it was half the reason why Bruce continued the subscription, even though Cassandra had long grown bored with it. 

Grabbing his coat from the closet nearby, he shrugged it onto his shoulders. You still stood by the mirror, glancing between your reflection and him. 

Turning around finally, you softly said, “Have a good night, Bruce.”

Bruce adjusted his coat and nodded at you. “Thank you. Good night, Nan.”

Just as he stepped out into the cool Gotham evening air, Bruce adjusted his tie again, and, like life was playing a cruel joke on him, he still could smell your perfume lingering on his fingertips. 

He forced himself to shove his hand into his pocket as he descended the stairs of the manor, lest he be caught trying to hold on to traces of your perfume.

[prettypasteibunny]

Love at first sight with Bruce Wayne x reader.

The most common story Bruce tells people about how you met is one about shared glances at a gala, graceful footsteps, a gentle dance and a date scheduled the next day. However this didn’t happen, Bruce wishes it did, wishes he saw how wonderful you could have been when you first met. But he didn’t.

Instead it was a long drawn out story, a shared class in a private boarding school, but no interaction until you caught the attention of one of his friends, he got to know you through the many meet ups you were invited to and you become good friends. Nothing more until Bruce suddenly started to show his affection for you. 13 years after you had first met. So yes, the famous Wayne romance wasn’t a quick few days, it was actually years of obvious pining for a man so emotionally constipated it’s a shock he functioned.

This meant that you would never expect Bruce to be able to show love very quickly, if he couldn’t show it to his best friend turned wife why would he show it to anyone else? That was until he had his first daughter with you. He stood in the master bedroom where you had chosen to give birth holding the small wrinkly human in his arms, her frail body larger looking due to the swaddle. Her eyebrows are crusty from blood and placenta but she’s still the most perfect thing in his eyes. His darling daughter, the mix of himself and the woman he loves most. He sits next to you on the bed in order to not trip when tears blur his vision. His hands, made and trained for violence hold the bundle of innocence gently as he leans into you. The first time Bruce fell in love immediately.

[neellscapsule]

the perks of time

summary | a night spent together in silence changes everything between bruce and you; from then on, there's no turning back.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, bruce being a sugar daddy ? not actually but he's totally the type to try to win you with gifts. there's a bit of sadness around because bruce is depressed inside. THEY KISS 

word count | 6.2k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past. this can be read as part 3.

taglist |  @maolen @joonunivrs @c4ssi4-luv @fanfics4ever @inejskywalker @radenxd @resting-confused-face @fionnalopez @stargirl9911 @idek101-01 @shqyou @mei-simp @serendippingdots @sirlovel @aixaaingela @pjmgojo

THE NEW YEAR CAME GENTLY TO THE KENT FARM.

It wasn’t loud or wild. But there were fireworks. No grand countdown parties. Just a quiet, perfect evening.

Clark cooked dinner, insisting he had perfected the recipe for pot roast (he hadn’t), and Ma made her famous four-cheese cornbread. Pa sat by the fire, poking the logs and drinking cider, humming a Johnny Cash song under his breath. The snow outside muffled everything else. No wind. No trains. Just the slow creak of the old house settling under another year.

At eleven-fifty-five, Clark pulled out a small radio, fiddling with the dials until he caught the New York countdown broadcast. You spent most of the night in thick wool socks and a sweater that Clark had outgrown and then handed down to you ten years ago. The sleeves still covered your hands, your back pressed against the couch, the blanket Ma made you wrapped around your shoulders. You and Clark counted together—off by a second or two, laughing when you realized.

Then came the clink of cider glasses. A kiss to your forehead from Ma. A bear hug from Pa.

Clark swept you up into a spin that had your socks sliding on the wood floor.

“Happy New Year, little sis,” he whispered against your hair.

“Happy New Year, Clark,” you said, laughing.

The old farmhouse clock chimed twelve. The stars glittered above the snowy sky. Kara joined the family a bit after, hugging you just as strong as your brother had. While you and her had no actual family link, you still considered her a cousin, and you knew she did as well.

So, no, you couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Except you did, when the phone rang.

It was late. Clark and Kara had gone out for a flight, Ma and Pa were already tucked in. You sat on the front porch in a coat, your breath visible in the cold, your phone warm in your hand.

When the screen lit up again—Mr. Wayne—your heart squeezed.

You answered immediately.

“Hi,” you whispered.

He didn’t speak at first.

But when he did, his voice was quieter than ever.

“Happy New Year.”

You smiled so softly it felt like your face might melt with the warmth of it.

“Happy New Year, Bruce.”

A pause.

“I wasn’t going to call,” he admitted.

You looked up at the stars. “I’m glad you did.”

Your smile twisted, fond.

“You drunk again?”

“Mm,” he murmured. “Probably.”

“What did you drink this time?”

“Something expensive,” he said. “Didn’t check the label.”

You laughed softly. “That sounds like you.”

He didn’t argue.

Another long silence. You could almost hear the ice clink in his glass. The way his voice dragged low and slow, a little too heavy, just like before.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“Porch swing,” you said. “Back at the farm.”

“Cold?”

“A little.”

“You don't have a blanket?”

“Yeah, Ma’s. It’s blue. Well, is not actually hers. She made it for me.”

Another pause. You let your voice fill the silence, telling him about the pot roast, the way Pa fell asleep halfway through the countdown, the way Clark had gotten cider in his sock, how much pie had Kara ate. You told him about how the snow had glittered that morning, how you’d stayed in your pajamas all day.

You talked about your hopes. About turning twenty-two. About how you wanted to try painting again. About how you might look into night classes, maybe something with writing.

“I think,” you said, playing with a loose thread, “I want to do more things that make me feel like myself.”

You didn’t hear him speak again. But you heard him breathe.

And then you knew.

He’d fallen asleep with the phone still in his hand. Your voice still in his ear.

You stayed on the phone anyway. It was easier now, somehow. Letting him rest while you carried the quiet.

You only hung up once his breathing slowed and steadied again, the sound of it like a heartbeat through your phone.

You whispered, “Goodnight,” to a man who wouldn’t hear it.

And then let yourself fall asleep.

January moved like a quiet fog.

You came back to Gotham the second week of the month, your cheeks still pink from the Kansas wind. Your apartment was exactly as you left it—neat, small, slightly cold—and everything in the city had a thin coat of gray slush. Life fell back into rhythm: you unpacked, did laundry, bought groceries, dusted your bookshelves, and fell asleep early.

Bruce didn’t call right away. But on Thursday, your phone buzzed just after 2 a.m.

You didn’t hesitate.

He didn’t say much. You knew the rhythm now. These calls weren’t for long talks—they were for breathing. For silence. For your voice.

You told him about a short story you’d started writing. About how you missed the stars in Gotham. About how your upstairs neighbor seemed to be bowling at 1 a.m. every night.

He didn’t say more than six words. But he listened.

On Saturday, he called again. Same time. Same quiet. Same half-drunk hush in his voice.

You were curled up on the couch, blanket around your knees, and this time, you read to him. A chapter from the book Ma had given you for Christmas. You didn’t know if he liked it, but he didn’t hang up, so you kept talking.

You knew he’d only call after being out there. After being Batman.

Like his mask didn’t quite hold when your voice was there. Like something softened. Like he could come down from the rooftop and be something else. Something human again.

The third Monday of January, your alarm went off at 6:15 sharp.

It was your first official day back at the office.

You dressed in one of your favorite work outfits—something soft and practical, flattering but warm. You pinned your badge to your coat, grabbed your scarf, and made your way down the apartment stairs with a reusable coffee cup in one hand and your purse in the other.

You paused in the foyer.

Blinking.

There was a cab outside.

No—a car. Sleek, black, not a limo. Something newer, smaller, louder. Not a model you recognized—but definitely the kind of car that only a billionaire would think of as “just a ride.”. The kind you only saw in glossy magazines and early 2000s science fiction movies.

Your brow furrowed.

Before you could step outside, the door opened—and a woman beamed at you from the driver’s side.

“Miss Kent?”

You blinked. “Yes?”

She clapped her gloved hands together. “Ah, lovely! I was worried I might’ve gotten the wrong building. This is for you!”

You blinked again.

“I—what is this?”

She moved around and opened the passenger-side door for you with a proud little flourish.

“I’m Rita! Your driver.”

“My—what?”

“Mr. Wayne sent me.”

Your mouth opened. Then shut. Then opened again.

“He what?”

“He didn’t tell you?” she asked, blinking with absolute innocence. Her accent was soft and lilting, Portuguese with a lilt of Lisbon pride. “He said it was all arranged. I’m to take you wherever you need. Day or night. Office, home, grocery if you like. Rain, snow, sunshine.”

You gawked.

She smiled wider, eyes crinkling.

“I used to drive for Mr. Fox,” she said with a warm, confident shrug. “But there has been a . . . change, and Mr. Wayne said he had someone special who needed my help now.”

You blinked. “Special?”

She leaned in conspiratorially. “That’s not what he said exactly, but I can read between the lines.”

You flushed immediately.

She laughed. “Climb in, querida. It’s cold.”

You obeyed mostly because your hands were too numb to argue and you had no better options. She shut the door behind you gently and got into the driver’s seat with the elegance of someone who knew the car better than she knew her own apartment.

Inside, the seats were warm. The cup holders glowed faintly. Everything smelled faintly of cedarwood and leather.

“So,” she said, steering smoothly into traffic, “are you ready for your day?”

“I guess I am,” you replied, still half-stunned.

She gave you a look in the mirror. “You work directly for Mr. Wayne, yes?”

“Yes,” you said. “His executive assistant.”

“Then you must be very good at your job.”

“I try,” you murmured, feeling warmth rise to your cheeks again.

“Well,” she said, nodding sagely, “I will tell you what I told Mr. Fox: when you ride with me, you are safe. I will not let traffic touch you.”

You smiled despite yourself. “That’s very kind.”

“It is professional,” she said with mock offense. “And also kind, yes. And I like you already.”

“You’ve known me five minutes.”

“Five minutes is all I need. I am excellent at character reading.”

You laughed.

By the time you reached the Wayne Enterprises building, your cheeks hurt from smiling. Rita pulled to the side entrance like a queen delivering royalty, opened the door with a bow, and handed you your coffee cup like it was made of gold.

“You have a good first day back, Miss Kent.”

You stared at the building’s towering windows for a beat longer than necessary. Then, you took a breath and you stepped inside.

The doors to Wayne Enterprises hissed open like always—smooth, polished, air-conditioned—and for a moment, the world inside seemed to blink at you like a sleepy beast waking from hibernation.

The lobby was warm, gleaming in morning light, polished marble floors humming under the heels of countless Gotham elite. There was a quiet thrum of familiarity in the air—of keyboard clacks, hushed conversations, the soft trill of phones and printers and the occasional bark of urgency through a walkie-talkie.

You smiled at Eloise first.

She waved from her post at the main desk, where she was already fielding two calls and typing with nails the color of candy canes. “You’re back! Happy New Year, sweetheart. You look fresh out of a Hallmark postcard.”

You laughed. “Don’t let Clark hear you say that.”

She beamed. “He came by some weeks ago, didn’t he? That tall boy could light up the building with that smile.”

You grinned, eyes fond. “That’s him. My brother.”

Eloise smiled sweetly. “Let me know if you want any coffee later—I found a new creamer that tastes like heaven.”

You nodded your thanks and kept walking.

You passed Luis, the janitor, humming along to some Sinatra classic while buffing the floors. You waved, and he waved back, giving you the same crooked grin he always had since your second week on the job. Then a passing intern who gave you a shy smile.

Everything was the same.

Until it wasn’t.

You turned the final hallway leading toward Bruce’s office—familiar steps, muscle memory—and stopped in your tracks.

Your desk was gone.

The space directly outside his office door—your usual spot, nestled beside the potted plant that only half-thrived under the industrial lighting—was empty. Not messy. Not moved aside for cleaning. Simply… gone. Vanished. The carpet beneath was perfectly untouched, like you’d never been there at all.

You blinked, heart fluttering in your chest.

“…Huh.”

Before you could even make a decision—turn around, find someone, maybe crawl under a decorative table—his office door opened.

Bruce stood in the threshold, jacket off, shirt crisp, sleeves rolled, eyes cutting toward the glass hallway wall. He looked up once, probably out of reflex.

Then he saw you. And saw you again.

He didn’t smile. Not really. But something in his expression softened.

He tilted his head toward his office. “Miss Kent,” he said, quiet and even. “Come in.”

You stepped forward, caught off guard by the gentle lilt in your name, the way it didn’t sound like a command—more like an invitation.

You entered slowly, heart still kicking unevenly behind your ribs. The door clicked softly behind you. He didn’t seem surprised to see you, just observant. He leaned one hip against his desk, arms crossed.

“I thought I’d be more nervous,” you blurted. “About seeing you face-to-face again.”

His brows lifted, curious. “And are you?”

You considered it. “Not… exactly. I think I’m just—processing. A lot.”

He didn’t push. He didn’t ask what “a lot” meant. Just let it float there, between you.

And then that ache curled up your spine again, like an old memory pressing in. You looked at him—really looked at him—and he wasn’t cold today. Not distant. Not closed off. Just quiet. Calm. Softer than Gotham ever allowed him to be.

Your voice returned, smaller now. “Um. I couldn’t help but notice… my desk.”

He nodded once. “I moved it.”

“I noticed that.”

“You couldn’t find it?”

“No,” you said, trying not to sound sheepish. “I… sort of thought maybe you replaced me for a second.”

He looked at you, deadpan. “And then what? I let the replacement waltz back in?”

You laughed nervously, brushing your knuckles down your coat sleeve.

He stood straighter then, stepping around the desk until he was at your side—not too close, but close enough for you to smell faint cologne and something else you couldn’t name. Metal, maybe. Cold air. Him.

“I thought,” he said, voice measured, “that I can’t very well keep my own secretary in the hallway. Especially not when the receptionist has more privacy.”

You blinked. “Sir—”

“I wanted you to have your own space,” he added. “Somewhere you can work. Breathe. Not get bothered every time someone walks through the floor.”

Your throat bobbed.

“…That’s… kind. I… didn’t mind,” you replied carefully.

“I did,” he said without pause, meeting your gaze for a long moment, something unreadable in his face.

Then he gestured with his hand. “Come on. I’ll show you.”

You followed without another word, the two of you walking silently down the hallway, his steps a slow guide in front of yours. He opened a door diagonally across from his—discreet, tucked away beside the corner conference room. It had always been locked. Always closed. Always marked Reserved.

But now—

Now, when he opened it, light spilled across the most stunning office space you’d ever seen.

It wasn’t just an office. It was yours.

You froze in the doorway.

It wasn’t massive—not the corner penthouse with windows to heaven—but it was yours. Completely, irrevocably yours.

The cherry wood desk glowed warmly beneath soft overhead lights. L-shaped, clean, elegant. The two monitors were huge—far bigger than your laptop, already synced to your usual workspace judging by the light hum of the desktop wallpaper. A thick black leather chair sat behind it, sleek and soft-looking, already reclined just slightly like it had been waiting for you.

The floor was layered with a thick, dove-colored rug that curled neatly under your desk and swirled into the sitting corner with two soft chairs. The bookshelf along the wall was already stocked with some familiar binders, a few volumes you recognized from home—someone must have carried them from your last space.

There were plants. Real ones.

A tiny pothos in a hanging pot, a fern nestled by the window. A pale gold lamp with a dimmer sat in the corner of the desk, beside a crystal paperweight you’d mentioned liking once during a department tour months ago.

And beside the desk, under the screen, sat your favorite mug, filled with pens.

You didn’t say anything. You just… stood and blinked. Once. Twice. Then again. Your breath caught in your throat.

He was watching you. Quietly. Like he couldn’t quite tell if he’d miscalculated.

“I wasn’t sure about the rug,” he said, low. “But they told me it matched the walls.”

You turned to him slowly. Your voice came out too high, and you cringed inside. “You did this?”

“Someone had to approve the requisition forms,” he said dryly.

You blinked again.

He looked toward the corner of the office. “The light’s adjustable. You can change the temperature if it gets too cold. I’ve already rerouted your calls to the phone system here. And I had IT install the dual screens yesterday.”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.

“…Why?” you finally breathed, barely above a whisper.

He looked at you. And for once—once—he let it show. Not much. Not everything. But enough. Enough for you to see something warm, something regretful, flicker behind his eyes.

“Because you deserve a place here,” he said quietly. “Not a chair in the hall.”

You stared at him.

And then—

You laughed. Half gasp, half laugh, half breathless kind of noise that bubbled up before you could stop it. Your smile broke through like sunlight, wide and open and real.

“Oh my god, Bruce,” you said, laughing again, almost bouncing where you stood. “I thought I lost my desk, not that I—oh my god.”

You turned in a small circle, eyes wide, hugging your coffee to your chest.

“Are you serious right now? This is mine?”

He nodded, one hand in his pocket now, brow lifted like he wasn’t sure why you were so surprised.

“Thank you,” you said, blinking fast. “Thank you. Thank you—this is—this is so nice, I don’t even have words.”

“You’re welcome.”

You took two steps forward, half-tempted to hug him, then stopped yourself, fidgeting instead with your sleeves.

“I mean it. This is—this is my first office. Like… ever. Properly. And you—it’s so nice, and the—” You touched the chair. “This is a recliner. You bought me a reclining desk chair. Who does that?”

He said nothing.

Your eyes shone. “You do, apparently.”

“I wanted you to be comfortable,” he said softly. “You deserve a space. Not a hallway.”

You shook your head, lips wobbling with a smile.

“This is more than a space, Bruce.”

He didn’t answer, at least not out loud. Just looked at you like maybe he understood. Like maybe this, too, was a kind of apology. A gesture for everything he couldn’t say.

You beamed at him suddenly, walking around the desk to sit in the chair, spinning once.

“I don’t know what kind of spell you’re under,” you said lightly, “but please don’t snap out of it.”

His mouth lifted just slightly. “Noted.”

“And this is my printer now?”

“Yes.”

“And this isn’t one of those things where you’re going to fire me next week because I sat in the expensive chair too long?”

“No.”

“Okay, but like—hypothetically—if I fall asleep here one night, are you going to call security or…?”

“I’ll leave a blanket.”

You stared.

He didn’t smile, but you saw it in his eyes.

You laughed, and something burst open in your chest.

Because in this moment, you didn’t feel like a girl from Smallville playing secretary to a billionaire with a secret.

You felt seen.

And somehow, that mattered more than anything

Rita greeted you every morning like the sunrise.

Bright smile. Coffee in hand. Her curls pulled back beneath a neat scarf that changed colors every few days—today it was plum. Tomorrow, who knew. You’d grown used to the sound of her humming from the driver’s seat as she opened the car door for you, always five minutes early, always excited to hear about your evening like you’d been apart for years.

“Did the cat come back?” “She did.” “Did she steal your tuna again?” “She did.” “Villainous.”

The drive always passed quickly, filled with conversation about whatever book she was reading, whichever telenovela her sister was addicted to, or the old record player she was trying to fix. Sometimes, you brought her coffee too. Sometimes, you just watched the city flicker by, warm and safe in the leather seat with a paper cup in your hands, cheeks pressed to the cool window.

And then there was the building. Your office.

Your name—engraved on the door in polished gold letters: Y/N Kent. Executive Assistant. Right beneath the Wayne Enterprises crest.

Every time you saw it, your heart squeezed a little.

The office itself had become a soft haven, filled slowly with your own touches—a small crocheted blanket over the back of your chair, a framed photo of Ma and Pa by the bookshelves, a little ceramic pig you kept tucked behind the phone. The two monitors you used were brilliant and fast; the light in the room was warm; the seat adjusted perfectly to your back.

Bruce’s office was right across the hall.

And sometimes, you could feel his eyes drift toward your door. Just a second or two. A glance through the glass. You never mentioned it.

You didn’t need to.

The phone calls didn’t stop when you returned to Gotham. If anything, they deepened.

Sometimes they came just after 10 p.m., when your skin was still warm from a shower and your tea was still steeping. Other times, they came at 2 or 3 in the morning—soft vibrations against your pillow that didn’t startle you anymore. You didn’t even say hello most nights.

You just answered.

You talked. He listened.

You spoke about Clark and Smallville and your mother’s new obsession with lavender candles. About a dream you had where the moon fell into the barn. About books you wanted to read, places you wanted to see. Your voice was quieter at night. Softer. More intimate.

Sometimes, Bruce would say a word or two. A hum. A gentle “Mm.” Sometimes, he just breathed.

Sometimes, you swore you heard his breath steadying because of yours.

You’d wake up in the morning to a call that had ended sometime while you were asleep—your phone still warm under your hand.

You never questioned why he called, and he never explained.

But each time your name came out of his mouth, low and soft and a little too slow, it felt like something real. Something only yours.

There was something comforting about it—how routine it became. How safe.

You’d been working late—later than usual. The building was dimmer than it should’ve been, quiet in that oddly still way that Gotham got after dark. You’d just returned from the break room with a second cup of tea when you noticed the box resting on your desk.

Not just any box—a branded one. Thick cardboard, the kind that came from upscale boutiques you only knew by reputation. The name embossed in silver. A thick satin bow stretched across it.

You paused at the door, balancing your coffee and files, staring at the package like it might grow teeth.

You didn’t open it right away.

Your office was silent except for the low hum of your desktop computer and the faint ticking of your vintage desk clock. The late afternoon light was muted and gold, slipping through the tinted windows in warm waves.

You set your cup down. Your fingers brushed the edge of the lid.

Inside—carefully folded, almost reverently arranged—was a dress.

Not just any dress.

This was silk, champagne-colored with a whisper of shimmer, delicate cap sleeves and a soft neckline. It looked like something you’d seen in old movies, the kind that made your throat close when the heroine entered the ballroom and the orchestra swelled. The kind of dress you didn’t just wear—you became something else in.

Your breath hitched.

You lifted it carefully, cradling it like it might disintegrate. The fabric was cool against your hands, light as air.

It was beautiful. Too beautiful.

You blinked hard and whispered, mostly to yourself, “What the hell is this doing here?”

“You like it?”

You jumped, your heart lurching.

You spun around, clutching the fabric, only to find Bruce leaning against the doorframe, hands in his trouser pockets, watching you with unreadable eyes.

“Sorry,” he said, though he didn’t sound like it. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

You stared at him. “What is this?”

“The dress.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

He tilted his head slightly. “Do you like it?”

“I—” You hesitated. “Yes. I mean—it’s stunning. It’s… I didn’t know they made clothes like this outside of Vogue covers.”

He nodded once. “Good. I asked them to send over a few options. That one seemed right.”

You held it against you, blinking. “Right for what?”

“For you.”

You stared.

“If it doesn’t fit,” he added, “or if the color isn’t to your liking, they’ll send another.”

You opened your mouth. “You bought this?”

“I did.”

“…For me?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just looked at you.

Then finally—his voice even, as if it was the simplest thing in the world—he said, “Yes, for you. For the gala.”

Your stomach flipped.

You blinked again. “The… gala?”

He nodded. “Next Friday.”

“I know. I mean, I helped organize it, yes, but—I wasn’t planning on going.” You looked away. “I figured I’d just coordinate things from here.”

“Y/N,” he said.

You hesitated. When you looked back, he had stepped into the room. Not close. Not intimidating. Just… there.

He glanced down at the dress still in your arms, then back at you. And then he said, “I want you to go.”

You stopped breathing for a second. The room felt too quiet. Your heart too loud.

“You… want me to go.”

“With me,” he clarified.

Your lips parted.

He stepped to your side, slow, deliberate, until his arm brushed yours. He didn’t touch you beyond that. Didn’t crowd. Just stood close enough that you felt the warmth of him, the quiet tension under his tailored sleeves.

You looked up at him.

“I—Bruce,” you started. “You don’t have to—”

“I know,” he interrupted.

You closed your mouth. He kept his eyes on yours.

“I know I don’t have to,” he said softly. “I want to.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. He leaned forward a little, just enough that his voice dropped, quieter than before.

“You looked beautiful the last time.”

Your cheeks flushed.

“You were the best-dressed person in the room,” he added, “and you didn’t even stay.”

You blinked at him, your throat tightening.

“I want you there,” he said again. “This time… with me.”

You searched his face, tried to look past the polish, past the restraint, but found only honesty there. A touch of something tentative. Like maybe this was the bravest thing he’d said in days.

You looked back at the dress. Your voice was soft. “You think this will fit?”

He smiled faintly. “If it doesn’t, we’ll find another. You deserve something that does.”

You turned toward him again.

“Bruce…”

His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. But he didn’t move. He didn’t need to. Because in that moment—in the quiet glow of your office, surrounded by screens and spreadsheets and three years of not being seen—you felt like he was trying.

In his way.

You clutched the dress tighter, your voice trembling a little.

“I guess I’ll need shoes, too.”

“I’ll have a few pairs sent up tomorrow.”

“Bruce.”

“I mean it,” he said. “You’re going with me. Not as staff. Not as an assistant.”

Your breath caught.

“But as…?” you prompted.

His eyes held yours.

“As you.”

Your apartment smelled faintly of perfume and warmed curling iron, the radio playing something festive and jazzy in the background while you stood in front of the mirror, smoothing your hands down the front of the dress.

Silk. Champagne-colored. It shimmered even in the dim bedroom light, clinging in all the right places and floating like a second skin in all the rest. The delicate cap sleeves framed your shoulders; the neckline, smooth, barely skimmed the tops of your collarbones. There was a whisper of shimmer when you moved—just enough to feel like stardust.

You look… ethereal.

You also feel like you’re about to faint.

Rita was already downstairs in the car.

You’d expected to walk down the steps and see her grinning at you through the rearview mirror, maybe give a cheer when you stepped outside all dolled up.

You hadn’t expected him.

Bruce Wayne, in the flesh, waiting on the sidewalk.

Not just waiting, either.

He was standing near the rear of the car, half in shadow, his posture long and elegant, one hand in his coat pocket and the other straightening the cuff of his suit.

And what a suit it was.

Tailored black with a subtle sheen under the streetlamps, cut perfectly to his frame, the fabric smooth and crisp. A simple black tie. Clean lines. Understated power.

You froze halfway down the steps. You weren’t sure if it was the cold air or the way your heart gave a traitorous thud, but you stood there for a second, breath misting in the air, your fingers twitching against the silk at your waist.

Bruce turned at the sound of your heels. And his eyes—those sharp, unreadable, endlessly quiet eyes—met yours and didn’t move.

You stood up a little straighter. Tugged the skirt gently to settle it, and descended the last few steps like it was a scene from a movie.

His gaze didn’t drift once. He stepped closer just as you reached the last stair. “You look…”

He trailed off.

You tilted your head. “I look…?”

He gave the smallest breath of a smile. “Worthy of making people forget what they came for.”

You flushed from the collar down.

Rita grinned from the front seat, watching discreetly in the mirror.

Bruce opened the door for you himself. The way he helps you into the car, the way he closes the door after you, the way he settles in beside you and breathes in like he’s grounding himself — all of it makes your heart flutter somewhere behind your ribs.

You don’t speak for the first few minutes. Then you glance at him. He’s already looking at you.

You smile. “Nervous?”

He tilts his head. “I thought I was supposed to be asking you that.”

“I organized most of it,” you say lightly. “I know what to expect.”

“Do you?”

You shrug. “Overdressed socialites, bored billionaires, empty praise, passive-aggressive conversations, a charity auction no one actually cares about, and enough champagne to drown a horse.”

He chuckles. It’s low. Warm. Real.

And your heart stumbles.

The gala was held at the Gotham Grand Conservatory—glass ceilings, marble floors, the kind of floral arrangements that looked like they'd cost a year’s rent. You know the wallpaper, the guest list, the table designs.

The whole city’s elite was there. Quite the few photographers as well, and their flashes eat you alive.

Bruce had kept a hand on the small of your back as you entered, steady and grounding. His fingers never gripped too tightly, but the warmth of him lingered long after they dropped away.

People stared. They always stared at Bruce. That was nothing new. But tonight, their gazes followed you too. And when they realized you weren’t just staff… that Bruce Wayne had entered with you on his arm…

The whispers started.

You did your best to focus on your breathing. On the strings playing in the background. On not tripping over the heels.

“Stay with me,” Bruce murmured as you paused beside a decorative fountain, feigning interest in the sculptures.

You looked up. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“I mean it,” he said, a bit lower. “You don’t have to deal with them alone.”

You blinked at him, heart squeezing in that quiet, aching way again.

The room sparkled with chandeliers, dresses, and diamond-cut masks of thin politeness. And you were right in the center of it. Beside him.

For the first hour, it felt manageable. A glass of champagne helped. A few polite greetings came your way. Some people even smiled warmly. You talked logistics with someone from public relations and made a joke about charity tables with one of the Wayne Foundation board members.

And then—it happened.

You turned a corner in the lounge and met a trio of women dressed in varying shades of couture and condescension.

“Oh,” one of them said, eyes flicking from your shoes to your earrings. “You’re the assistant.”

The tone made the word secretary sound like a slur.

You straightened. “Executive assistant.”

“Of course,” another murmured, swirling her drink. “And now the executive escort, it seems.”

Your chest tightened.

“I mean, really,” the third added, lips barely curved, “I suppose Bruce always had a taste for… the provincial. The occasional poor girl with alluring eyes.”

Your jaw twitched. “Excuse me?”

The first one smiled, teeth sharp. “It’s just—how quaint. A girl from Smallville, was it?”

You were halfway through gathering a response when you felt him behind you. Not touching—but close enough that his shadow swallowed the smugness off their faces.

Bruce’s voice was low, slow, and deathly polite. “Do you speak to all women this way, or just the ones who intimidate you?”

They froze.

He took one small step forward.

“I’ve heard better manners from men begging for mercy.”

Silence.

“Miss Kent,” he said, looking at you gently, “would you like to walk with me?”

You nodded, throat tight. He offered his arm, and you took it.

And the way he looked back at the women as you walked away? It was the closest thing Gotham’s elite had ever seen to a warning.

You exhale, still frozen. Bruce doesn’t move.

Then, quietly, you murmur, “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

You glance up at him. “You know how they are.”

He shrugs. “They know how I am.”

You let out a small laugh. “That might’ve been the nicest thing anyone’s ever done for me in this dress. Or ever, actually.”

His gaze slides down to you again.

“I was right,” he says softly. “It fits you perfectly.”

You go quiet, but your chest burns, your cheeks grow flushed. Then, because the moment is growing too hot, too big, you say, “Do you want to step out for some air?”

You found a balcony tucked away behind a side hallway, past ivy-wrapped columns and the hum of the ballroom. The city spills out in front of you in gold and slate and whispers. The moon is tucked behind clouds. The lights below look like a galaxy trapped in glass.

You lean your palms on the carved stone railing, letting the chill wake up your skin, your thoughts. The silence is pleasant. Comfortable. The party inside buzzes with laughter and clinking glasses, but out here, it's just the two of you and the way your heartbeat won't settle.

Bruce stands beside you, a tall shadow, broad-shouldered in his tailored black suit, the cut sharp, the lines soft in the moonlight. His tie is a little loose now. His collar slightly undone. But his posture remains precise, shoulders pulled back like he was carved from tension.

You glance over at him. His profile is striking in the dim light—classic, solemn, but there’s a gentleness in his expression, a softness that doesn’t match the reputation the tabloids gave him.

He’s watching the skyline. You’re watching him.

You speak first. “Are you always this good at rescuing damsels from elitist wolves in designer gowns?”

His mouth lifts into a subtle smirk. “Only when they’re wearing champagne silk and stealing the room.”

You huff a laugh and glance down, smoothing your hand across your skirt. “That woman’s going to wake up bitter for the rest of the month.”

“She already was,” he says dryly. “You just gave her something new to be bitter about.”

You lift your eyebrows. “And what’s that?”

He turns his head toward you, slow, deliberate.

“That I’m here with you.”

Your breath catches. You look at him. Really look.

There’s no teasing in his voice. No public mask. He’s not Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s golden boy billionaire. He’s not Batman, either.

He’s just Bruce. Quiet. Clear-eyed. Looking at you like you’re the first moment of peace he’s had in a long, long time.

You swallow softly. “You didn’t have to say anything. Back there, I mean.”

“I did.”

You glance away. “I’m used to people making assumptions. Talking. It’s fine.”

“It’s not.”

You go quiet.

His voice drops a little. “You shouldn’t have to feel small just because they don’t know how to handle someone who shines.”

You laugh, but it’s breathy, nervous. “You’ve been practicing these lines?”

“No.”

You turn your face toward him again, cheeks warming in the cold. “Then where are they coming from?”

His jaw shifts. His eyes are darker now. Intent.

“They’ve been sitting in my throat,” he says. “For a while.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“I didn’t know how to say them before. Or if I should.”

You whisper, “Why now?”

He doesn’t look away. “Because you deserve to know.”

Your heart drums against your ribs like a bird trying to break out of a cage.

Your voice wobbles a little. “Know what?”

“That I see you,” he says. His voice is low. “That I’ve been seeing you.”

You search his face for something you can hold onto—doubt, confusion, uncertainty—but there’s nothing. Only sincerity. Only the quiet ache of a man who doesn’t know how to wear his heart out loud but is doing it anyway.

You look down, lips parting. “Bruce…”

“I asked you to come tonight because I couldn’t stand the idea of looking around that room and not seeing you.”

Your breath leaves you.

You open your mouth, but he keeps going, his gaze pinned to yours like it’s the only thing keeping him from vanishing.

“You’re the only person in that building who doesn’t treat me like a shadow or a myth,” he says. “You talk to me like I’m a person. You make me laugh when I forget how. You…” His voice catches. “You see me.”

He exhales, almost like he regrets speaking—but he doesn’t look away.

“You’ve been with me through every impossible hour. Every late night. Every moment where I didn’t even know how to ask for help, and there you were. With coffee. With your kindness. With your voice.”

His voice falters, but he steps closer. Just enough for the distance between you to feel like it’s melting.

“And when I was bleeding on your couch, when I was barely upright, you didn’t ask questions. You didn’t scream or run or freeze. You took care of me.”

Your eyes meet his. And the world tilts.

You feel his hand brush your arm, then lower, steady and warm as it curls around your waist. Gentle. Questioning. Not demanding anything.

You don’t pull away.

Your hands come to rest lightly on the lapels of his coat, heart in your throat, body humming with anticipation.

“Is this okay?” he murmurs.

You nod. “More than okay.”

He hesitates for only a second longer, eyes flicking between yours, and then he leans in.

The kiss is nothing like what you imagined.

It’s better.

It’s not fast, not urgent. It’s soft. Patient. Reverent. Like he’s been waiting a long time to learn the shape of your mouth. Like he’s afraid of breaking the moment if he breathes too hard.

His lips brush against yours with quiet certainty, and everything inside you tilts forward—your hands tightening in his jacket, your body leaning into his like it’s instinct, like you’ve always belonged there.

When he pulls back, barely an inch, your noses touch. His breath fans your cheek.

Neither of you speaks.

Then—

“I’ve wanted to do that for a few months,” he confesses, voice barely a rasp.

Your eyes flutter open, lashes brushing your cheeks. “You could’ve.”

“I didn’t think I deserved to.”

You blink. “But you still tried.”

He smiles. The smallest thing. But real.

“I’ll keep trying,” he says. “If you’ll let me.”

You lean your forehead against his, eyes closing. “I’d like that.”

And for the first time in months, maybe years, Bruce Wayne breathes like a man who doesn’t have to pretend.

[j0ngh08]

why most of the batfam writers simply disappear, leaving no trace and giving up the best fic ive ever read 😭😭😭😭