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ellesthots · 2 days ago

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Fateful Beginnings

XLVIII. “Bliss”

read on AO3 🦇

parts: previous / next

plot: everyone knows about you and Bruce… except you, and Bruce—though this, among other things, heats up.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, angst, giggling kicking feet

words: 14.2k

a/n: hiiiiiii this is the longest chapter yet!! Luminol, my beloved, you’ve been upstaged (just a lil bit). this was a (fun) beast to write, and thought it needed to be allll one chapter. have fun, lovelies!! also… I definitely didn’t stay up all night finishing this with an ear infection bc I love them and y’all <3 lmaooo

The first half of the meeting went by without a hitch; you figured you’d be snubbed more by the press, but it was quite the opposite—faces that had pinned to the back of your thoughts by the shove of their cold shoulder faced you with smiles and handshakes. Some even pretended they hadn’t seen you before, and if you were of sound mind, you might’ve challenged their niceties. Oz had grabbed you by the neck and rattled your confidence to the bone.

Why had Bruce known that comment would set him off, and why had it in the first place? Making a comment at Bruce’s expense, the resident billionaire, didn’t make sense for Oz having the bad reaction. Was it based in something traditional, like a distaste for women talking back? Embarrassing their man? Obsessing over it only worked you in circles, teeth tearing at your cheek as you struggled to pay Mr. Convoy any mind.

The budget looked no different than last year’s, though this was in spite of the population actually growing for the first time in a decade. You had no reserves to call out the discrepancy, to stick your neck out for the little guy, too busy worrying about yours getting severed. Every thought was a downward spiral from Oz’s glass in the trash to Bruce’s supposed imagination, making your head spin whenever you lingered there. It was the only thing that pulled you out of your anxious reverie.

Notions of a universe where Bruce pictured you in the same frame capsized everything you thought you knew about boundaries and guilt. That single taste of him made you want him more, and more, and more, on an endless loop. And, shit, if you didn’t bite back a tremble reminiscing on how his lips felt on your neck…

Convoy’s voice was grating, at least against the velvet memory of your lips. He knew why you’d done it; if it had been Oz coming in, it would’ve been suspicious to just be talking. Two lovebirds finding the closest private room to make out was smart, quick thinking. Hopefully you thought he was trying to sell it, too; hopefully, you weren’t reading into that imagine, but if roles were reversed, he wouldn’t have a single deviating thought.

Concentrating on the meeting wasn’t an option. Your skin… it was soft, supple and warm beneath his lips, an absolute dream. He absently traced his lips with his tongue, biting down when he felt himself begin to breathe deeper, harder, faster. Fake or not, it was enough to undo every knot he’d so carefully tied. Bruce gripped his thighs under the table.

“Mr. Wayne.”

He blinked to the meeting’s intermission. “Seth.” A gnarly purple bruise glared at him from his temple.

“Watch out.” Gavenstein pointed to his forehead, face deadset. “See what that bitch d—”

Bruce stood from his chair with a loud scrape, shoving it back into place. “Lucky she didn’t do worse.” He didn’t concern himself with awaiting a reaction, the man’s string of words dulling as he turned to notice you were no longer in the conference room, and nothing else mattered but finding you.

His breath caught when Oz walked up to you from the front doors, and it took supreme restraint not to sprint across the foyer at lightning speed. It was like slipping a hand into glove when Bruce finally wrapped an arm around your waist. It hadn’t been subtle, and surely, Oz would read it as possessive. He didn’t much care.

“Oz.” He monitored his expression, keeping it neutral to pleasant. Penguin glanced between him and you, wearing a laugh and a brutalized leather jacket; it hadn’t looked that wrinkled at entry. If he didn’t know any better—and how could innocent Bruce Wayne?—he would’ve wrung his neck and checked him for blood splatters. He tightened his abdomen as he fought not to hold his breath.

“Thought I’d leave over some shit wine?”

Yes. “Surprised not to see you in there.” Bruce hoped you’d stay quiet, not by any fault of your own. One slightly misplaced word, a sideways glance, and you’d be on his hit list. It was too unbearable to think about you being targeted, and what he might do to anyone who hurt you. The flexing of his moral code was almost as disturbing as the black eyes in front of him. He dug his fingers tighter to your waist.

“Had to take care of some business. You know how it gets.” Penguin put his hands in his greedy pockets, Bruce analyzing his every move like prime prey, every sense heightened by your presence; everything too high stakes.

Bruce couldn’t manage to get a word out, only a watery grin and nod. Why’d you have to come to Gotham? And why, god why, had he let you get involved in the research? Though he was grateful to meet you, to hold you, you walked a tightrope every second you remained. You were too precious, your mortality as visible to him as a throbbing carotid.

“Man of few words, huh?” Penguin gestured to you, eyebrow raised, and you tightened against him. You were scared. As you should be with him, as he wished you would’ve understood before getting your hands dirty. He would spiral if he lingered much longer.

“Trust me, I’ve talked to him about it.” He felt you slap his chest, feigning a laugh that was convincing enough, benign enough, but no—nothing was benign enough with Penguin. Probably spinning a narrative in his head about if you’d talked to Bruce about him, signifying that he didn’t want to talk to him in particular, and this was going to snowball, and his throat went dry, tight, and this was excruciating.

What once had been anger had melted into pure fear. Penguin had something valuable now, could tell by how he pulled you into him, by how he pulled into the corner of your waist with his fingers, how he tracked every pull of every ligament in Penguin’s face for danger, any inkling he needed to jump in front of you to deflect a bullet.

“Guy doesn’t need to talk, right? Money does.” He dared nudge your arm, and it felt like a bullet to his chest. He gripped you too tightly already, resisting the impossible urge to pull you closer, tighter, merge your body into his; signal that if Penguin ever touched you, ever even looked at you… his thoughts drew increasingly violent. He glanced at you to melt them away, like sun to snow.

You laughed, and said something he couldn’t track, too invested in how Penguin sized you up with just a glance, eyes squinting and widening, seeming too interested. Oh, this made him absolutely ill. Fuck. You deserved more than he could give you. Staying here, with his beady eyes on you, was the beginning of a death sentence.

You jammed your elbow into his rib, and Bruce attended to the words falling out of Penguin’s mouth, only catching the tail-end. Something about just joking, about never too busy for a Wayne, something about it being an honor. He forced himself to agree, play along, because it would make you safer, only for your safekeeping. Fuck. Fuck! This was visceral, tangible fear, capable of snuffing him out. He barely registered when Oz walked away, except that the air was less suffocating.

“I need to pee.” You pulled him by the wrist down the hallway, and he was so out of it that he really thought you were going to the restroom, and startled when you got close, so close your perfume whacked him, making him dizzy; everything was getting too much, and his hands were clammy, and his lips parted and he wanted to hug you, and hold you, and never let you go, and never see you again.

“So we’re going to the club tomorrow night?”

“We?” He hadn’t known he was agreeing to we, and the only thing filling his thoughts were expletives. “No, I’m going alone.”

“You said we were going together.”

“I didn’t say it.” He ran a shaky hand through his hair.

“But you agreed to it.”

“I didn’t catch that.” He jammed his tongue into his cheek, looking anywhere but at you. He must not have worn his spiral well, because your hands came to his cheeks and straightened him to face you. The mist broke when he met your eyes.

“We’ll be fine, it would be weird if we didn’t go together. It’ll solidify things.”

Convoy called the meeting to resume, and Bruce very nearly took you back home, but acquiesced to Penguin’s pull. He’d think it strange if he disappeared, give him something to read into, a reason to be more suspicious…

He didn’t have to pull you into his chest this time, you went there. Your hand knocked into his pocket, and you jumped at the small, rectangular box. “What’s that?”

“Benadryl.” He muttered, keeping an eye out for where penguins loitered.

“I told you, you shouldn’t have it again.”

He shook his head, responding without thought. “It’s for you. Keep it on me, just in case.”

Bruce was too busy scanning the foyer to notice the way you looked at him. No one had been that thoughtful with you; you’d even forgotten to bring your goddamn epipen back with you after the last visit home. A surge of warmth replaced the chill Oz had left.

His gaze darted frantically across the room, and even a yank at his wrist—not gentle—wasn’t enough to tug him out of his hyperfocus. You grabbed his forearm and led him back around the corner, just out of view, and put your hands on his shoulders. He carried the weight of the world on them.

Ocean blue eyes pored over your face with the weight of a truck. You rubbed his shoulders, down his bicep, all the way to his wrists, repeating the motion until his breathing evened. While his stare wasn’t a shred less frantic, it became increasingly focused, almost pinning you to the wall with its intensity. Mr. Convoy announced the closing of the doors, Bruce took a breath, and you both slipped into the conference room as he pulled the door shut behind you.

Every second of the meeting was pulled teeth, every minute agony. You sat behind him, which was partially ideal with Penguin flush to his shoulder—but that meant Bruce couldn’t see you, either. He tore at his nail beds under the table, something he’d never done before. Scraping nail tips and cuticles distracted him from the intrusive worry that if Penguin looked at him just the right way, like you had, maybe he would deduce the same damn thing, and everything would be gone: forever.

Bruce felt chained at the meeting’s end as he refused his instinct to make a quick getaway. He bid goodbye with a plastic grin and empty words of how thrilled he was to see the lounge, and what time was it again? Got it, great, awesome, excited to see you, and wrapped his arm around your shoulder as his thoughts flew him. Pulling you down the wet stairs past the paparazzi caused a slip, but he caught you, and you smiled, and he laughed, and it was hollow, but also not, and the paps got lots of photos of that, and he let you into the front seat, and you were in the car now, it was okay, but was the car fucked with, had Penguin cut the brakes?

“What was that about a storm?”

His grip clenched around the wheel. Rain spattered the windshield, side streets already struggling to drain the excess water as the car zipped past. “There’s a bad storm that runs through every fall. Expected to hit tomorrow night, forgot about it.”

“How bad does it get?”

He glanced at you before refocusing on the glittering road. Your tentativeness sat like an untrained animal, its gentleness cruel.

“A few days of staying in.”

You tapped his shoulder, then gestured down a random alleyway. Confused, but desperate as ever to please, he followed. Your face was stern as he switched off the car, and his chest thrummed with variations of what you might say, about the kiss, or his imagination, or anything else. But all you said was: “I’m okay.”

He rolled his shoulders back. “I know you are.”

“No, you don’t.”

He slumped back into the seat, his head knocking against the leather headrest. His eyes fluttered shut, deep breaths accompanying the affirmative sound you made from the passenger, somewhere close to ‘I told you so’. “Oz. Freaks me out.”

“Freaks you out?” An edge crept into your voice.

“I don’t want him hurting you.”

“So obsessed with me getting hurt.”

Bruce was almost offended. You said it like it was stupid, dismissed it like it wasn’t the most natural thing in the world; like he wasn’t born to worry about you. You didn’t return his stare, instead watching a raindrop drip down the glass.

Silence stretched the length of the cabin, seeming to inflate with every blink. He startled—a rarity—when you severed it.

“We could go shopping tomorrow.”

He side-eyed you.

“For club outfits. Another outing for people to photograph.”

Bruce couldn’t say he wasn’t interested in doing another activity with you, or that he wasn’t pleased at you taking Penguin more seriously. However, he ping-ponged this interest against the fear of your heightened visibility. Going to meetings together was one thing, but making a habit of public outings elsewhere?

He followed your lead, concentrating his nervous energy into raindrops on the glass. Showing up without you would do more harm than showing up with you; this was simply the best course of action for supporting his and your public personas. His gut cinched at your needing one, but there wasn’t much he could do about that at present; it didn’t help his tension knowing the only time he’d get to act like this with you was when things were public, and fake. Penguin had certainly dampened things, but it was still peaceful having you close.

He nodded at you, and put the car in gear. The remainder of the drive was quiet; it didn’t exactly make you uncomfortable, but you were cued into his anxiety like it was your own body. You knew he didn’t like this arrangement, and wrestled with new guilt about taking him away from his patrols, his research, to do mindless little things in an effort to protect you. Though, you reminded yourself, it was protecting him, too.

Bruce paused before the final turn to his house. Strange that one of the most notable skyscrapers in the city you’d walked past time and time again with Mar was now a ‘house’. “Can you do something for me?”

The hair that’d been swept behind his ear fell into his eyes with his sigh, and your stomach somersaulted. “Stay at my place. Through the storm.”

“Sure.”

He was struck by your resolute acceptance, but he wouldn’t push his luck. If you were finally seeing how risky things were, he wasn’t about to change your tune.

“Can I get some of my stuff, then?”

A pile of chairs stuffed to the side of your apartment door made you cringe as you flicked on the lights, and you hoped he wouldn’t read into it. In your periphery, you noticed him glance over it, and clenched your hands.

“For future reference,” he picked up one of the chairs after shutting the door, pushing it at a certain angle against the doorknob. “This is most effective.”

You nodded and walked to your bedroom, Bruce keeping his list of hypotheses to himself. Nightmares, probably. Hell, he still had them twenty years later. He’d ask you about them soon, but not now. Dresser drawers shifted and closed as he roamed the open plan living-dining, analytical gaze inspecting for sign of intruders. His circling landed him at the freezer, where an opened pint of Ben and Jerry’s sat alone in the corner.

The gentle, cool breeze of it closing locked him to his mind. Sentimental over ice cream? He distracted by looking out the kitchen window. When he took in the skyline—you had a stellar view from here—it was difficult to justify the inevitable time that he would spend talking with you, looking at you, and thinking about you that could be given to the city. You tied him down like an anchor.

“How many days will it last?” You shouted, and the sound of your voice was an immediate balm.

“Sunday evening.”

A selfish smile snuck up on him as he stared at the kitchen tile; true, he wasn’t helping the city, but he was with you. No matter how illogical it was, his feelings remained unshakeable, and refused not to be indulged.

Sweats and baggy tees sat in the bottom of your backpack, slowly being crushed by the toiletries you stuffed on top. You doubled-back to your dresser to find something worth being papped in, but nothing was sufficient. You drew increasingly worried as you faced the reality of one dress, one pair of trousers, and a couple fine-knit sweaters. Maybe that would work, but…

You stopped yourself with a fistful of sweater, bringing yourself back to your body. There was no use starting this cycle; you were okay showing up exactly as you were. You grabbed a sweater, an extra tee and jeans, and avoided the lingerie you meant to throw away—and extra avoided how your mind connected them to the condoms in your nightstand.

You moved to leave the bedroom, but stalled. Really, no? Wasn’t it best practice to have them regardless? What if… you felt a bit dizzied. Surely there was no world where that would occur, and… but… every day you spent with him brought you closer to that fantasy, at least in your thoughts. Locked in over the weekend through a storm would provide ample opportunity, and maybe you’d get cabin fever and he would too, and maybe you both would try it out since you were faking things in public anyway…

Through sheer force of will, you blocked the thought, turned off the light, and stepped into the kitchen, letting Bruce know you were ready to head back out.

You were both stiff and silent as you walked down the hall toward the elevator. Bruce interrupted it once to ask if he could carry your bag, but tightening your hands on the straps was the only thing keeping intrusive thoughts from spilling out, so you refused. The ding! of its arrival exposed a cluster of friends who gasped as they looked behind you. They pressed themselves to the corners of the elevator to make room, their faces varying shades of pink.

Bruce grabbed your hand, softly, every touch from him was like a whisper; almost like he was afraid to touch you. You’d thought you were better than the people who fell all over him, but here you were, fighting goosebumps at a choreographed touch of his fingers. A giggle erupted behind you, but neither you nor Bruce brought attention to it. Your focus was entirely taken by the heat of his skin on yours.

Cameras flashed through the lobby windows, the paparazzi’s shouting echoing coolly off the walls. His grip tightened, nearly too much. They knew where you lived, now. Would they camp out indefinitely? Bruce had done a good job of losing the cars that followed from the meeting, tucking into the parking garage seamlessly, but it was as if he’d posted his location.

He tucked you closer to his chest as you walked, the backpack bumping against his side with each step. Men shouted, fawned for attention, peppered questions you couldn’t quite make out through the glass, though you swore the word ‘scandal’ and ‘relationship’ popped through a handful of times. If it already spread this much throughout Gotham, why hadn’t Dr. Crane mentioned it? Did he not pay attention to that sort of thing?

“Sorry.” Bruce spoke quietly into your ear as you descended the second elevator, and thankfully, the parking garage was empty. You hadn’t realized until he gave your hand a reassuring squeeze that your breathing had become dysregulated, or that spots had entered your vision. He made efficient work of leaving the garage, and you pulled a grin as the doors lifted. Am I smiling too much? Not enough? What are people going to say about this? Intrusive images of your face plastered across tabloids in checkout aisles made you shiver.

Paparazzi didn’t lessen when you arrived at Wayne Tower; hiding in the back had been necessary before. They snapped photos on the sidewalk, waved, yelled, and some even moved so close to the car you jumped, worried that Bruce might accidentally run someone over. When his garage doors slid shut you felt your body deflate. Holy shit. That single interaction had made this whole thing real.

Bruce sensed how much it affected you; you weren’t exactly keeping your nerves hidden. And how could you on your first run-in with these vultures? He unbuckled, hesitating before stepping out. “I…” his head shook, just a little, words failing him. Your eyes cast down and away, and his gut cinched. “I’m sorry.”

You played with your fingernails again and, though he knew how ridiculous it was, he wanted to die. He shifted toward you, caring less how the words came out and more just that they did. “Don’t worry about catering to them.”

Rage tensed his muscles as you gnawed at your lip with your teeth. There wasn’t a damn thing he could do for either of you but stay trapped; the options were to waste his family’s legacy for all the public knew, or be poked, prodded, and analyzed by them until the day he died. “You look fine.”

You shoved your hands into your pockets when a hangnail began to bleed and sting, following his lead to yet another elevator. Bruce pressed for the top floors, and everything became routine. You walked up the stairs first, after saying a drive-by hello to Alfred, found your way to your room, and shut the door behind you.

The room felt bigger and emptier than it had last night. Would he talk to you about that new apartment now that you did find a lead? Would he ask you to move in here? You admired the high ceilings and thought of the echoey halls in the night. Would you want to?

Marble flooring was cool beneath you, the short length of the dress dropping the temperature a few degrees. You peeled it off, kicked your heels across the room, and threw on pajamas. You sat in a huff at the edge of the bed, lost in vague, blurry thoughts, letting emotion wash through you as you rocked back and forth.

Eventually, you rattled yourself out of it by remembering your purpose: you were doing a good thing. For Gotham, and for Bruce. You wiped under your eyes to make sure no wetness remained, and smoothed your fingers over your hair to catch any flyaways that might’ve cropped up from changing. There was a reason you were doing this, and you needed to take advantage of it.

You padded down to the kitchen, finding Bruce and Alfred speaking in hushed tones by the sink. Alfred smiled when you entered, and all conversation ceased. “What’s going on?”

“Wanted to know if you were okay after the ordeal on the way, Miss.” Alfred wrung his hands on a dish towel, a ray of comfort breaking through his evident fretting. Could be the accent.

“I’m okay. Thanks.” You clasped your hands together and followed Bruce as he walked to another elevator. Your head spun.

“If you need anything, let me know. Our house is yours.”

You nodded over your shoulder gratefully, settling in flush to Bruce’s shoulder. He didn’t say a word until it had descended, you’d both stepped out, and he’d logged into his computers. Your stool was still in its place, and you wondered if he’d made any headway on the research since Monday night.

He hadn’t. The monitor opened to the same screen you’d left it on before he clicked away. It only took a short glance to see that something ate at him. He pulled up the camera software and cursed under his breath, making some command and stepping back from the desk. You squinted at the monitor, noting a name you barely recognized as the Times reporter, with his headshot.

Approx. ten minutes remaining.

You felt slow, foggy. Fighting with things to break the silence, you questioned the giant tunnel leading to the basement before broaching the elephant of research, which you hadn’t a clue how to approach.

“Has anyone found you down here?” It was just… open.

He spoke with curious conviction. “People don’t think about what’s underground.”

You drummed your fingers on the edge of the stool, and bit the bullet. “Did you find anything else about Morrison?”

Bruce shook his head, running his fingers through his hair with an air of delicious frustration. Oh, how a movement like that used to set you on edge; now you wanted to soothe it out of him, barely restraining yourself from thinking up ways to.

He ripped off a sticky note and began writing bullet points. You steeled yourself and scooted until you could read it. He glanced at you from the corner of his eye, pausing with his pen above a scrawled M.

Gary Morrison, GU head of journalism. ‘Deceased’, ‘river accident’ in March 2014.

Wife reported she ‘wanted body to rest’

Last seen via cam August 7, 2024

Rimmel building

Clifford Marks, Times interviewer. ‘Retired’. Age 35.

Interviewed Morrison’s wife

‘Retired’ from Times month later

Approx. eight minutes remaining.

“So Morrison was only there? Didn’t come or go from anywhere?”

“Nowhere the cameras caught.” Bruce set his pen down and stuck the note to the side of the monitor. The stool creaked beneath him. “By his stride pattern, he approached from the west. All we have.”

“Can you confirm if he was that victim?”

“Caught on too late.” He leaned over the desk, pinching his nose bridge. This was where the frustration came from.

“So… where do we go from here? If he could be the dead guy, or,” you snapped your fingers, feeling excited. “or maybe he was the killer!”

Bruce cast a blank sort of look your direction. Your shoulders dropped. “Your evidence for that?”

Your eyes narrowed. “And your evidence against it?”

“He never left the building.”

“At least not in a way the cameras recognized him.”

He rolled his eyes, and your stomach curdled. “This isn’t ‘true crime’.”

You pressed on, despite how much that hurt. “Was he that mutilated you couldn’t tell it was him?”

“Look, I’ve got it covered.” He pulled off the note from the monitor and grabbed his pen, fixing his stare pointedly at the screen, which had jumped to one minute left.

“I’m trying.” You cleared your throat when it came out whiny, fiddling with a hole in the side of the seat’s leather. “I want to help.”

He tapped the pen’s tip on the corner of the note, placing small dots at random. “You being here helps.”

“Don’t placate me.”

“I get distracted when you’re a–way.” His pen dropped as his sentence fizzled out. There had been two sightings: one at Arkham a month post-the interview, then the airport that same day.

Two blurry videos loaded from each; Bruce played the Arkham footage first, where Marks was seen shouting, pointing his finger at the security guard who shoved him out. He shouted from the ground, but there was no audio, and there was no way to make out the words on a lipread from such low quality footage.

“Wait,” you squinted, squishing closer. You pointed to the ground by his foot. He rewound the footage, and a shimmer crossed the camera’s lens by his leg.

“A knife.” Bruce scrawled something else on the note, then pulled up another software you’d never seen him use before. GCA. Airport records.

“How the hell do you have access to all this?”

He clicked to another tab, writing something else down.

“What? Tell me what you’re finding.”

“He was headed to LA.” Keystrokes. “Stopped in Denver.”

“And?”

You waited what felt like an hour for him to respond, watching him pull up that camera software, other programs, notate more, moving at such rapid speed you wondered how he even caught what was on the first screen before moving to the next.

“He left the Denver airport, never came back.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Didn’t want to be tracked. Most flights are direct.”

“So we look into Arkham.” You swallowed hard, knowing this would end terribly, but knowing too many signs pointed there to ignore any longer. Maybe you could keep him specifically to that time frame, and he wouldn’t have to find out about things happening now. Namely, you.

“We find out where he went in Denver, and talk to him.”

“For all you know he paid cash for a random car and could be anywhere in the country.”

“It’s a lead.”

“There’s so much shit that points to Arkham.”

“Thought you said I shouldn’t look there yet.” He’d paused his incessant typing and scrolling, eyes dipped to the screen’s bezel.

“I think we won’t get anywhere until we look into it. Too much to avoid now.” If he hated you, at least people would be safer for it. At least you were trying to do something good for him and them, even if he might not see it that way when he got there.

“We need to talk to Marks.”

“Arkham is right here. You said yourself he hasn’t been spotted elsewhere.”

Bruce was well aware why he worked alone, but he became more certain he’d continue with every ‘helpful’ comment by you.

“What, are you going to tap into every security camera in the US and hope it caught the right angle?”

“I’m following the lead.”

“Arkham is also a lead.”

“We don’t even know what to look for there.” His shoulders turned toward each other, feeling squeezed. Anger sat at the tip of his tongue, snide comments creeping along the walls of his skull. “I’m used to doing this alone.”

“I can tell.”

“I’m sorry. I’m getting frustrated.”

He said it so plainly it was almost funny, if you weren’t so insecure about your incompetence. You shifted in your seat as you looked around the basement, noting his giant Batcar jacked up to get serviced, and put a pin in it, wanting to redirect.

“We’re meeting Oz tomorrow. What do we want to look for down there?”

His brow furrowed. “We’re going there to be allied.”

“We can’t double-task?”

Guilt warming his conscience, he gave you an inch of the reigns. “Have anything in mind?”

“You said he’s a dealer, right?”

“Drops. Already know everything about that.”

You sat in thought for a moment while he organized his desk space. The click of his pen brought Arkham to the front of your thoughts again. “The mayor, Bella. She had that task force thing. The journalist talked about it.”

“Yeah?” Bruce looked increasingly interested, his shoulders shifting square to yours.

“We don’t know why she was put in there. Maybe they found a new drug or something.”

He mused on that, and by the very second you internalized being a complete idiot, he grabbed another note and scribbled things down. He was always in a hurry, and you kind of understood it now. He had competence and power to make an impact, and he was caring and kind, wanting to help as many people as possible. It was valiant, almost like he was some sort of hero.

You blinked away the thought; idolizing him would do no good, especially with the inevitable end you hurtled towards with this research. If you kept adorning him with a halo, you’d never recover.

Could you recover at this point? When just packing your bags had you wondering about condoms and lingerie and perfume? You hadn’t needed to pack things like body wash, you knew he had that here, but you wanted him to know you, to smell you, like how you smelled him every time he got close; in case he memorized you like you did him. Juicy papaya, guava, surely that would make an impression…

Suddenly the air between you popped like it held a charge. Being alone with him threatened the firmest of your resolve against the backdrop of the kiss. You bit the inside of your lip and abruptly stood, refusing that rabbit hole. The car caught your eye for the second time, and you followed it, asking him to show you what needed fixing.

A few hours later, you tucked a towel into the rack as the shower warmed; your hands and arms were covered in grease because apparently, giant cars had millions of parts that needed constant tweaking. You shut the glass door as you stepped inside, feeling sleepy and full to bursting. The shower was pleasant. Everything was.

You tugged clothes onto damp skin and wrapped the towel atop your shoulders so as to not leave a trail to your room. Bruce waited at the top of the stairs, his hair only slightly drier than your own. You wondered why he stood there, he’d already thanked you on the elevator up, but didn’t complain. He was a vision in his quintessential black, emphasizing the softness of his eyes.

“What do you like for breakfast?”

“I don’t wanna interrupt Alfred’s plan.”

“Thought I’d make it tomorrow.”

“Those burnt pancakes were pretty good.” You grinned. “Lot of personality.”

The timbre of his laugh made your face heat. “Will-do.”

“Goodnight.”

You paused before turning to the door. “I’ll let you know if I need anything.”

He nodded, putting a hand on the railing. “Good.”

Breakfast had been nice; the food was noticeably less charred, and there was an actually full jug of orange juice. You’d been so excited when he woke you up in the morning that you hadn’t checked your phone until you were finding parking at Saks.

Bruce looked concerned when you groaned, skimming the curb of the parking garage before correcting. “What?”

“I was supposed to go home this weekend.” You’d missed a call from your mom, received a text updating about the shot. Everything went well, and she commented on how delightfully busy you must be.

Let me know you’re safe, honey.

The garage had no signal, so you put it in your trouser pocket. You could practically feel how close she was to assuming you were busy with Bruce; last night before you’d gone to sleep, you’d decided to scroll through your unread messages. Aunts, uncles, and cousins just ‘checking in’, acquaintances from high school coming out of the woodwork. It was beginning to feel impossible not to reckon with what this meant, bleeding past what you could mute notifications on.

Walking into a luxury store made your gaze heavy, focusing on the floor. Bruce let go of you to shake a worker’s hand as they welcomed him in, and you startled when he introduced you. He didn’t give you a title, no girlfriend or partner, but he didn’t need to. Your hand was cold on the shake, ears booming with the shouting and cameras banging on the windows behind you.

First was the men’s section, and you didn’t expect otherwise. You coming along was an afterthought to them, starry-eyed by the presence of Bruce Wayne. They walked him right past brands like Eton, Canali, and Ralph Lauren, motioning towards names like Garavani, Prada, Saint Laurent, and Givenchy. You nearly felt bad for even breathing on any of the items.

Bruce was overtaken by the man who was apparently his personal shopper for the day, and you thought the staff had completely forgotten your existence until you pulled out an enticing black dress shirt, and he plucked it from you with a pearly smile. “Impeccable taste, ma’am.” He left you to your own devices with an armful of items already taken to the back. You stifled a laugh at how overwhelmed Bruce looked the next rack over.

Taking advantage of the shopper’s absence, you moved to the pants, and gasped at the prices.

“Find anything?”

You shook your head, thumbing through strange cuts, textures, and colors. “Only the ugliest shit I’ve ever seen.”

He chuckled. “Don’t want me in…” he held up tan, ribbed joggers that looked like long johns. “Four thousand dollar sweats at the club?”

Sometimes you forgot he wasn’t as old as Alfred, and knew terms like ‘ghosting’ and basic club etiquette. You averted your eyes to the rack, swooning over this dynamic. It felt effortless. “Your closet’s probably full of them, just in black.”

You moved to a rack of black dress pants, shivering to think someone would willingly wear the others in public. Flipping through hangers ran your pinky across smooth, silky fabric, and you paused, pulling out pleated Saint Laurent with a thin, flat waistband. Saint Laurent. You’d only heard the name in songs.

“Will that be all for now, Mr. Wayne?” The shopper had arrived, holding out his arm to take the trousers.

Bruce looked at you as you handed it over. “Up to you.”

You’d picked one shirt and one pair of pants, but followed Eric (his nametag was small), and Bruce to his dressing room; it was enormous. Full-length couch plus loveseat, plush throw carpets, and rows of shoes, handbags, and jewelry in addition to the racks of clothing already chosen. He said he’d be back in a few minutes, leaving you and Bruce standing in the hallway.

He gestured for you to come in. You crossed your arms tight to your chest and sat yourself on the couch. He grabbed the outfit you chose, and hesitated long enough you noticed. You covered your face with your palms and heard buttons and zippers, clenching your teeth when his pants plopped softly on the ground.

“This?”

“You sound confused.”

“I’ve just… never worn anything like it.”

You peeked, seeing the back of him as he faced the mirror. The fabric was a thin silk—no, satin; which was more matte?—looking like a normal dress shirt at first glance. At the points where the light hit, the sheer was especially obvious, highlighting the curve of his shoulderblades. The pants hugged his frame like they’d been crafted with him in mind, tight and flowy in a way that elevated the simple silhouettes. He looked over his shoulder, and you snagged on the turn of his waist. Shit.

He caught your sharp inhale, and quickly turned away. He fiddled with the cuffs, then undid an extra button at the top of the shirt when he began to sweat. “I, uh, think he picked things for you.”

And Eric had. Bruce faced the opposite wall while you shimmied on a silver mini dress, trying on shoes and watches.

Metallic mesh with thin straps connected by hardware accents. You grabbed a pair of silver heels he’d left, and checked yourself in the floor mirror, then stopped, half your foot in the heel.

It looked… gorgeous. You never figured silver would complement you so well. If Mar were here, she might’ve started squealing.

“Like anything?”

“Um, mhm,” you stammered as you shoved your feet in the heels and smoothed out your hair. In an instant you felt vulnerable, consumed by the fact Bruce would see you like this. Why’d it feel so fucking intimate?

“Can I see?”

“Yeah,” you said, weakly.

Bruce took a step back, his breathing taking a hit. “Whoa.” You fussed with the dress’s edge in the mirror, and he was grateful for the extra seconds to pull his expression together, hoping he’d said it so quietly you hadn’t heard.

Your eyes narrowed as you took yourself in, and he couldn’t fathom why. “What do you think?”

He needed a cold glass of water, that’s what he thought. He felt himself turn red. “Looks like it was made for you.”

Has all the air been removed in here? Can Eric show up? Please? Your heart raced, and you were certain he could see goosebumps with this much exposed skin. Your gaze betrayed you and you checked his outfit in the mirror to your left, heartbeat rushing to your throat seeing both of you together.

Your phone buzzed, twice. An email had never been such a saving grace. Thankfully, Bruce went back to whatever he was doing in the corner, and you read the message from Dr. Vry.

“Can we stop at GU on the way? Since I’m not leaving, Dr. Vry says she has something for me.”

“Sure.” He kicked off the shoes he just tried on, reaching down to grab them. They looked nice, and shiny.

You both changed facing opposite walls, heads buzzing.

Eric checked you both out, and you winced at the five-thousand dollar price tag on just your dress. Bruce carried the bags out, and you actually felt happy seeing the paparazzi, knowing that… his hand slipped into yours, and you grinned.

Bridgit met you at Dr. Vry’s office, holding a spiffy black handbag. The hallways seemed smaller now. “Hey, she told me to—”

She beamed, handing the purse to you. “Janay told me.” Janay? Since when? “She wants you to bring this to events from now on. Represents the prestige of the university.”

Prestige of a public university? In Gotham? You took it, confused. It felt sturdy, like thick, unyielding leather, with gold accents. You thanked her, and left.

Bruce’s eyes flashed when you entered with it, and he informed you on the short drive to his house that it was a Birkin bag. “If you thought the dress was expensive…”

Thirty-two thousand dollars was the price that came up on Google, and you carried it gingerly up to your room to change, petrified of leaving a fingerprint. You set it on the spare dresser, just enough out of reach it couldn’t be bothered if you tried. What the fuck was Dr. Vry thinking? You pulled on your dress and strapped on your heels, threw on some makeup from the bottom of your purse, and headed downstairs.

You struggled to avoid looking at Bruce as you headed to the elevator. Alfred appeared, the clip of this cane comforting you. You thought it might be easier to look at him than Bruce, but he was positively beaming; did he know this was fake, or was he leading him on, too?

“Have fun.”

Bruce handed you a pair of contacts when you got to the garage. He said he had three pairs to be able to rotate through, in case they tore. He grabbed a contact case and plopped his in no problem, and you struggled until you swore your mascara would bleed.

Bruce’s hand was warm and reassuring as you walked into the Iceberg Lounge. Mar had visited a few times, and you recognized some booths and light fixtures from half-drunk selfies she’d sent over the years.

If you thought eyes had been on you at City Hall, you were the goddamn Mona Lisa here. Bruce tucked you under his arm as the hallway narrowed, and you swallowed spoonfuls of saliva at the contact. Possibility electrified your limbs, rendering them half-numb and hypersensitive. To think that anything went here… that getting handsy, or a kiss, or stuffing him into a corner booth to have your way with him would only help the cause. Tasting his tongue against yours, running fingers down his thighs—playing the part. It left such wonderful deniability; for all he knew, you were a dedicated actress.

The man in front waved a keycard to security, but Bruce made it through without a hitch. He held you tighter as a drunk group of men swaggered past, bumping you against his dense, muscled body.

It was a perfectly normal club; downstairs was noticeably less noisy, but it still boomed, tickling your eardrums. A quick scan of the room didn’t show Oz anywhere, which was upsetting and relieving; Bruce’s brief on the way about what set the guy off had been unsettling—anything that could be read as pandering, insulting, or condescending would get you clipped.

The bartender nodded as you both settled into seats at the counter. They quickly saddled you with a water glass, and you ran your fingers on the lip, trying to calm your nerves. Red and blue reflections of the club lights glinted through it, projecting a kaleidoscope on the countertop. The low lighting also illuminated the curves and valleys of Bruce’s muscles.

Every night pounding the pavement in that heavy suit had formed his build into a fucking menace; so different than how you might’ve imagined Batman would look, bringing butterflies to your stomach. You took a swig of water, avoiding further analyzing. You kept forgetting he was fucking Batman, even that he was a Wayne, but you felt the presence of both now. It dizzied you.

But could you blame yourself? Was there anyone who wouldn’t want him? Anyone who would sit in your position looking into those ocean blue eyes with those long lashes, feel the comfort and strength in his touch, the sultry invitation of his breath wafting across your cheeks, and not fall head over heels?

“What do you want to do?”

You wanted to take him to the back rooms you kept seeing the dancers take men to, that’s what you really wanted. Unbutton his pants and pull his shirt over his head, trail kisses everywhere usually hidden, hear whatever sounds that pulled from him, damn. You toyed with the glass again, the only thing you could.

You rushed to fill the space with something other than erotic thoughts, and landed on what you and Mar always pulled out once it passed eleven, and all catch-up conversations had been positively exhausted. “Truth or dare?”

Pulling up questions on your phone from some random generator sites, you placed it between you. One red button for DARE and a blue button for TRUTH sat there, ready to roll the dice. “You first.”

Bruce hit truth, and you mused the politics of his decision. Too shy to pick dare? Also, having him touching your things? Exhilarating. Having his undivided attention? Fucking addicting.

What’s your favorite curse word?

“Damn, starting tame.”

Bruce rested his chin in his hand, thinking way too hard about this. A crease appeared between his brows, and after about thirty seconds, you had to nudge him. Maybe he wanted that closer contact. Seeming like you were in the grips of intense, loving conversation, making eyes. He knew what moves to make, he knew how to manipulate. His eyes flicked to yours. “Fuck.”

That felt intimate. Too intimate, and your body rattled. You managed to a nod, clicking on your request.

“Ooh.” Bruce hummed when you clicked dare, and the screen spun. When had he started that humming thing? Since when did he make small little comments like this?

Eat a teaspoon of hot sauce.

You thought Bruce was moving toward letting you off the hook, so you waved down the bartender and requested a shot of it. You felt a strange desire to impress him, like a kid at recess trying to impress a crush. They asked how spicy, and you said medium. The bartender brought back a half-filled shot glass, and you slammed it back without a wasted second.

“Shit.”

A swell of pride speared through you at making an impression. The heat hadn’t hit in full yet, percolating on the roof of your mouth. His eyes widened, and he sat up from his slump.

“Not spicy?”

As if on cue, it attacked your tastebuds, screaming to be heard. Your face contorted, and you chugged the rest of your water; Bruce passed you his, and in a second that was finished, too. Your eyes watered, your stomach turned into a knot.

“What the fuck sauce do they have here?!” You flapped your hands at your sides as if that would make a single dent—and noticed how happy he seemed. You wanted to tease, how dare he like when you were in pain, but the crinkle by his eyes always felled you. The bartender must’ve been watching, because they brought you a jug of water, and you drank it like you never would again. Bruce smiled, and you fought to join him.

“Since you were so brave.” He clicked dare, and you tried not to feel ecstatic at being called brave by Batman himself. Somehow, it wasn’t at all condescending. You hoped you could get a few more rounds in, seeing as your phone was at a measly five percent.

Show your most recent Google search.

Bruce’s lashes fluttered, and your face scrunched. “Such an easy one, this game’s rigged.”

Pink spread across his cheeks, and his voice became softer. “There’s no ‘skip’?” He laughed, halfheartedly, and you cocked your head at him. He eyed you. “Since you got such a big one,”

“No, no.” You were curious now. “Show me.”

Bruce gingerly pulled out his cell, and when he opened it, you saw he didn’t have a password. Surely he knew better than that, right? Or did he have a hack for that too, some sort of bomb that would go off in the battery if he ever had an inkling it was lost?

He opened Safari, and your eyes flit between his increasingly red face and the loading screen. He shifted in his seat and glanced at the table underneath. You could tell when it loaded, because his face flushed the darkest you’d seen it.

An article, titled: Romantic Conversation Starters (+ Tips to Set the Mood).

You chanced a look at him as you tucked your lip under your teeth, barely abating a laugh. You felt yourself turning warmer, and tempted the increasingly tense silence; you could feel he was about to combust. You called it out before your anticipation got the better of you and you zeroed in on things you shouldn’t. “You’re blushing.”

“Wanted to make it believable.”

Your laugh escaped you, unable to be contained. “By going on WikiHow?”

It was so endearing; he navigated these rooms so seamlessly, had people falling all over him, desperate for his attention, practically on their hands and knees to whatever the hell he had to say, including yourself, but he was just… awkward. Unsure. It was written all over his face. And fuck, it only made him more attractive.

“You got a better idea?” His defensiveness was creeping in, as expected. You might’ve fallen into the floor in his position. You mirrored his earlier posture, resting your chin in your hand.

“Be yourself.”

He clicked the phone off, slipping the evidence back in his pocket. The movement pulled at the fabric across his bicep deliciously. “‘Myself’ doesn’t want to be here.”

“What would make it more tolerable, Mr. Wayne?” You sipped at the remainder of the water from the jug like it was a delicate glass. His blush flushed deeper, which you didn’t think possible. Teasing him was fucking adorable; how could you not?

“Thought I was baby.”

You struggled not to show how that affected you, because it affected you. “Thought you were shy.”

“Sometimes.”

Another imperceptible cock of his brow and that deep, penetrating eye contact. The rise and fall of your shoulders was tighter, higher. You thought of pushing it further, teasing more, being a bit more forward, but your tongue tied, and he wasn’t breaking eye contact, and your hand was going numb under the weight of your body pressing toward the counter for balance, and—

Out of the corner of your vision, you watched Oz enter, pulling some pills out of a bin to his side. When he distributed them to the table, they stuck their tongues out at each other, showing a bright red bloom from the drug. They laughed and handed over cash. So bright and bloody… Mar did something like that once. She’d told you about it. Showed you the tongue stain a year ago.

Oz pulled out two more pills, then locked eyes with you. You smiled, but it felt like ice water thrown down your neck. Bruce tensed as he approached.

“Welcome, welcome! Got a coupla drinks, yeah? How ‘bout we keep the good vibes going? On the house.” he held out the pills, and you hesitated; Bruce began a deflection, but you grabbed one. His attention shot to your mouth, and he started stuttering something out, eyes wide, but you swallowed.

Oz chuckled, pushing his hand closer. “C’mon, don’t let your lady outdo ya.”

“He’s the designated driver, I’ll have my fun tonight.” You winked at the man, and he grinned, but it faltered for a second before he righted it. Bruce needed to be careful, shooting daggers at you with Oz right there.

“Hey baby, yeah yeah.” Oz apologized, saying he’d bring you both back to ‘his section’ soon. The second he was out of earshot, Bruce leaned in, whispering heatedly.

“What the hell was that?”

“You want to know what this does, right? This isn’t Drops, this is newer.”

Bruce glared at your red tongue. “We could’ve asked any druggie here.” He slammed his palm just hard enough against the table to make you stiffen. “For all you know he could’ve laced it.”

“He pulled it out of the same thing he gave everyone else, I watched him.”

He softened when you jumped, moving his hand down to his pocket. There were better ways to get his point across than scaring you. He faced you with apologetic, worried eyes. His chest felt heavy, breathing more labored. “I’m scared it’s dangerous.”

“Well then,” you scrambled not to look like a total airhead, knowing you had your reasons, but struggling to articulate them. “I’m the perfect control either way. We know I haven’t drank anything, I’m not on other drugs,”

He sighed. “Wish you would’ve consulted me.”

“He was about to get suspicious. Now you have an out.” You sipped some water to try to abate the rising anxiety; it didn’t work. “Rich guy who doesn’t want to total his favorite car, I don’t know. Get his ditzy girlfriend all wasted.”

He turned to you, waiting for you to look at him. You didn’t. He brought his hand to your chin, and you thought it would be harsh and rough, but it was gentle as he tilted you to face him—always gentle. He looked a bit like he had at City Hall the day before. Frazzled, concerned. “You can’t leave my side, okay?”

You swallowed hard, immobilized by the pull of him. “Didn’t plan on it.”

His hand left you, but his stare didn’t. “How are you feeling now? We need a baseline.”

You remembered at this point that he was wearing the contacts, and you were, too, when he didn’t take out his phone to notate. Oz’s big hand gestures from a table across the way signified it wouldn’t be long. “Uh,”

“Fatigue? One to ten.”

“Uh, two.”

He pressured his speech, likely feeling Oz’s inevitability as much as you. “Brain fog?”

“I don’t know, one? Zero?”

“How does your body feel?”

“I don’t know, my feet hurt from the heels,”

“Hot? Cold?”

“Flushed, warm, I don’t know, a tiny bit warm? The hot sauce?” And conversation.

“What’s your mood?”

“Uh,”

“Apathetic? Euthymic?”

He was moving at lightning speed. “I don’t, a little anxious? Kinda sad, I don’t, I can’t quantify it right now,”

“Sad, scale of one to ten.”

You picked at your nails. “Four?”

“Anxiety?”

“Like a five?”

“Do you feel weak at all?”

“No.”

“Unsteady?”

You only had time to shake your head before him.

“Hey, VIPs!” Oz shouted from the corner, waving you and Bruce toward the back of the bar. “Follow me.”

It only took a few steps for things to shift. The world blurred out, and you were suddenly gone; all worries about what Oz was doing, all anxiety about the night: disappeared. The lights went increasingly hazy, and then it snapped into a mist; you couldn’t help but laugh.

You leaned harder into Bruce, your knees weakened. Every brush against his arm was so electric, sensual, like foreplay. It was blissful.

Oz said something about the party finally starting, and you thought he looked at you, but you were lost in the strength of Bruce’s hand and how much of his skin you could touch. A bright smile peaked the apples of your cheeks as you felt genuinely, stunningly happy. The music settled into the background in a dull pulse. Your thoughts rolled into a mess of ferns and twigs and pine needles that amounted to one singular need: Bruce.

Bruce tightened his grip on you, feeling you begin to drag; he wanted to make sure you were okay, but Penguin was showing him towards a back room, refusing him space to avoid eye contact.

Stepping behind the bar revealed a moderately large lounge, close enough to 44 Below’s main stage to be involved, far enough to be private. The space was moderately large, with a glowing green EXIT sign to the left, and a long hallway to the right. No one else was back here.

“When I’m not upstairs, you know, doing business? This is my zone, my asilo. Make yourselves at home, go on.” He moved for him to take a booth, and you clomped down next to him with a delighted huff. Bruce looked at your half-lidded eyes and enormous grin when you rustled the table, desperate to know what was going through your head.

Penguin pointed at you, and launched into a speech about how business shifted since the flood. Bruce couldn’t make sense of why he started shifting to talking about drugs with him; was he this confident now of not catching consequences?

“Needed to find something to help the people here. Lost lives, families, homes. Who wants to go to the club when their lives are falling apart, huh?” Penguin held his arms like he was bragging, like he was selling something. Did he want him to go in?

You shifted and giggled beside him. God, he needed to talk to you.

“Those eye things,” Bruce pretended not to recall, snapping his fingers in thought.

“Ah, Drops.” He made a disappointed, dismissive sound and waved his hand, as if one of the most dangerous and widespread drugs in all of Gotham was nothing more than a passing project. “Nah, nah. That brings people down, makes ‘em nostalgic. You’ve tried it, right?”

“Makes things slower, yeah.” Was Penguin observant enough to catch the non-answer? Bold enough to call it out?

“Right, right. So this, this is something beautiful. Brings people up, keeps them excited, partying.” He straightened, gesturing every which way with his hands, his tone moving in and out as it only did with him. “And the best part is, thing’s all natural. Straight from the soil.”

Mushrooms. Why was he saying all this?

“Sure you don’t want any, boss man?”

Bruce barely contained a disgust response. With no other way to see out of it besides throwing the relationship under the bus, that’s exactly what he did.

“Paps have been fucking ruthless since they got those photos.” He shook out his arms and set his face to look annoyed. “If they catch me with anything for a while, whew.” A tight shake of his head would finish it, and a pursed lip. “Gonna have to stay sober tonight.”

“Prince of Gotham, alright.” The man held his hands up like he was being accused, though his demeanor remained agreeable. “Ain’t wanna be responsible for corrupting that.”

Bruce played along, deepening this faux rapport. “People already try to discredit,” he recycled your earlier attacks on him. “Nepotism, all that bullshit.”

“Right, right. Lotta rumors.”

“Exactly, Oz.” Bruce blew a heavy breath from the bottom of his chest, making himself look as frazzled as possible. He performed musing on something, then moved like he might get up to the bar. “You know, I might get a whiskey,”

“Nah, not in this section.” Penguin, almost angry, motioned for him to sit back down with a shoo. Bruce stifled a grin; like hell he would leave you. “I’ll send one of the girls to get something for you.”

You slumped against him as Penguin turned the corner. He didn’t waste a second. “How are you feeling?”

Your hands crawled up his arm and shoulder, and your grin got louder, and louder, which he didn’t know a grin could do. He reflexively smiled at your supposed euphoria, never seeing you so content. Your smirk went straight to his chest.

Bruce measured his breathing when you moved your hands to his hair, twirling it between fingers. He bit his cheek when your hand slid lower; down his neck, past his abs… he gulped and moved your hand away, his body lighting up. You pouted, making a pitiful noise that went straight through him.

“Please.” You slid nearer, whining, closing the space; your pupils were so wide your eyes were almost entirely black, your shoulders squeezed inward, like every muscle in your body was tense, needy. Your fingers moved to his thighs, rubbing the top in smooth, languid strokes.

That please echoed through him like a fucking gong. He shook it from his thoughts the second it ricocheted. Shallow and quick, his breathing hitched, and he shifted away with another swallow.

Heat spread across his face as he darted a look at yours. You bit your lip, and he averted his eyes to under the table. No chance you would’ve taken it if you knew it would increase your libido this sharply. With his awareness cast down, he noticed you press your thighs together, crossing your ankles.

“I want you.”

He caught your hand as it traveled to his waistband. His fingertips were freezing, head turning staticky at your touch. You pouted again, and he looked at you with increased resolve.

“No. You’re not sober.” Gentle, yet firm. Your eyes went glossy, almost with tears. He took your hand to bridge the distance, rubbing what he hoped was a relaxing circle along your palm.

Your eyes pleaded with him. “It’d be so fun like this.”

“We can talk.”

“Can we talk about it?” You rested your head in your hands, fluttering your lashes to frame your doe eyes.

He didn’t hesitate shaking his head. You thought long and hard, and he theorized you were mining for a loophole. “Can I look at you?”

His expression eased. “You can look.”

You were so thrilled it was like the past conversation hadn’t happened. You analyzed every pore of his face, admiring it like some great statue or famous painting. When he felt himself start to wonder what you were imagining, he pivoted. “Tell me. How are you feeling?”

“Could be better.”

He paid the insinuation no mind. “One to ten?”

“You’re funny.”

Huh? “How am I funny?”

“Soo serious.” You pressed your finger between his brows, uncreasing them. He let his shoulders relax. “There you go.”

You sat back, gazing dreamily. “You should talk more. I love hearing you talk.”

Should he… stop talking? Was it making it worse for you? Were you lucid? “Do you know why we’re here?”

“Talk, baby. Come on.”

Like he was zigzagging his car through Gotham, but unable to lose them. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I just wanna watch you.”

He regretted the question as it passed his lips, loathed how he couldn’t help but blush under your focused attention, but he’d endure it. If he needed to dodge your advances for the next ten hours, the whole weekend, so be it.

“You’re so cute!”

You looked pained, a growl edging out your sentence. “Is that a bad thing?”

“UGH.” You slammed back into the chair, giving him barely enough time to place his hand behind your head; his knuckles knocked into the wood, and he winced.

Was this because he wouldn’t let you touch him? Tentatively, he removed his hand. “If you still feel this way when you’re sober, we can talk about—”

“Whiskey for Mr. Wayne?”

“Thanks.” His fingers wrapped around the drink, leaving visible prints against the smooth siding. You still faced forward, looking upset.

He worried his hands along the lip of the glass, needing to make himself perfectly clear. “I don’t want you feeling rejected,” he took a deep breath. “but there’s no way anything is happening while you’re like this.”

“Not that.” You scoffed, like you hadn’t just begged him to let you.

“What then?”

“The storm.” Your expression twisted, and you really looked like you might cry. “All the animals, and birds,”

“What about them?”

“They hate getting wet.” Tears slipped down your cheeks. Mood swings. “Walter hates getting wet. What if he was here?”

He pressed his lips into a thin line to keep a laugh at bay, reminding himself you were obviously wrecked over it. It was no small feat evicting humor from his tone. “I’m sure animals here are used to rain.”

You sat in thought. The booming sounds from the dance hall upstairs filled the silence, and the sharp click of a dancer’s heels as they pulled a customer to the back went along with the beat. “Can we go dance?”

“I don’t dance.”

He’d tried to convince you on the stairs to ditch this idea, but you’d quite literally yanked him to the dance floor. Admittedly, he liked this possessiveness, but under different circumstances.

The crowd was tight, and only got tighter as word spread. Anxious thoughts circled like a shark, threatening to drown, but not you. Fully invested in whatever song was blasting through the speakers, you held your hands high, swaying side to side, grabbing his hips at every switch in the beat. You mouthed the words—you knew this one, had you gone clubbing with your friend much?—and he tried to mirror your movements, though subtly, feeling embarrassed.

He shut his eyes for just a second at the overstimulation; he needed to be firmly rooted here to keep you safe. He wanted to help you have fun, too, and he wanted to enjoy this, or at the very least tolerate it. What kind of person would he be if he interrupted your joy, no matter what caused it?

When he opened his eyes, a flurry of people were pressed against him, fighting to claim his attention, touching him in ways that made him want to jump out of his skin. He only panicked for a moment at your disappearance, easily looking over shoulders to find you just behind. You stared at the back of their heads with amusement; somehow, he thought you’d be angry.

You laughed, so loud he could hear it over the bass, and jammed your way through them limb by limb, shoving your body flush to his. He caught you, feeling a profound sense of home when you pressed into him, your perfume and shampoo and whatever else made up you filling his senses in a way that shot him straight to heaven. He felt you rumble against him, hearing your laugh even closer now. He moved his mouth to your ear as you tightened around him. “What’s so funny?”

“They think you’re not mine.” You rolled your eyes so casually, like he hadn’t burned to tell you so for weeks.

His lips curled into a small grin. “You think I’m yours?”

Those half-lidded eyes met him again, spearing him. “Of course you are.”

You didn’t wait for him to respond, and that was good, because he was full of nothing but looping thoughts of yes, yes he was, he was yours.

You brought his hands to your waist and he held you carefully, the room shifting to a closed concept as he absently moved in tandem with you, following your lead as his nerves fell away. He wouldn’t ask you how you meant it, not now, possibly never, but he could pretend. Pretend you could feel how much he cared; that somehow, despite his best efforts, you knew with unwavering confidence that he was entirely, deeply yours without ever having to say it.

As you both danced, he kept a shield around you. When someone got too close, he’d shift you away or pull you in without you even noticing. He caught you the rare times you stumbled, and every time you laughed, he placed the memory in a locket. Your face lit up when he’d dip his shoulders to the beat, rolling his body just enough to feel the rhythm deep in his core. Eventually his movements became smoother, more evocative, encouraged by your enjoyment. When you got too dizzy, he let you catch a breath in his arms. You’d lean in, whispering that you knew he would get into it, that you knew he could let loose.

You pressed your foreheads together, panting. He realized he’d been working up a sweat, moving more than he had outside of patrol in years. “You don’t dance, huh?”

He laughed, and it didn’t feel strained or hollow. “Didn’t think so.” This wasn’t scary, not at all.

He guided you off the floor when your eyes shut, rubbing your shoulders to keep you awake. He whispered to you. “Let’s say goodbye to Oz,” and brought you downstairs, already anticipating… Penguin laughed, giving him a wink and a nudge.

“Have fun, kid.”

Disgusting.

He snuck you out of a side door, wanting to limit photography, when he felt a punch on his right shoulder. He pushed you against the brick wall as gently as he could, but not as gently as he would’ve liked, as he caught sight of a knife.

Disarming the assailant was easy; it didn’t take three steps and a few uppercuts for the weapon to clatter to the ground, and him to fall to his ass. Usually, if he were in the suit, the criminal would scoot back wildly, scrambling to escape further punishment; but this guy thought he was dealing with prissy Bruce Wayne.

The man lunged for his ankle—elementary. He had his wrist in one hand, wrenching his elbow until he screamed. Desperate not to escape but to hurt, the stranger lunged forward, teeth bared. Bruce yanked hard on his arm, hearing a crack, and slammed the heel of his shoe against the man’s jaw. He fell on his back, dazed, blood trickling down his nose.

From the ground, he eyed you with a glare in the second it took Bruce to decide to scuff his shoes. Against thigh, then stomach, then chest. The last hit had the man yelping, dragging himself down the alleyway in as much a limping hurry he could manage. Bruce huffed, feeling the impact on unprotected knuckles.

“What the fuck…”

You were disoriented, blinking slowly, out of it. He wrapped you in a hug, shielding you from the rain he hadn’t felt until now, rushing you out front to the valet. He helped you into the passenger seat, buckling you himself so he didn’t worry, and slipped beside you, hurrying past the crowd.

The weather worsened by the second. Umbrellas swayed and flew out of hands on the sidewalk, and rain pelted the car like bullets. If you’d left any later, he might’ve had to carry you home. After what felt like an eternity, he pulled into the drive. The piss-poor weather had deterred most of the paparazzi.

Not even six in the evening, Alfred startled at the state of you, eyes struggling to open, slumped into Bruce’s side. “What happened?”

“She’s fine.”

“Bruce,”

“Went to meet Penguin, she took some drugs,”

“Drugs?”

“I told you, it’s fine,”

In his haste to get the old man off his back, you tripped on the first stair. Bruce barely caught you before you nose-dived. He helped you upright, whispering for you to jump; it was halfhearted, feet barely an inch off the ground in your exhaustion, but it was enough. He carried you the rest of the way, tenderly setting you in the middle of your bed.

You grumbled, shifting to your side. Your heel grazed him. Right. He knelt to pull them off, setting them under the bed. He massaged the back of your heel until your grumbles turned to sighs, then hums. When your mouth slacked open against the pillow, he knew you’d passed out.

Silently, he rose and snuck to the door, careful not to rouse you. He’d keep the door open, check on you every half hour. He grimaced, spiraling on how much could go wrong in that time. Maybe every quarter hour.

“Don’t leave.”

His heart cracked when he heard tears. He stepped back into the room, your scrunched, tired face staring at him like he’d committed a cardinal sin. “Okay.” He let go of the doorknob. “I won’t.”

You patted the bed next to you, and scooted to make room. He laid on the bed’s furthest edge, arms tight to his torso. You shook your head. “Closer.”

He scooted toward you, and you dragged yourself into the crook of his arm. Your body softened and the sniffling stopped. Bruce kept deadly still, scared he’d interrupt your sleepiness with full breaths.

It was impossible not to follow suit; just as he thought he might nap, you rustled in your sleep. His body jerked in response when you sat up, mumbling about feeling hot, and promptly yanked off your dress. Half awake by that point, he only realized you’d undressed when you threw it to the end of the bed. You thudded into him like nothing happened.

He almost fell asleep again, but you started pawing at his chest, muttering. “Too scratchy, take it off.”

He hesitated, instead pulling the blanket higher to cover it. You fell asleep quickly, and he did the same.

You heard a thump.

More thumps.

You opened your eyes and saw a quilt, and felt a weight draped over your hips. You blinked a few times, groggy, and realized it was a heartbeat that you heard.

Bruce rustled, and what was apparently his arm moved off your hip to rub at his eyes. You sat up and felt a breeze, becoming aware of your discarded dress, and your stomach shot to the back of your throat.

You tried to remember what happened. Everything was blank, outside of entering the club and playing some truth or dare. Had you dared to hook up with him? Had he dared you?

“How are you feeling?” His voice was slightly hoarse, from fatigue or something else.

Your mouth went dry, posing the question even seeming too intimate. “Did we, uh,” you pulsed with embarrassment, forcing yourself to meet his eyes, “have sex?”

Suddenly you were quite breathless. A ghost of an ache pulsed between your thighs. Ah, fuck, you’d fucked him for the first time and you couldn’t even relive it.

“No.” His eyes narrowed. “What do you remember?”

You tried to, but it was like the time hadn't passed. He swung his legs off the bed, moving to stand. His shirt was half-tucked, his hair undone just enough to be sexy. You wished you’d fucked him; but your body, it… it felt like it had. It was needy, and spent. “Nothing.”

“You can watch the recording, then.” Bruce held out his hand, and you stared at it. You placed your hand in his, and a small noise fell from him. You ripped it away, and his brow quirked. You burned. “Contacts.”

Timid, you peeled the contacts off your dry eyes and handed them over. As he put them in a case, you patted the bed for your phone. He pulled it out of his pocket, apologizing for the oversight as he plugged it in. “It died at the bar, sorry.”

“Why were we in bed together?” You figured you’d find out soon on the tape, but the anticipation was ruining you. Maybe you hadn’t fucked, but you’d made out, or touched him, or he touched you, because your pussy ached like it’d been made sore, and you couldn’t fucking place why or how. You clenched.

“You cried when I tried to leave.”

Cried?

“Wanted me to stay while you slept.”

You believed him, but that felt humiliating to admit. “Then why was I half naked?”

“Said you were too hot.” He shrugged, moving toward the exit. “Glad you’re alright.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You took Oz’s drug.”

Your face fell, a crumb of memory resurfacing. His worry, his questions, and how bitter the pill was on your tongue.

“Meet me in the kitchen and we’ll go down together.”

Bruce pretended to work on his car while you watched the video; he thought you couldn’t tell, but you were excruciatingly aware of his presence and knew you’d be doing the same thing if he’d been behaving this way. It was mortifying.

Every time you gasped or looked away from the monitor—he definitely wasn’t watching you, no—he would attempt to soothe, telling you that ‘everything worked out’, and ‘seemed like you had fun, that’s good’. You did not agree.

Watching your hands glide over his body, getting dangerously close to his zipper, fuck. The beg in your voice, saying that you wanted him, saying please, oh, you could’ve died. Creeping on him like that… Why hadn’t he let Oz take you out back with a shotgun?

“If you still feel this way when you’re sober, we can talk about—”

You jumped. The basement went quiet, the worn concrete walls choosing now to absorb all sound. You skipped forward, gulping back a scream, as your head pounded at the implication.

It killed you to type ‘marked increase in libido’ and ‘risky behavior’ into his computer, but externalizing it walked you back from the cliff. A third word: ‘euphoria’. That feeling had been the loudest. You didn’t want to keep watching, but you had to.

The fucking dancing. This couldn’t be too bad, right? No talking could happen under these circumstances. You unwound watching Bruce blush under the lights, moving stiffly like the concept of rhythm was entirely foreign.

Bruce took a peek at you as he bolted the last tire on, watching you grin and tuck your lower lip under your teeth. He grabbed the bottled water at his side and swigged it, wishing just a little bit that it was whiskey.

You got pushed aside by a group practically clawing at him. You boiled inside, bruised, but heard yourself laugh. You pushed your way through them, easier than you thought, especially for someone drugged, and suddenly your vision was dark, clouded against his chest. His voice was right in your ear. “What’s so funny?”

“They think you’re not mine.”

Jesus, how did he react? Just when you thought you might actually die, you watched him grin. Cold flashed through you.

“You think I’m yours?” and it sounded really rhetorical, really delicate, and what the hell did you say to that?

“Of course you are.”

Oh, shit.

You paused the footage, feeling caught between worlds. Technically, you’d already told him all the things you were so scared of. A side-eye in Bruce’s direction showed that he wasn’t working on his car anymore, and his empty hands looked inviting. That neediness was back, and you nearly stepped toward him, but stalled. Your heart could’ve beat out of your chest.

When your breathing caught, you took it and rushed to the elevator, fully aware how fast you were moving, and how suspicious it was. But Mar would want to know what happened, you’d told her you’d gone clubbing, and she did need to know you were safe, and you wanted to know if she’d escaped the storm. But all you told him was you wanted water.

“Can I go with you?”

You nodded, knocking the hair out of your face with shaky fingers. Every stride between his car to the elevator ratcheted your heart rate up a notch, and you swore it was as visible as the clothes you wanted him to tear off. Your hands clenched into fists as he stepped inside. “Sorry for acting like that.”

“No need.”

“I overstepped, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t.” He pressed UP, and you began the ascent.

“Do you mean that?”

You watched his Adam’s apple bob, and started feeling like the question you asked was more intimate than you thought. “We can’t do this right now.”

“Do what?”

“It’s only been a few hours.”

“What do you mean?”

His back pressed against the elevator wall, like he wanted to create distance. “Do you just want water, o-or want me to make you something?”

“Why are you stuttering?”

“Why are you asking?”

The doors opened, and he practically lunged toward the kitchen sink. You watched, breathless. He didn’t think you were fully sober. Maybe you weren’t.

You cut upstairs, head pounding. ‘Right now’. ‘Imagined’. That grin of his, and how sure you sounded. You struggled to grip the doorknob, palms slick. It wouldn’t turn, and you smacked the wood, spirit weary. You wished you’d never found out about Batman, that you’d never gotten tangled up in this shit so you didn’t have to wonder, and worry, about what was placation and what was real; so that you could break the ice and ask him yourself, or tell him, and not silently read into every glance, holding memories with white knuckles.

The door popped open, and you stumbled inside. Your phone glowed on the nightstand. Thinking nothing of it, you fell into bed and unlocked it.

The glass shattered in the sink as Bruce heard you scream. No thoughts came, only fear, and he traveled the steps four at a time. You flung the door open and slammed into him. He’d never felt someone shake so much, and held you so tight he thought he might break you, but you were squeezing him harder than anyone ever had, and shrieking. His teeth went cold.

Your limbs tingled, weightless, and you moved and breathed on instinct alone. Bruce’s arms were around you, but you didn’t quite feel them. Presence and dissociation carved out your stomach.

You pulled away, a dead, empty feeling bloated with adrenaline to keep you moving. A brightness filled your chest, but like a glowing hot poker. Explanation spilled out of you like you couldn’t breathe, like you were hyperventilating, but you weren’t there.

Bruce cupped your face, but you saw him through gray mist. Alfred popped out and said something, but the waves of shock drowned him out.

“I should’ve fucking gone, I was supposed, I planned to fucking go,”

Bruce guided you to the edge of the bed through your bursts of anger. He crouched in front of you as you listened to the other voicemails. His hands warmed your knees, his attention unwavering.

‘Tried to call, but I’m on the way to the hospital now…’

You barely registered what you agreed to until you were halfway down the road; you didn’t react when Bruce fought the car against endless hydroplaning, but jolted back to a portion of the moment with the splatter of hail on the passenger window.

Tears flooded your lap like the monsoon outside. The buildings changing to greenery on the side of the highway choked reality down a bargaining throat. A realization that this was a moment you had to be there for, present for. You sniffed up a wall of tears. You could disappear after, if she didn’t wake up.

His hand moved to your knee. You blinked at how calmly the conversation went. Shaking hands finding delayed flights, and the complete lack of fight when he told Alfred to find the nearest operational jet. A prickle of it found you now in the form of guilt, weighing on you like the weekend bag in your lap. In a blip of lucidity, you’d asked him why he was packing a duffel. He said you were in no state to be alone right now. That if he could help, he would. That he’d leave whenever you asked, but not until you were at the hospital.

‘fell’, ‘unconscious’, ‘waiting game’. You leaned your head to rest on his shoulder. You squeezed your puffy eyes shut, body wracking with choppy, sobbing gasps. Bruce laced his fingers between yours, giving you a gentle squeeze. He didn’t say it would be okay, or that everything happened for a reason. He let you be sad. He just let you cry.

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arjudy224 · 2 days ago

Text

The Intern: Field Trip

Part 2 of The Laughing Fish

In the aftermath of the Laughing Fish fiasco, the Intern is greeted by a familiar friend. However, his motives may not be as pure as originally thought.

The Intern Collection:

Prequel: Death of a family

The Intern: Day one

The Intern: The Laughing Fish

The Intern Field Trip

The Intern: Busy Work

The Intern: Outreach Gala

The Intern: Teachers Pet

The Intern: Visiting an old friend

The Intern: Chemical Valley

The Intern: Billionaire Boys Club

Staring out at the Atlantic Ocean, I munch on my pathetic excuse for a lunch. The PB&J has a slight twinge of fish to it. The smell alone caused my appetite to disappear. I will never look at smoothies the same way ever again.

On the dock behind me, something slams with a loud SPLAT. With a slight sigh, I slowly turn to face the next problem. A carp the size of a child shakes the deck. Its large eyes stare up at me in terror. I shrug. Due to recent developments, the danger level of invasive species has fallen below my list of worries.

"Oh buddy, what are you doing?" I coo picking the big guy up by the tail, "You know better than to swim this far downstream."

The toddler-sized silver cyprinid flops pathetically. His glassy innocent gaze makes my heart swell. I lug the big guy back into the harbor with a light swing.

"That was a lot of compassion for an invasive species." A deep voice comments from behind me.

Turning my attention to the man, I shrug. The Justice League emblem catches my attention immediately.

"Man, they really let anybody on these emergency sites," I reply with a smile. "It's always good to see you, Arthur."

With his sandy blond hair and sunkissed skin, this man could star in Baywatch, yet he is hanging with the ghouls on Gotham Pier.

"Hey Y/N," Arthur greets with firm handshake, "How's Supes?"

My fingertips start tingling the moment he releases my hand.

"Still meddling in my personal life while I'm in school. You ever get that Kryptonite out of the water supply?"

I rub my palms together to distract from the sensation.

"Eventually," He winks, "Speaking of, where is the man of the hour?”

I point to the group of men talking. Dr. Harris, the Dock Master, the Commissioner, and Detective Gordan are all in an argument. Batman watches them all from the shadows. Dr. Harris glowers at the Mayor.

"Why aren't you with them?"

The Dock Master flashes red in the face before he takes a swing at the Commissioner's head. Arthur slowly nods in understanding.

"You are welcome to sit at the Intern table if you want to avoid the boys club over there." I joke gesturing to my discarded PB&J

"Good to know."

The Sea king marches towards the angry group of men with the confidence of a politician. If Batman asked for backup, we must really be desperate.

A chilly gust of wind creates goosebumps down my spine. The strain from the day aches in my bones. With heavy eyelids, I sag in exhaustion. Dr. Harris has disappeared of course, so my only ride home is out of commission.

"Kid, do you ever go home?" Arthur chids cutting through my drowsy haze, "I hate to break it to you, but they can survive without the intern."

The dock creaks slightly as he takes a seat next to me. His heavy gaze rests on the thermos in my palms.

"My ride is currently picking fights with the Mayor." I groan twisting the lid off.

Arthur laughs leaning back on his hands. The gold plating of his suit shimmers in the moonlight. I take a swig of the bitter liquid.

"I don't know how you do it. Those guys are something else."

Spoiler and Red Robin nod in greeting. I give a slight wave in response from across the dock.

“You get used to the intensity… They don’t trust very many people.”

The deck shifts as he takes a step closer.

“Do they trust you?”

I laugh bitterly while rubbing my temples. The long day has left a throbbing sensation behind my eyes.

A few minutes later, I respond.

“Sometimes,”

Arthur’s right of course. Dr. Harris has most certainly forgotten about my existence . Stumbling to my feet, I make a move toward my back pack farther back on the deck.

"Y/N wait!" Arthur calls in a panic.

Looking back at him, my world shifts upside down. Arthur's expression suddenly shifts. No longer jovial the man lunges toward me, yet his fingertips barely graze my wrists. Within moments, the wind whistles past my ears. The sudden change of momentum is paralyzing. Is this... flying? The upward movement slowly comes to a stop before I start to plummet back down to the dock.

Tears cloud my vision, but I can vaguely make out the Professor's horrified demeanor. An incoherent shout escapes his mouth. It’s funny. I’ve never seen him so frightened. Annoyed yes. Angry. Frequently… but terrified… It makes the sudden drop so much worse.

It doesn't take very long for each vigilante to rush in my direction. Against my better judgment, I spread my arms and legs out to slow my descent. The wind whistles past my ears. Paralyzed with fear, I can't even manage a scream.

As I plummet towards the jagged rocks, I reflect on my final moments. Gotham does look awfully pretty today. The stars shine bright against the light pollution. As horrific as the Joker fish appear, the shutdown inadvertantly cleared the sticky film from the boats. The harbor glows from the break.

My last thought before impact is, "Maybe this was the joke after all."

I awake to the smell of sea salt, the gentle rocking of waves, and a windpipe full of water. Panic wells in my water-logged chest. Clawing at my throat, I gasp for air to no avail. I am going to die. My heart pounds so loudly that it rings in my ears.

"Shhhhh.... It's okay... You are going to be okay." A voice reassures, "I've got you."

Lunging away from my savior, I frantically crawl away. My vision blurs. The golden sand burns my feet. With one final sputter, I cough up the last bit of water. Collapsing on my back, I soak up the sun's morning rays. My entire back stings from the impact.

A shadow falls over my fallen figure. Opening one eye, I squint up at the man. The figure loams over me in a cascade of shadows.

"You are blocking my sun," I murmur covering my eyes with a hand.

"My most sincere apologies," The man remarks with a devilish smile, "You remember me?"

The voice jumps my memory. Arthur’s blinding white teeth glisten in the shadow.

"Unfortunately," I groan wiping the sand off my wet cargo pants, "What the hell?”

Arthur's face ties a visual to my most recent memory. The dock. I stumble to my feet suddenly realizing the situation I'm in.

"Oh no. What the hell happened?"

"Do you know why an Atlantean would want to kill you?" He questions

I shake my head in disbelief.

Arthur's eyes look different in the light. His shark like gaze holds a quiet intensity. Circling me not as prey, but as something he can't quite put his finger on. Arthur turns around to walk farther up the beach. The white sand causes me to hesitate. We aren't in Gotham anymore

Trailing behind the hulking man, I do my best to ring out my uniform. The mandated cargo pants were built to soak up acid before it could touch skin. Typically, the pants are great in the field with the half dozen pockets I keep snacks in. Unfortunately for me, the designers never expected to go swimming in them. With each step, the pants swish & chafe against my thighs.

"Where are we?" I question struggling to keep up with his large strides.

Arthur shrugs. Running a hand through his hair, he thinks for a moment.

"My guess would be somewhere in the Caribbean."

My jaw drops. I stop in my tracks. Gasping like a fish, I exclaim.

"The Caribbean???! I can't be in the Carribean!"

An amused smile watches my outburst.

"Now, why can't you be in the Carribean?"

Throwing my hands in the air, I search for any reason not to start an interspecies war. A seagull flies away at my sudden movement.

".Because...I have work tomorrow. Everyone thinks I'm dead!"

"So, your solution is to immediately go back where they can target those you love?" Arthur retorts, “We don’t know who we are dealing with.”

I cross my arms in annoyance. Fine.

“What would you suggest then?”

"Go off grid for a few hours.”

I roll my eyes.

“I’m serious. Whoever you pissed off means business.

I hesitate.

"What about the fish in Gotham Harbor?" I question glancing around for any suspicious onlookers.

Nobody gives us a second glance.

"I've got people on that. We’ll have this all sorted out by the end of the day.”

At my bewildered expression, he continues

"Commander of the Seas... Remember?."

"Right."

I slide into a seated position. The white sand seems to glow against the midday sun. The choice seems simple enough. Write an incident report or explore an underwater city. The gentle ocean breeze flows around me in a salty embrace. Gotham can be so gloomy sometimes... Would it be such a bad thing if I pressed pause on my life for a few hours? Thirty feet from us a woman basks in the summer sun . Every couple of minutes, she takes a sip from her fruity cocktail. I've never wanted to be someone more.

"Fine... a few hours couldn’t hurt.”

Arthur smiles like he won a medal. 1st place in tricking drenched and overworked interns.

"That's great."

"Not so fast Mr. Curry. I'm not going anywhere until you buy me a drink.”

With a somber nod, he stretches out his palm for me to shake.

“Understood.”

The waves crashing against the shore make for a pleasant distraction from my worries. The salty sea air is a drastic change from the waters of Gotham city. With the sunshine warming my exposed back and the charming sea king at my side, I can't imagine a more relaxing day.

"Why do you keep running back to Gotham?"

My beachy high immediately crashes. I side eye him for a moment. My palms get clammy.

"What do you mean?"

Arthur shrugs.

“I like to keep in contact with developing talent.”

"Back in my day, we called that stalking,” I remark fiddling with one of the seashells I had collected,

I shift my weight. Running my fingertips through the water, I try to rinse the sudden anxiety off my palms.

“There’s nothing to discuss; Gotham is my home.” I continue dragging the shell against the tender sunburn on my forearm.

With a light flick of the wrist, a nurse shark the size of a child nuzzles against my calve.

"Is that why you ran away?”

Rage simmers below the surface. Keep it cool. He’s doing you a favor. At my sudden shift in demeanor, a large conch shell appears near my pinky toe.

“I didn’t run away.” I respond coolly reaching for the exuberant shell.

Within moments, 3 more shells resurface. Ignoring them, I gently pat the creature’s smooth flat head. It‘s wide round eyes melt my icy exterior.

With a final sigh, I search for something to say.

"I made someone a promise that I would always wait for them."

"Are they worth waiting for?”

My throat closes up. I flounder for something to say.

“They were.” I manage to choke out. “Now, it appears that I have a lifetime until I see them again.”

Tears sting my eyes. A light hand caresses my shoulder. When I meet his gaze, there’s a painful understanding there. He doesn’t tell me it’s going to be okay… or that it gets easier. There is no pity behind his gaze. Just sorrow.

“Lets get you home kid,”

I nod giving my little friend one last pat.

GCPD‘s main lobby buzzes with life. My flip flops lightly tap off the wooden floors. Glancing around at the bustling of the forensics team, something must have went down.

“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask a passing officer.

Briefly glancing up in between documents, he shrugs.

"Apparently an intern went missing. Top secret. Nobody in or out.”

Arthur flashes me a knowing smile.

"From what I've heard, they don't typically last long."

The young man snorts before sticking his back in between the files.

“That’s the understatement of the year.” He mutters combing through the next case study.

We slip past the chaos with surprising ease. Awkwardly, I wait outside Gordon’s office. Am I supposed to knock?

"Y/N?!"

In a surprising bout of passion, a figure knocks me off my feet in an embrace.

"Where were you? What happened?" Professor Harris demands.

His frantic eyes scan my face for any signs of struggle. He ignores my reassurances that I am in fact all right.

“We’ve been scouting the docks for days.” He states focusing on the hibiscus flower by my ear.

Dr. Harris’s mask of composure slides back into place when he registers my tropical attire combined with the man by my side.

"Where did you two end up exactly?" He questions eyeing the sea shell necklace in his eyeline.

“I’m not quite sure. We didn’t stay in one place very long.” I elaborate, “We were afraid they would attack again.”

Professor Harris’s eyes narrow. Following his gaze, I am shocked to find the man beside me has vanished.

"Ms. L/N, we apprehended the man who attacked you days ago. He was supposed to attack Aquaman.”

My blood runs cold. So much for endangering my friends and family.

“Days?” I echo back at him.

The office chatter goes silent in my head. He nods.

“I need a moment.” I choke before storming out the back door.

Gotham Harbor pulsates with life. The sailors peacefully unload their cargo while enjoying the beautiful sunny days. I however sprint past them intend on kicking someone’s ass.

Arthur patiently waits at the edge of the dock completely unaware of the position he put me in.

"You kidnapped me?" I hiss stomping towards him, “You didn't tell me that I had been unconscious for TWO DAYS.”

"I couldn't exactly take you home. Norm knew where you were."

I pause for a moment. Glancing around, I watch as the curious sailors gawk at the scene unfolding. In the distance, Gordon and Harris leans against his truck waiting for the drama to unfold. Kicking him in the shin, I wait for him to lurch downwards before grabbing him by the ear.

"Do not ever lie to me again." I growl ignoring my red tainted vision, “What is wrong with you?”

“It was a favor for a friend.” He calmly replies detangling himself from my grasp.

“Clark.” I spit in disgust.

Arthur stays quiet allowing me to connect the dots.

“You need to check in with them.”

Enraged, I spit, “I'd rather drown Fish boy."

Turning on my heel, I stomp down the dock. The wooden planks creak as I stroll past.

"I can make that happen." He calls watching me leave.

Gordan narrows his eyes in disgust. Glancing at Harris, he winces, "I expect you can take care of this."

Tag list:

@nosyrobin, @jjsmeowthie, @epicyOn, @gaychaosgremlin, @rory-cakes, @luna-zendra-star, @b4tm4nn, @chibiduck, @anuttellaa, @noontimeself

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mostly-imagines · 9 months ago

Text

Sugar on the Rim vol. I

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

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

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

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

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

Should you stand up?

No, he’s rich, not royalty.

You are in his house though—

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

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

“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed.

“Arthur Mullins.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know anybody here.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean, of course, but it—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What exactly is a self-operating cell phone?”

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

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

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

“And so you have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why did you show up last weekend?”

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

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

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

“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.

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

You shrug, “A day in the life,”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

God, he’s a professional.

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

He doesn’t.

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

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

“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”

His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

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

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

“Why’s that?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right?

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

You let him move you.

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

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

You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.

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

You blink at him, “I’m going home?”

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

“No.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Later?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, looking down again.

“You’re nervous,” he comments.

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

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

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

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

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

“Bruce—”

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

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

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

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

“Two hundred.”

“Bruce.”

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

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

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

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

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

You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You groan, “Why?”

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

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

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

You sit back on your heels again, frowning.

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

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

part two

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

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redr0sewrites · 9 months ago

Note

Can I request hcs for batboys experiencing the best blowjobs in their life from their s/o who is shy and has no experience in the sexual activities (like this is their first time doing and they were eager to please the boys)?

🥀A/n: YES!!!! TYSM FOR REQUESTING!!!!

🥀Character(s): Dick Grayson x reader, Jason Todd x reader, Bruce Wayne x reader

🥀Cw: smut, blowjob, dirty talk, praise, inexperienced/virgin!reader

🥀minors dni

Dick Grayson :

he's more than a little cocky at first, cooing at you and treating you like a precious little angel. your inexperience and eagerness definitely turns him on a bit, and that makes him all the more susceptible to how skilled you are at giving him head

thinks it's cute how shy you are, and definitely wants you to be naked beneath him. he doesn't mind if you touch yourself while your pleasuring him, and thinks it's adorable how your eyes widen when you see how big he is

how is that going to fit in your mouth?

while he does tease and mock you just a liiiittle, Dick isn't an asshole

he talks you through it the entire time as he's gently pushing his cock into your mouth, praising you for taking him so well and brushing the tears from your eyes when you gag on his length

when you start sucking him off, Dick swears he's in heaven. he can't help but buck his hips and grind against your face, and it takes everything in him to restrain himself from grabbing a fistfull of your hair and fucking your throat

his head is tossed back and his thighs are twitching, he's mumbling out praises and unashamedly moaning your name like it's a prayer

if you tease him a bit like he did to you and edge him, he will cry and bitch and moan about it until you let him cum.

also, this man has STAMINA expect him to last a little while. if you end up getting too needy and start masturbating while sucking him off, Dick will instruct you on what to do, what pace you should set, and if you end up edging him, he'll make you edge yourself as well. i don't think he's a very strict dom often, but he is commanding when it comes to this. loooveesss when you moan around his cock, the vibrations make him even louder and he is not ashamed of screaming your name when he comes like a porn star. (literally everyone in a mile radius is traumatized)

for your first time, i dont think he'd make you swallow his cum, and it would take a little while until he asks to cum in your mouth. i do think he prefers if u swallow it though. and if you show him his cum in your mouth before swallowing? be prepared for at least 2 more rounds of him just eating you out cuz that turns him on SO QUICK. he prefers to cum in your mouth but won't for the first time out of fear that you think he's a weirdo (he is)

Jason Todd :

Jason is also big on praising you, especially when it comes to your first time sucking him off. he wants to make the experience as comfortable for you as possible and is adamant about having you tap out if anything makes you uncomfortable

thinks its hot when you kneel in front of him, he has a bit of a size kink and you in a smaller position turns him on more than he'd like to admit

makes you suck on his fingers before he lets you suck on his cock. he's a little bit mean and makes you spit on his dick as lube, there's something about how sloppy it is that makes him feral

holds your jaw while you take him in your mouth and coos the sweetest praises as you adjust to his size. Jason is quick to calm any anxieties you have about not being able to take him, and his hand doesn't leave your face the entire time you suck him off. whenever you gag or gasp around him, his thumb runs soothingly over your cheek and he pulls out ever so slightly

talks you through it at first, giving you firm instructions on how to please him.

"fuuck, yea doll, swirl your tongue jus' like that. see baby, you're a natural, practically made f'my cock.."

lots of soft grunts and groans with the occasional whine. he isn't as much of a talker as he begins to get close, but is still pretty vocal

prefers to pull out and cum on your chest, he definitely would not cum on your face but wouldn't mind cumming in your mouth. your chest is definitely his preference though, and he loves when you look up at him with big doe eyes as his release drips down your front

definitely returns the favor and makes you cum at least twice, and is also big on aftercare!!

Bruce Wayne :

listen, while Bruce is definitely into blowjobs, he gets off on your pleasure more than his own. he'll buy you one of those remote controlled vibrators to use on you while your sucking him off, and increases the vibrations when he's close so you both cum at the same time

very gentle with you. he doesn't want to make you gag or hurt you, and he keeps a cautious hand gently resting on the top of your head as you take him into your mouth

loooots of praise, especially when you moan around his cock from the vibrator

Bruce is very quiet during sex in general, but he's a little more vocal than usual when receiving head. he lets out soft sighs and groans of pleasure, mixed in with praises and affectionate whispers of your name

"yes, darling, just like that... so good f'me..."

his thighs twitch and shudder a looot when you suck him off, and his back arches ever so slightly <3 its a very pretty sight to see

while your first time would probably be in the safety and comfort of your bedroom, Bruce loves the intensity of semi-public sex. he definitely wants you to suck him off under his desk, the risk and thrill of being caught all the more prominent whenever footsteps are heard walking by his office doors

likes teasing you and edging you with the vibrator, he wants this to be a pleasurable experience for both of you but may tease you just a bit about cumming untouched

prefers to cum in your mouth, but he'll ask if it's okay before he does so. its a bit of a dirty secret, but he loves kissing you after you gave him head and tasting himself on your tongue. he isn't exactly possessive, but it arouses him more than he'd care to admit

very sweet with aftercare! he'll chuckle at you a bit if you complain about having a sore jaw, but otherwise treats you very well. he definitely always eats you out after you auck him off, even though you've already came. he also would be into experimenting with the remote control vibrator some more if your interested.... 😇

if this seems a teensy bit bad then im sorry, i wrote it while very sleep deprived 💀

ANYWAYS!!! HOPE U ENJOYED!!!! plsplsoslspslsps PLEASE send in jason todd asks this is not a drill

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ellana-ravenwood · 5 months ago

Text

“Batman, you need to-IS THAT A BABY ?!” - Batfam x Fem!reader

Synopsis : Bruce and Batmom bring their newborn daughter to the Watchtower, so she can meet their friends (or vice versa). Includes an overprotective Damian, League members who cannot believe the Batman is smiling, and other shenanigans.

Oop, I’m back (?). My dudes. It’s been TWO YEARS since I last posted here. Two. Years. I posted like, two life update...don’t know if some of y’all saw it, but long story short : I got married, I have a son now, and everything is going so well in my life that I didn’t really need the validation I got from writing online...Buuuuuuuuuuuuut, I still love writing. And so, after quite a long break, here I am :). Hope you will enjoy this, don’t hesitate to let me know if you do :

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

________________________________________________

“You’re evil, you know that right ?” You say, raising an eyebrow.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, my love.” He answers, a small smile on his lips. You turn to him and...Oh that smug look, that smug look you loved so much. He definitely DEFINITELY knew what he was doing.

And that it was utterly...evil.

“It’s going to be FUN !”

Ah, and here’s his little devil. Damian himself. He loved this. Partly because he thought it was funny to mess with everyone, partly because he liked showing that you guys were a family.

“They won’t believe their eyes !” His little voice kept going, followed by a big roar of laughter that sounded, by all means, more childlike than devilish.

“That they won’t, they always seem so surprised when Bruce acts like a human.”

Jason. Still not calling Bruce “dad” (except sometimes, by “accident”, and even him don’t realize he did), he’d only slowly been back at the manor, with all of you. And, for sure, a certain important event which happened about four months ago made it so he came back to live at home.

Dick chuckled and added : “Who would blame them ? We’re talking about a man who eats his burgers with a knife and fork !” He gestured to his father with his left thumb, his other hand shielding part of his mouth as if he was telling them all a secret, as if he was trying to be discreet, so his dad wouldn’t hear...Always quite the little clown, that eldest son of yours. With his exaggerated mannerism, and that sparkle in his eyes, in his smile.

“I’m certain some of them thought he was genuinely a cyborg for YEARS” Tim added, quite seriously, his tone the opposite of his older brother (and that was just his way of joking...you think). And honestly ? Yeah, you were pretty sure some of your friends at the JLA thought your husband was a robot, at one point.

Oh yes. That’s where you were going, to the JLA’s headquarters. To execute Bruce’s plan. Quite the evil plan indeed.

“Hell, even I thought he was one before I met you guys !” Duke chimed in, and that made Cassandra smile widely, as she shook her head up and down pointing at Duke as if to say : “what he just said”.

And in a very Bruce manner, your husband kept a straight face, ignoring his children’s teasing. Only you, saw that twinkle in his eyes, that smile that might not reach his mouth, but was definitely dancing in those bright blue eyes.

Oh yes. Yes, your friends were in for quite the surprise.

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

Meanwhile, in the Justice League headquarters :

“Oh, hey ! Look, Batman’s zeta tube is turning on ! We haven’t seen him in a while right ?”

Indeed they haven’t. Because, well, let’s put it this way : Batman’s wife just had a baby.

A baby girl (finally, right ? You and Cass weren’t TOO outnumbered anymore).

And Batman had been VERY busy doting over his baby girl.

Batman had been busy being Bruce Wayne.

Just a man, who thought he’d never be happy again, not knowing how to handle all those feelings he had for his wife (for you), for his children.

That was happiness then, right ?

So, yes. Batman hasn’t been much at the JLA’s headquarters lately. But your husband thought, it was finally time to go see his friends a little bit. He knew they were all up there, because it was their monthly reunion (once each month, they gathered to talk about the state of the world, the universe, what threat lingered, what lurked beyond...and to get very drunk, and see their friends, the only ones who knew what it meant to be a “hero”).

And that what’s made him particularly evil.

He knew, they would all be there. He knew what their reaction was going to be. After all, his memory was amazing, he definitely hadn’t forgot the way they reacted the first time they saw you, the first time they learned he had children (childrEN, plural !).

And he knew they were a little worried about him.

He had missed their last three reunions, and only answered : “Everything is ok” to their messages asking if he was alright (they hadn’t dared to go see if he was indeed ok, because last time they did that, they found him bed ridden with all the bones in his body broken, and he got so mad at them for butting in his business he worked twice as hard when he was fine again, and didn’t talk a WORD for months...that was, of course, years ago, before you were in his life, but the experience was still in their minds and so, they decided to respect his privacy, he would come to them when ready). And he never pushed his “red button”, him, or anyone in the family.

They just assumed he was busy, they hoped it wasn’t anything bad.

Yes. They were worried. For him. For you. For your kids. For Alfred. For your dogs, your cats, your cow...They. Were. Worried.

And Bruce knew.

You told him, when your pregnancy was confirmed, to tell his friends. That they would be happy. But after his own initial happy thought, his surge of hope and love at knowing he was going to be a dad again, he started to make his plan.

Why tell them, when you could toy with them ?

“They deserve it.” He told you, and you weren’t sure if they did, but you weren’t about to fight him on that. After all, you too, thought it could be amusing. Amusing to hide your pregnancy, making up excuses as to why they couldn't come see you, and you didn’t come up the headquarter. Amusing, to even hide it quite expertly from any form of news (Bruce was a MASTER of disguise, not only for himself), so it would be a real surprise.

Amusing, to have your little girl in secret, with only your family. Amusing, but also what you wanted. For this good news to be just between you, your children, and Alfred. Your close family. Because you had too few things that just were yours.

This had to be yours. Your thing, your secret, your own happiness. Yours, and only yours. And you found it was good, that you guys spend the first few months of your daughter’s life only between yourselves.

It was nice, to go out “disguised” as a normal couple, and show your daughter Gotham (and how her little eyes already tried to take the entire world within them).

It was nice, to live in total privacy for a little bit.

So, yes, you had been a little selfish. And he had, too. You knew it wasn’t just to prank his friends, he kept it all a secret. That it was also to have some quality time with his family. To spend the first few months of his daughter’s life being the only one being utterly smitten with her.

Though, this last thing wasn't true...You were, too. And your children ? Let’s just say your daughter had not been alone ONCE since she was born. And she seemed to love it.

Whenever she made the slightest sound, smiled, laughed (or cried), they were there, Bruce was there, absolutely loving that little baby.

She was almost 4 months old now, and Bruce thought that the gist had to be up. What scale did he use to measure this amount of “readiness” ? You had no idea. You thought he was just now ready to share his happiness with his friends, and not just his close family.

And so here you were, after months of secrecy carefully crafted and orchestrated by your husband, in the JLA’s headquarters, along with your family, the little new addition to said family in your husband’s arms.

Evil. Your husband was downright evil.

He knew that what was about to happen would have a massive impact on his friends. He. KNEW.

And as the zeta tube brought all your family up there, you knew that as he saw their faces, your husband was a little TOO happy with himself for his little “prank”.

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

“Batman, are you al- IS THAT A BABY ?” Very typical, very in character : the first to react was Flash himself.

None of the other noticed, and they seemed inclined to think Barry had lost his mind but then...

Bruce’s face didn’t move an inch, he just held that little “package”, and had his same stoic expression except...Except there was a little hand grabbing at his chin.

Then another hand appeared out of that bundle Batman carried, with a bat plushie bunched in a tight fist, shaking it and...Cooing.

Cute little sounds, and the way- EXCUUUuuUuuuUSE ME ?

The way Batman just softly looked at her, the way his cold expression was replaced by a tender one as he lowered his eyes to her ??

WHAT ?!

They knew. They knew he had THE softest spot for his family. They knew his scary aura greatly dimmed when he was around his wife and children. They knew that when they weren’t there, he was only made of shadows. They were his light, his salvation.

They knew he didn’t have the same face expression, when they were around.

Well, when they were looking at him...Barry swore that Batman loomed around his family, standing menacingly behind them, his eyes cold and calculating as if he was ready to fight any seconds to save his loved ones, and then whenever they turned to him his feature would instantly soften. He will ALWAYS remember the first time he met little Dickie, 9 years old and so full of joy and life, and how whenever he would look at Batman and talk to him, said Batman got a softer expression somewhat, but then when Dick turned around, Batman looked about to murder them whenever they came too close from him.

Once, Tim, also 9 at the time, years after the JLA met Dick, told Barry matter of factly : “He doesn’t kill people. He could break your knee caps though” in a very Tim fashion. The kid was serious. And had noticed the aura surrounding his dad, how it changed when he was around (he noticed more than his siblings, because for a while, Bruce had been really cold and distant with him, since he met him not long after Jason’s death..understandable. So he was the only one who had this sort of behavior aimed at him, the shield Bruce put in front of him to keep everyone away so he wouldn’t be hurt, the shield that now was lowered for them and only them).

It was his eyes. His eyes that were always hard and cold, became different when looking at you or his children.

Not to say that his family never exasperated him, or that he never had his “mask” around them. After all, Bruce’s stoic expression was his face by default. It’s just that he was often too focused. And that he spend years practicing hiding his emotions, practicing keeping a blank face. Because Barry also remembered seeing Dick perched on his father’s shoulders, letting himself dangle in his back, his head upside down, whistling and kicking his feet, and Bruce having this stoic mask on, concentrated.

Anyway, they knew all that. It had been years, since Bruce finally trusted them enough to bring his wife here, and his kids. But yet, yet they were still surprised sometimes.

Like today.

The picture of Batman holding a baby was...a little weird.

Even if he opened up to them over the years, he was still mostly very cold, distant and aloof. You know, Batman. That’s just who he was. So sometimes, to see him so devoted to his wife or kids, it was odd to say the least.

And right now, as he walked towards them with a baby in his arms, the shock was real. Damn it, will there be a day when the Bat didn’t surprise them with something ?

How did none of them notice you were pregnant ? Proof again Batman was a master of his craft. And that little girl...

Oh your daughter was such a beaming ray of sunshine, that in his arms it was particularly a jarring image.

The big scary bat, tall, broad shouldered, muscular in every way, his face void of expressions, holding a tiny baby who kept smiling at everyone around, and playing with her plushy.

Odd.

Yet, sweet.

Were they surprised ? Yes.

Were they a little mad he hid something (AGAIN) this important from them ? Definitely.

Were they shocked that his daughter was so darn cute and smiling and laughing that much ? Not really, because you were his mom too.

Were they happy for him ? For sure.

Were they going to adore that little girl ? Probably as much as they adored his other kids already, which meant...yes. Yes they were going to.

Damn that bastard Bruce. Always so sneaky.

Hal, couldn’t help but think : “First, he’s not a vampire, then, he’s married with children, and now, he has that cute baby. This guy ??!!”

***********

The initial shocked passed, and only after your children MOCKED all of your friends (you had to give it to Dick, he knew how to imitate them so well..and when Damian joined in ? Oh, oh it was a fit of laughter impossible to fight that attacked them), did they approach your daughter.

“Her name is Martha.” Bruce said “We named her after my mother.” and it wasn’t his usual flat tone he used as Batman. No, it was a soft voice he usually only reserved for his kids. And the reason he was using it now ? Well. He didn’t want to scare his daughter, as he still held her.

She beamed at him when she heard her name, and babbled some baby nonsense. She then turned towards all those new faces, and you saw Bruce’s hand hold her a little tighter.

Your beautiful, sweet soul husband. He clearly was worried she’d be scared, meeting all those new people. Especially since they all wore mask. But Martha-

Martha let go of her bat plushy (which Damian caught before it touched the floor, rolling on the ground in a way you thought was quite comedic. Oh, that boy), and lifted her arms up towards-

“What a sweet little girl !” Diana said with a voice you NEVER heard her use. You realized it was her “voice reserved for babies and domestic animals”, and it made you smile. It was higher than her usual voice, and full of softness.

You thought your daughter reached for her because she could feel the warmness in your friend. And after all, amongst all of those gathered here today, she was probably the one that adored babies the most.

Diana looked at Bruce, who only inclined his head a little to give her the ok to lift her from his arms but-

Another arm stopped her, and took the baby away.

Damian.

Damian, the one who took his role as a big brother a little too seriously.

He held Martha protectively against him, and literally sneered at all your friends.

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

Damian deemed most of them unworthy to hold his baby sister, and only Clark ended up being allowed to carry her. And that was partly because Clark was the only one who knew about Martha, the only one who saw her already, and he had months to convince your son to trust him with her.

Being an extremely close friend and all, you just couldn’t hide this from him and... no, really, you literally couldn’t hide this from him as he was the immediately noticed that second heartbeat when he listened in to make sure you and your family were safe. Bruce hated when he did that, but Clark wasn’t about to let them be in danger without moving an inch.

Anyway, Clark was allowed to hold her, but he gave her back to you rather quickly because your son’s stare made him uncomfortable. If eyes could kill, right ?

Damian took his job as an older brother very seriously. He would protect her at all cost. And you had no doubt that he would be the kind of person to burn the entire world down if it meant saving his family.

Damian only glared at everyone, letting them approach ONLY after they put on a surgical mask so they wouldn’t give her their “viruses or whatever”.

You had to admit he was a bit much, and you asked him nicely to calm down a little. He relented on the face masks, but made them all wash their hands (twice).

You ruffled his hair affectionately, what a sweet little boy. It broke your heart, how so many people judged him too fast. He really was, a nice kid. With a heart of gold. He just didn’t have much luck for the first few years of his life.

But he chose to be like this. Chose to love, instead of hate. Chose to protect, instead of attacking.

Although, right now, as Diana came back towards his sister, he definitely seems ready to high kick her (which definitely wouldn’t have hurt the amazon).

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

It was a hassle, to convince Damian to let go of his sister so they could hold her. As per usual, it’s Dick who managed to convince him, saying Martha was all soft and cute, and everyone deserved to hold her at least once. Adding that if one of them dropped her, he would be allowed to do whatever he wanted to them.

Some of the mightiest heroes of the planet were gathered hear, but the threat didn’t fall on deaf ears. Damian could be a little intense, and scary sometimes.

They weren’t fooled by Dick’s agreeable smile either. A smile that didn’t always reach his eyes. They knew if they messed up, he would find every way to rip them to shreds. Dick was often seen as the calmest of your children, but his anger issues from when he was a child were never far. And he could be ruthless.

Diana held her first, and your daughter babbled to her excitedly.

Of course, being only 4 months old, she just talked gibberish. And it was so sweet, how Diana answered her : “What ? *babbles from your daughter* Noooooo. *more babbles from your daughter* I can’t believe he said that. And then what ? *babbles babbles babbles*”.

After that, Dick took her back, and asked if someone else wanted to hold her, under yours and Bruce’s watchful eyes.

Then again, in the room, many were also already parents and knew how to hold a baby. They weren’t too worried, except-

Except Dick, that little sh-, had found a new game in recent weeks. Whenever he gave his little sister to someone else...he pretended to drop her.

And it made him laugh and laugh and laugh, to give mini-heart attacks to EVERYONE whenever he gave them his baby sister to them, as they always all panicked and screamed seeing her dropped (Dick always had her secure, he only pretended to drop her of course).

“Oh no careful !” He’d scream, dropping his arms suddenly (she looooved it) while still gripping her, and they’d scramble to catch her, and he would just laugh.

“You little-” Hal’s colorful words were...imaginative. And Damian was inclined to agree, since his brother pranked him oh, I don’t know, only about A HUNDRED TIMES since their little sister was born.

You wouldn’t admit it, but it made you laugh a little too. Even if he got you a few times as well, pretending he was going to drop her. Then again, you trusted your eldest son. Once you and Bruce wouldn’t be around anymore, you knew he would hold this family together.

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

Martha was a calm baby. She let people hold her, curious enough to not fuss and watch them all intently. It made Barry uncomfortable, how she held his gaze and would just stare at him.

She would stare, and stare, and stare, and her bright blue eyes were EXACTLY like Bruce’s, it felt like being stared down by a miniature version of Batman.

He didn’t like it. So he gave her back to whomever was closest, which happened to be Jason

Jason, who was always very delicate with his little sister. He handled her as if he’d break her. It broke your heart, to know he probably literally thought that.

He refused to hold her at first, sure he would hurt her. But she kept reaching for him, crying when he wouldn’t take her, and she was so adorable and-

He caved, of course. After a little while. And he was oh, the fixture of a patient older brother. You knew he would ALWAYS be part of her life, and step in whenever she needed to.

Right now, she was grabbing his hair, which were getting quite long, and pulling hard on them as babies do and- He didn’t say anything. He just let her do it.

You really hoped she wasn’t going to take advantage of this when she’d get older, even if you already had visions of her having her brothers and father wrapped around her little finger, having her sister too, and...apparently, the entirety of the JLA.

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

“How can such an a-hole make such a cute baby ?” Hal said, looking at the little girl he held. She was sort of dozing off, which for sure was adorable.

Bruce only glared at him, which amused Hal greatly. He just gave him the shock of his life, he could laugh at his expense a little, right ?

“I believe, to make a baby, you need to-”

“Um, no, Jon, please, I know how to ! It’s just-Oh, forget it.”

Flustered, Hal Jordan was flustered. Jon J’onzz didn’t seem to get why, but then again, human sarcasms and irony were still very foreign to him. He always answered pragmatically to people.

Talking about pragmatism. Hal handed back your daughter to Tim, who slipped her in his favorite new contraption : the baby carrier 3.0 (of his own design). Made so he could do all sort of work while having her strapped to him. Keeping an eye on her at all time.

Tim adopted the use of a baby carrier, so he could still work while taking care of her (he stole the idea from his dad, who definitely hung around with his daughter EVERYWHERE with that thing...which was the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen, this tall broad man and this tiny baby attached to his chest).

It was so cute to see her little feet dangling while he was working. Damian nearly lost it when he found Tim WELDING two pieces of metal together with the baby carrier on his front. Tim merely said : “I made her baby sized goggles and a fireproof pyjama, she’s fine, and she likes it” and indeed, your daughter didn’t have a scratch, and cried when Damian hauled her away from the sparks. Ooooh the smug look on Tim’s face as his brother gave her back reluctantly. Damian’s was utterly vexed.

Vexation he forgot just a few minutes later, when Martha decided she had enough of sparkles and made little sounds of protest (not quite cries), and reached her little arms to him.

As of now, Tim had her in this baby carrier again, and was strolling around the JLA headquarters, showing his new little sister to everyone.

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

Cassandra didn’t say a word, as per usual. She never liked big crowds, only spoke to those she trusted the most. Her brothers, her parents.

She only gestured to others. Remained quiet. But she monitored every little movements.

Hawkgirl approached her sister ? Noted. Carefully studying every move. Martian Manhunter asked if he could hold her ? Noted.

Superman made little babbling sound at her, while her dad held her ? Noted, with amusement. It was funny, to see one of Earth’s mightiest hero grimacing to a baby to make it laugh, while said baby was held by another mighty hero who was utterly stoned face. Cass’ smiled at her dad, who smiled back for a fraction of seconds before Clark shifted his head up to look at him too, and Bruce went back to his : “ -_-” face, by reflex really.

Cassandra never spoke much, but she loved a lot. And her way of loving her little sister ? It was to always keep a watchful eye on her, so she could react to whatever she needed. And give her space when she needed to.

She had many brothers, she often joked that if she lost one, she could just replace him (a joke you didn’t like much, because you knew it was just a self-defense from her, to shield her heartbreak at the mere idea of loosing a sibling), but only had one sister...

Yes. Your youngest child definitely held a special place in everyone’s heart.

And you could see her slowly creep in every members’ of the Justice League’s heart too.

Gods, you couldn’t even imagine what would happen to the person who would one day try to hurt her. You could bet, though, he wouldn’t get out of it unscathed (to say the least).

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

Martha was particularly fond of Duke’s inuit kiss. He had the capacity to instantly calm her, and he could easily feel her inner emotions.

As she was passed around everyone, and she started to be tired and cranky, he simply retrieved her and brought her to Bruce, because he knew that was her preferred spot to fall asleep.

He kissed her on the forehead, and sure enough, she was asleep before he could pull away. Your husband put a warm hand on Duke’s head, a warm smile on his face. That boy could always tell what others felt. It was a gift, really, and sometimes a curse as others’ feelings could leak into him. Which is to say that sometimes, when others were sad, he would be too...

But for now, he felt content. At peace. Because his dad was, too.

And indeed, Bruce, holding his sleeping daughter against his heart, his hand supporting her head gently, was utterly at peace.

He loved the idea that his arms were his daughter’s favorite place to sleep, and never refused to hold her to help her sleep. You sure were a little jealous, but he told you : “They all always come to you when they need comfort, one kid out of six, you surely can give me, right ?” and though you knew he was joking, it broke your heart a little.

So, you let go of your jealousy, and let him have this indeed. Martha was definitely a daddy’s girl. And that was good. You could see the impact on your husband, how having a baby in the house soothed him.

He loved his kids so damn much. He often said they were his lights. And the fact Martha found comfort with him ?

It reminded him of his own parents. How he would go to his mom, a Martha too, to find the same comfort. To fall asleep in the same way.

You let go of that small jealousy, as you saw her falling soundly asleep, cuddled up against her dad. And it was funny, how Bruce would take his usual Batman persona, stone faced, standing straight and-

Having one of two fingers held tightly by both of his daughter’s little hands. She grabbed them as he took her, one hand holding her (she was so tiny...and he was a big dude), the other, she used as a sort of comfort plushy. She held them with all her might, as she slept.

And Bruce was speaking battle plans, and you had to fight the laughter in you as all your friends couldn’t help but stare at the scene, not knowing how to feel.

Hal snickered at one point, and he made a gesture for him to zip it, and it was quite an odd scene, as he held his daughter and did that childish gesture.

Seriously. That guy !!

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

Batman smiling was...different.

They all got caught staring at him, when he had his daughter in his arms. Staring because his broad smile was-

Well. Broad.

It wasn’t his signature smirk. It wasn’t a soft smile. It wasn’t a half-smile. It wasn’t a smile that you could only see in his eyes.

It was a full on big ass smile (as Barry would say).

And sure, they already saw him smile like that (although he schooled his face back to “stone mode” when he noticed them looking), never that much.

As if the birth of his daughter gave Batman another new light, and it was just impossible to yield to his old demon, to brood, when holding that ray of sunshine.

It made them all feel...soft. And warm.

It was nice, to know the bat wasn’t just a machine. They forgot it sometimes, that he was, in the end, “just” a man. They forgot why he became Batman. The pain and guilt he held inside. But moments like this, they were reminded of it.

That the Batman didn’t exist because of hatred, but because of love.

Because he loved his parents, his city, and now-

His family.

It was nice, to get reminded that there was a man below the mask. And though he could be an “a-hole” sometimes, there, holding his baby, he was just that.

A loving man, who wanted to protect others.

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

You made a note of every moments you would cherish forever of you introducing your daughters to them all :

1. The shock on their faces as they beheld the sight of THE BATMAN holding a baby against him, and being so delicate.

2. Your daughter being the star of the show, all of them smitten with her !

3. Your friends wanting to hold her, and how they beamed at her (and she beamed back, except with Barry, whom she only stared at for some reasons).

4. Dick’s “game” of pretending he dropped her, and their panicked reaction.

5. The success of Tim’s baby carrier, and how now, there was always one up in the tower.

6. Diana and how it definitely seemed like she would move mountain for that child.

7. How Clark’s eyes filled with tears again, as he looked at Martha. Because it made his friends so happy. You and Bruce. And especially Bruce. And Clark was an emotional man, who suffered too, and was just so happy “The Batman” was happy.

8. How Jason seemed at peace with his little sister, and how whenever he held her, he seemed less weary than usual around everyone. Like Cass, he didn’t like much being amongst too many people. But now, it felt like he had an “emotional support baby”. Ah.

9. Their reactions, past the shock, welcoming that new life in the world.

10. How Bruce monitored his daughter being held by his friends, holding your hand. Even after all those years, when he acted close to you in his Batman costume, it made you...feel things. He always kept a facade as Batman. A facade that would crumble with his kids, and especially with you. PDA weren’t rare. And even after years at his side, it always made your heart beat wildly when he showed affection towards you in public, because it meant-

Oh it meant so much.

And you had so many more moments forever ingrained in your heart from that day spend up at the JLA’s headquarters.

Too many to count. Some sweet, some hilarious-

All positive feelings.

And as you and your family stepped back in the zeta tubes, your friends saying “byyyyye” to Martha especially, with their baby voice (making Bruce roll his eyes), and as she waved at them-

Waved for the FIRST TIME ever oh.

Oh it felt like you would die of happiness.

And still, Bruce’s hands held yours tightly.

He knew.

He knew, you were the source of this happiness he thought he could never find again.

He knew.

He never loved like that before.

Yes. It felt like you could just die of happiness.

__________________________________________________

And here we are. I hope you enjoyed this. Don’t hesitate to comment and/or reblog, it’s always greatly appreciated :).

Also, initially, the child was going to be Thomas (their son in my “main” storyline, if you already read a few works from me), but last minute, I was like : “wait no, I want to give Bruce a daughter, and the boys a sister. Also, poor Cass eh ?” and here we are. I really hope you liked this; I’m nervous for some reasons. Anyway. See you soon with another one ?

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ktkat99 · 7 months ago

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Brucie Wayne has a bedazzled phone case.

One so sparkly and shiny with so many charms and stickers and trinkets glued to it that he can't even fit it comfortably in his pocket and must therefore carry it around.

Whenever he's asked, he admits that he allows his kids to decorate it for him, and then is able to point out what came from who.

Ballet slippers from Cass's first dance lesson.

An elephant from that time he took Dick to the zoo.

Glitter because Steph and Jason were unattended and bored.

Dog and turkey charms because Damian, despite rolling his eyes whenever his siblings added to their fathers collection, refused to be left out.

A rhinestone crown with 'Yas Queen' under it that had appeared one day. It had taken a week to figure out that it had come from Duke.

#batman imagine #batman #batfam #bruce wayne #dick grayson #jason todd #tim drake #red robin #nightwing #red hood #robin #signal #spoiler #orphan #batbrats #batkids #brucie wayne

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streetlamp-amber · 8 months ago

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never ending night

bruce wayne x femwife!reader

word count: 1.7k | divider by @saradika | requests are open!

CW: pregnancy, pure fluff NOTES: hello hi i’m ailís and i’ve been meaning to start a blog where i can post some one shots that i’ve been thinking of as a way to motivate myself to finally write down my ideas so this is it. i’ll be double posting my stuff on ao3 (which you can find in my bio) and will eventually make a masterlist as well as a navigation post with a list of fandoms/characters i write for. also, english isn’t my first language.

It was close to three in the morning when Bruce finally joined you in bed after a long night of patrolling and fighting bottom of the barrel criminals all night. He showered in the bathroom on the first floor of the manor to avoid making too much noise and waking you up, but when he finally walked in your shared bedroom, you were already awake, sitting up against the headboard.

“Darling, what are you doing still up?” Bruce asked you as he reached his side of the bed.

The room was dark par for the moonlight filtering through the gap between the curtains, meaning your husband had yet to notice the state you were in.

“Dick had a nightmare,” you answered, voice barely above a whisper due to how tired you were. “It took me two hours to get him to fall back asleep and when I finally came back here, this little one started kickboxing me and keeping me awake for another hour,” you continued rubbing your round belly in hopes of soothing your baby to finally catch some sleep.

“I’m sorry I wasn't here to help,” Bruce apologised, planting a kiss on your temple as he held you close to his body.

“It’s alright, Gotham needs you,” you dismissed, not at all angry.

“Still, you’re six months pregnant. You’re growing our child inside your body, you need all the rest you can get,” he softly argued. “I would've come home earlier but all the amateur criminals came out tonight.”

“Bruce, it’s fine,” you brought your hand up to his cheek and he leaned his head into your touch. “You’ve already been cutting your patrols shorter since we found out about the baby. As long as you keep coming back home to us, alive, then I’m not mad.”

Not knowing what to say – his gratefulness for having someone so accepting of his duty as Batman was almost overwhelming, even after all those years – Bruce kissed your palm while staring at you with the same look full of love that he has been sporting since the first time he met you six years ago.

“How’d I get so lucky to fall in love with the most understanding and selfless person I know?” He asked while grabbing your hand on his cheek, wrapping his fingers around yours and squeezing them gently.

“Now that’s a lie,” you rebutted, a loving smile on your lips, lowering your joined hands on the bed. “You’re more selfless than I am. You’re the most selfless man in the world.”

“Let’s not start this never ending argument again,” Bruce chuckled, now his turn to hold your face as he brought you in for a kiss.

You happily sighed against his lips, the feeling of home that overtook you every time you tasted them was a nice welcome in this interminable night. But the kiss was cut short as you felt your baby kick again and you let your head fall back as you groaned.

“She’s still kicking?” Bruce asked you, he couldn't see the movements under your skin due to the darkness of the room and your hand on your belly.

“We don't know it's a she,” you reminded him instead of answering. You had both decided to wait until the birth to know the gender.

“And I’m telling you, I know it's a girl,” your husband repeated for what could be the hundredth time.

You also secretly hoped it was a girl, but Dick really wanted a little brother. Bruce and you were still in the process of warming him up to the idea of a little sister and it was slowly starting to work.

“As long as she doesn't come in my room,” your eight year old son had said last week, with his arms crossed over his chest and a pout on his lips.

“I doubt she’ll be doing that for the first few years, chum,” Bruce reassured him, fighting off a slightly amused grin.

“And the baby will have its own room with its own toys,” you added.

“Will I still be able to play with the baby?” Dick asked after a moment, uncrossing his arms and a hopeful look filling up his blue eyes.

“Of course you will, bubs,” you said, your fingers threading through his black hair that fell over his forehead.

“But only with her toys at first, some of yours are not suited for a baby,” Bruce pointed out, ever the overprotective father.

Bruce had lowered himself down under the blanket so he could be laying head levelled with your belly, his hand now replacing yours over the bump.

“Hey trouble,” he whispered to your child and the baby kicked again, making him smile lovingly at the movement he felt under his hand. “You shouldn't be awake this late at night, you know.”

“You're one to talk,” you commented, tone almost reprimanding.

“She doesn't know that,” Bruce looked up at you as he defended himself before his gaze fell back on your belly. “Mommy is really tired,” he continued talking to your baby, his hand now rubbing soothingly over your round stomach, “and she needs her rest to do all the work so you can come out all healthy and beautiful. Well, you're definitely gonna be the most beautiful baby if you end up looking like your mother, but that's not the point.”

You smiled at the cheesy comment and your fingers found their place in Bruce’s hair, brushing through it and nails occasionally scratching his scalp.

“Your brother Dick can't wait for you to come around,” he carried on. “Said he will teach you all sorts of acrobatic tricks once you know how to walk. And he asked Alfred if he could help paint the nursery when we finally decide on a colour.”

“And I keep telling you we should do soft green,” you argued.

“I’m not changing my mind from primrose pink,” he told you with a sly grin.

“The room won’t be pink, even if it’s a girl. And that’s final,” you firmly said. Your husband will not be winning this one argument, no sir.

Bruce sighed, rolling his eyes before focusing back on your belly. “I hope you’re not as stubborn as your mother,” he whispered to the baby, as if he was having a private conversation with them and that you weren’t there. “Don’t get me wrong, it’s one of the many reasons why I fell in love with her, but I won’t be able to say no to you even when I have to, so it would save me a lot of reprimanding from Mommy if you’re not as tenacious as her.”

You smiled to yourself as you continued listening to your husband talk to your unborn child as you threaded your fingers through his hair, enjoying the softness it had after a shower. Bruce usually gelled his hair to appear more professional when he was working in the day, and then it would get all mixed up with his sweat under his cowl when he was working as Batman. When he would come back to you after the day was over, you would refuse to touch his hair until he had showered, the texture of the gel and sweat too gross on your fingers for you to ignore.

As Bruce continued talking to your baby, his voice started lulling the two of you to sleep. The baby hadn’t kicked in over almost ten minutes now, and the peace you had waited for so long to arrive made you aware of how heavy your eyelids were. You slowly lowered yourself down the bed, getting in a comfortable position with Bruce’s help where you could finally lay your head on your pillow and it didn’t take long for sleep to catch up on you.

At the sound of your soft, barely audible snores, Bruce turned his head away from your bump to find you asleep with your free hand raised next to your head on your pillow, the other one still tangled in his hair.

He planted a soft kiss on the exposed skin of your belly, eyes closed as he took a moment to absorb the fact that a baby that was half you and half him would be joining your world in a little more than three months. Bruce wasn't known to cry, the only time you ever saw him cry was as you walked down the aisle at your wedding, but tonight, a lonesome tear rolled down his cheek and fell on your stomach, where your child was growing, because Bruce never believed he would ever get to experience again the amount of love he hadn't felt since he was eight years old.

As he observed you, sleeping soundly with his child coming to life inside you, after you comforted Dick back to sleep, Bruce, for a moment, felt overwhelmed by all the love in his life. When he became Batman, he crossed out the idea of ever having a family (other than Alfred), of settling down with someone he loved and who loved him back.

But somehow, the universe put you on his path, as a miracle or a guardian angel or simply as an anchor to life outside of Batman, he didn't know. You walked into his home, into his life, to remind him that he, Bruce Wayne, was also deserving of love, of family, of happiness. Then Dick came along, rather unexpectedly but still no less welcomed, and Bruce started entertaining the idea of having children with you. He definitely wasn't opposed to it, but it wasn't something he wanted to jump right into, especially with Dick having just entered your lives. You were both young, he in his early thirties and you in your late twenties, you could allow yourselves a couple of years just the three of you (four with Alfred) before expanding the family.

So it was rather shocking when two months after you and Bruce had officially adopted Dick that you found out you were pregnant. It both took you by surprise but after talking through it together, you couldn't be happier. And the two of you haven't stopped being happy about this new little addition ever since.

Bruce rose up from his position next to your belly, your limp hand fell from his head as he did so, and he laid on the bed next to you. He delicately kissed your forehead, then your nose before falling back on his pillow and whispered “I love you” as he curled around your body, his hand resting on your belly as he fell asleep.

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alisonwritesimagines · 11 months ago

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Count On Mom ~Batfamily Imagine~

Summary: The kids try to get Bruce to get away from the computer. Luckily, there is always one person who can take his mind out of anything including Batman duties. You.

Author’s Note: Haven't posted much in a while and I kept seeing a lot of Batfamily stuff at the last convention I went to so here we go!

BatFamily Masterlist

Reader’s Pronouns: She/Her

Warnings: boob flashing, hint to smut

Side Note: This is a secondary blog. If you comment a question down below, I will not answer since this is not the main blog. Please send the question to my inbox if you want a response back!

Do not repost this anywhere!

Three of the batkids stared at their adoptive father as he had been stuck in front of the screen in the Batcave. None of the moved as they watched Bruce in some kind of trance.

“How long since he moved?” Dick asked Cassandra and Jason.

“A day,” Cassandra monotonous answered.

“I think he blinked a minute ago, does that count?” Jason asked.

“It’s official. Alfred called it. He said he’ll bake cookies if we can get Bruce to stop working,” Duke said as he walked into the batcave.

"Step aside," Jason said as he cracked his knuckles. "This will be over in no time."

As the kids began to try to get Bruce to move away, no effort was made to moving Bruce.

"I got an idea," Dick said as he took out his phone.

You felt your phone ring, making you put the groceries down onto the kitchen island so you could answer your phone. You had just gone to the store to grab some ingredients to make dinner for tomorrow's dinner.

“Hello?”

“Hey mom! Are you and Damien almost done with grocery shopping yet?”

“We just got home. Why?”

“We’re trying to pry Bruce off of the computer in the Batcave and Alfred said he’d make us cookies if we get him away from the screen.”

“I’m on my way,” you say with a chuckle at the end.

"Already began to bake the cookies. I know you'll be able to get him away," Alfred told you.

"Of course I can. That's my superpower in this family," you joked.

When you got to the Batcave, you saw your husband tiredly staring at the screen in front of him. The dark bags under his eyes from the lack of sleep made you upset but you knew there was one thing you could do that would always get his attention.

"Aw my poor husband," you say.

"You got this mom?" Jason asked you.

“Step aside kids and close your eyes,” you tell them as you walked over to your husband.

“What are you going to do mom?” Dick as as he covered his eyes. The rest of the kids quickly covered their eyes to avoid to see what you were going to do.

You climbed onto Bruce’s lap before lifting both your shirt and bra in front of him. Bruce quickly snapped out of his daze before looking up at you with a smile.

“Tempting me my love?”

“Maybe,” you smile as you pulled your shirt and bra down.

“Let me have my cookies and you can have me,” you whispered into his ears as you stood up.

“Okay kids. Enjoy Alfred’s cookies,” you say as you headed out.

The moment the kids uncovered their eyes, they watched in shock as Bruce already began to make his way towards you.

“Leave it to mom for getting Bruce to do anything other than his Batman duties,” Jason said.

"I wonder how she does it," Duke says out loud.

"Because dad's got it bad for mom," Dick tells him.

By the time Bruce got to you, you were eating your chocolate chip cookies that Alfred had made with Damien. You winked at your husband as you kissed Damien’s head.

“Alfred, why don’t you and the kids go out for a bit? It’s lovely outside,” you tell him.

“Of course,” Alfred said before walking over to get the rest of the kids. You began to head upstairs to your room, knowing that you had stirred something in Bruce.

“You coming Bruce?” You called out. You smirked as you heard Bruce’s fastened footsteps.

You let out a laugh as you felt him pick you up. You held onto him as he rushed over to the bedroom.

“I owe you some alone time don’t I?” Bruce asked you with a smile.

“Yes you do. Now, while everyone is out of the house, why don’t you make it up to me?” You asked him.

“I plan to," Bruce said before kissing you passionately.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne #batman x reader #batman imagine #batman #dc #dc imagine #batfam x reader #batfam imagine #wayne family adventures #alisonwritesimagines

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ahqkas · 3 months ago

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“MILLION DOLLAR MAN — bruce wayne.

PAIRING! bruce wayne 𝒙 fem!reader SYNOPSIS! bruce met you through a dating app (his sons’ doing, really) and the temptation to invite you over for christmas is getting harder to resist WORD COUNT! 3.6k WARNINGS / TAGS! fluff, bruce is literally down bad for reader in this one, unedited + lmk if found! NOTES! for nat & based on this req. , header bellow belongs to @/v6que © ahqkas — all rights reserved. even when credited, these works are prohibited to be reposted, translated or modified

BRUCE WAYNE AVOIDED RELATIONSHIPS LIKE A SOLDIER DODGING BULLETS, each attempt adding yet another layer to the armor he wore daily. He didn’t need them, the women, or so he told himself. They entered his life easily — at his own charity galas, where one pretty bird thought she could get a kiss from him by the end of the night. Female admirers who ate up his charming smiles and sharp eyes seemed to flock around him at all times. And those countless girls who were lured in by the Wayne name, the status, the wealth.

And Bruce gave them the attention they craved from him.

The women served their purpose as brief districtions, companions who helped him maintain his public image, but none of them really mattered to him.

They kept the colder side of his bed warm, but never his heart.

It wasn’t that Bruce didn’t want love — some part of him did, but that part was buried under the weight of Batman. Allowing himself to lose the walls around him and find an attachment in a woman wasn't something his alter ego was okay with, not with the way he’d been living. And another part convinced him that his duties as Gotham’s protector, with all his scars and wounds, didn’t make him a possible object for such things. Love and vigilantism didn’t mingle together well.

Maybe that’s why his own sons and personal butler teamed up on him. Batman was a hero to many, but with how much it damaged Bruce’s internal beliefs, it would ruin him soon enough.

It started as something innocent (but it seemed the wolf was clothed in sheep’s wool): Dick, his oldest, had teased him about his non-existent love life during a training session in the Batcave.

The large space was full with flickering lights coming from the monitors and grunts from the fighting men. Sweat filled the air, masculine and strong, but that only indicated to the hard work they were doing. Training wasn’t easy, they liked to train with the maximum intensity ( it was kinda needed, too ) and it showed. From their damp hair and glistening skin to the rippling muscles underneath their clothes.

“You know, Bruce,” his son started when he blocked yet another strike coming from the man in question. A puff of air left his mouth upon the attack. Not fair. “for someone who spends his nights saving people, you sure are terrible at saving yourself from eternal loneliness.”

Bruce delivered another jab, this one directed straight at Dick’s weak point. “Not now, Dick.”

But his son was nothing if not persistent and he always got what he wanted, whether it was with or without serious consequences. “I’m serious. When was the last time you went on a date? And don’t try to tell me you had one on your arm during the last charity event. That doesn’t count.”

Both of them fully knew Bruce’s arm candies were way more interested in his name and money than in his heart and soul. The truth made his jaw muscles tighten at the realization.

“My personal life is irrelevant to my work.”

Dick took the opportunity and circled the older man like a predator catching the prey’s scent of blood. A sweet weakness, that one. He’d be stupid if he didn’t take the chance. “Is it though? I mean, sure, you’re great at taking down supervillains and brooding on top of high rooftops, but even Batman needs a little action sometimes. The different kind of action, of course. Or are you planning to spend the rest of your life married to the job?”

Bruce swiped his right leg toward Dick’s shins, trying to take him down like he was the said supervillain but the acrobat jumped right on time, avoiding Bruce’s attempt with a grin on his face.

He landed on his feet and crossed his arms at his chest, leaning the weight of his body against one leg. The playfulness disappeared from both his voice and expression and instead, seriousness graced him whole. “Seriously, Bruce, even Alfred’s worried. He brought it up the other day while we were decorating the tree. Something about how the manor feels colder than usual this year.”

“The heating system is fine.”

With Jason gone, it was the truth. His second son had this strange relationship with all the members of the family. Off and on. Off and on. No one truly knew where they stood in Jason’s eyes but he made the effort and showed up on Christmas Eve the other year upon receiving Alfred’s invitation.

Bruce doubted he would show up two years in a row.

“That’s not what he meant, and you know it,” Dick pressed, and effectively added more salt into Bruce’s wounds. It stung and it fucking hurt. As much as Batman was ruthless, it didn’t mean the man under the mask was resistant against the pain his life brought. “You’re not getting any younger, B. It wouldn’t kill you to let someone in. And I don’t mean us. Try to meet someone who isn’t friendly with a criminal record.”

The older man could only stare helplessly at the other. Those words his son, partner, spoke were loud, crawling their way into his mind and much to his dismay, his heart as well.

Before he could voice his dismissal, a younger voice called out. It was familiar in a way family tended to be.

“You are wasting your breath, Grayson. Father has neither the time nor the inclination to entertain your nonsense,” his youngest son declared into the space of Batcave, his voice ringing out and echoing every single word. The blood son, Damian Wayne.

The father didn’t even flinch, just let out a deep sigh through his nose. It was as usual between those two, always bickering from Damian’s side and teasing remarks from Dick’s. You could mistake the blood running through their system as one, if not for the physical differences. They were brothers in all but red.

“Damian,” Dick started in that lecturing tone he’d always seemed to use with the younger boy, “when was the last time you saw Bruce here even try to have a social life?”

Damian rolled his eyes, the green disappearing behind his eyelids before they reappeared, rougher than they were. “The so called ‘social life’ you’re referring to consists of women who barely last through dinner. Why would he waste his energy on distractions when Gotham requires his full attention?”

“Because even Batman needs a break. You know, normal human things? Like dating, smiling, not dying alone in this cave surrounded by bats?”

“If Father is content with his choices, who are you to meddle? Unlike you, he does not require constant companionship to validate his existence.”

“Ouch,” Dick put his palm against his heart in a mocking manner, feigning hurt as his lips formed a pout. “You’ve got a real gift for the Christmas spirit, don’t you?”

The younger son narrowed his eyes at his supposed brother. The constant bickering was almost normal in their lives so far, and nothing seemed to be changing any time soon. He had to learn how to live with the excuse of a brother, although he started to form a light liking towards him. He wasn’t so bad. “I only speak the truth,” his green irises flicked to Bruce. “Though it is peculiar he tolerates your interference. Perhaps even Father has realized how pathetic his current romantic life—or lack thereof—appears.”

The object of the conversation let out another sigh, this one loud enough for the boys to hear. Their gazes snapped toward Bruce with accusingly great speed.

“If you two are done debating my personal life, there’s actual work to be done.”

He missed the glance his oldest threw at the youngest. He missed the look filled with amusement and a plan that was already brewing. He missed the nod they gave each other, although Dick’s was more pronounced and determined.

The next few hours were spent creating Bruce’s dating app profile.

The final result was the definition of real sugar daddy vibes. Every detail had been debated (mostly argued over though) and thought through, so to say the boys were satisfied with it was an understatement. The oldest prided in the work, saying how it would get so many women to reply which would eventually lead to the right one. The middle one Dick and Damian (only Dick) dragged into the activity beamed up once the profile was set while the youngest scoffed and scowled during the entire process.

During the next evening, the boys showed the main man his new account.

Bruce was left speechless upon seeing the bright screen flash before his eyes. Not a single word was muttered as he watched his boys showing him the app and explaining how exactly it worked (he’d never used a dating app before all this so bear with him). The main photo on the profile was a candid one of him, the one Cass had taken on a sunny day in the Wayne Manor gardern. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt, the long sleeves rolled up past his elbows as the muscles of his forearms bulged up. The faintest smile tugged at the corner of his lips, the sunlight casting shadows across his sharp features and Bruce had to admit they chose a good photo.

It wasn’t intimidating, but it wasn’t exactly friendly as well. The good old middle.

The boys knew he was convinced to give it a try when he waved them off with a deep sigh slipping past his lips.

The game was on.

It was past the midnight when he lied in his bed, propped against one too many pillows and wondered why he was still scrolling through the damned dating app. It was late—far past the time he should have been out on patrol, but Red Hood and Red Robin got it covered for him.

Bruce wasn’t looking for anything specific, really. If he were honest, this whole situation felt out of place for him. Swiping through the profiles was more like an exercise for his thumb.

First was Madison K. Her profile opened with flashy colors that immediately put Bruce into a doubtful situation. Were all these women going to be like this? Madison was beautiful and her looks screamed professionalism: her makeup was done flawlessly, adorning her bright eyes and full lips. She looked like she belonged on a cover for a fashion magazine, not a dating app. Her bio made his thumb swipe left.

‘Manifesting my best life. CEO of my own happiness. Looking for someone who’s successful, ambitious, and knows how to treat me like a queen.’

The next account’s bio made him grimace and swipe left once again.

‘Looking for someone who can keep me living the dream. If you’re successful, generous, and ready to spoil me, let’s talk.”

At this point, Bruce was ready to delete the dating app his boys set up and enjoy the rest of his night. Most of the profiles he swiped through were simply bland to him. Nothing felt genuine. Right. It was safe to say he was losing the hope Dick had set in him earlier in the evening. Until he stumbled upon your profile.

The account stood out among the others—simple, elegant, but with a certain amount of warmth that seemed genuine. Bruce’s heart skipped a beat once he scrolled further and came across your photo. The picture showed you in a cozy cafe, the one Steph adored so much for their cinnamon roll buns. A soft smile danced on your pretty face, highlighting the curve of your cheeks as you looked off to the side. You captured Bruce in a way the others didn’t.

You looked like a fawn surrounded by hungry wolves. You were admirable while they were craving wealth and status. Two different sides of a coin, but Bruce had already known his pick.

Your bio was sincere, a sight the man liked to see.

‘I enjoy the little moments — finding beauty in the simple things. I believe in kindness, and I’m looking for someone who values honesty and a deep conversation.’

His mind flicked briefly toward the countless hours he spends in the cave, surrounded by work and worries. You seemed like the one who could understand the balance between the quiet and the loud, someone who could exist in both of his worlds without losing that spark you held in your gaze.

Before he could overthink it, Bruce clicked on the “message” button.

Once the screen of your non-existent chat appeared, his mind went blank and all he was capable of was to stare mindlessly at the phone. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no words came to him. What did one say to someone like you? He wasn’t used to thinking ahead when it came to women. This was a new field. And he couldn’t screw up.

Finally, his fingers moved before his mind could think of whatever embarrassing thing it was capable of.

> Hey, I noticed your profile and wanted to reach out. There’s something about your words that struck a chord with me. I’d like to know more about you.

And that’s how the two of you started your relationship, or whatever you could call it. Neither of you voiced it as official, but that was okay. He hadn’t expected to feel this way, not so soon. And yet it came at him, crashing like a large wave of emotions every time you were around. You changed everything for him.

Your conversations became the highlight of his days.

His ears perked up every single time without a fail when he heard the soft ‘ping!’ of the notification, already convinced it was from you (and it 98 percent was). Whether it was early in the morning before he started working in the chaotic Wayne Enterprises or late at night when the Batcave was quiet and felt at peace. You were always there with him.

You were thoughtful, generous, and refreshingly kind. You asked him questions that no one else dared to: what he wanted from life, what made him happy, what kept him awake at night. You didn’t flinch at his silence. You didn’t push him to give answers he wasn’t ready to share. You understood him in a way only a few people did.

Piece by piece, he let you into his world — not that part filled with constant danger and threats, but that part that longed for something real.

By the time Christmas approached, Bruce was sure of one thing: he wanted you in his life.

The holiday was just around the corner, filling the air with joy and gratitude as it always did. The snow was blanketing the streets with white powder, and although many people were complaining about the cold, it had its charm.

Christmas had always been about family for Bruce, about gathering around the tree and full table with the people who mattered most. It was lonely at first, after the death of his parents, but over the years, Alfred had made it work. The table was always full of tasty food the kids adored and presents Bruce knew would make them more than happy were neatly waiting for them every morning after Christmas Eve.

This year though, Bruce wanted it to be a little different. He wanted you to be part of it.

You might actually fit into the chaos of the Wayne family — the teasing and playful banters between you, Dick, and Tim would be absolute gold to hear. You probably even could handle Damian’s wit which was something his father would like to see. He could picture you smiling, holding back your own remarks. The idea of you sitting beside him at the long dining table, sharing their traditions, made his chest feel warm in a way he wasn’t used to.

That night, he sent you a message.

> Are you free on Christmas Eve?

Your response came in quickly, as it always did. Bruce’s heart thumped against the bones of his ribs.

> I am. Why?

He hesitated for a bit, overthinking his decision.

> I’d like you to join me for dinner. It’s a family thing but I’d really like for you to be there.

> Are you sure? I don’t want to intrude.

> You wouldn’t be intruding.

Bruce could picture the light frown between your brows and a small smile tugged at the corners of his lips. You often did it unconsciously, never knowing how pretty you looked this way. But even as he pictured your face, a part of him was growing more nervous about the situation. Would you agree to an event this serious? Spend Christmas with him. And his family. Or were you coming up with excuses right now? He wouldn’t blame you.

> Then I’d love to come.

His heart skipped a beat and that night, Bruce went to bed feeling a little lighter than he usually did.

Snow blanketed the long driveway leading up to Wayne Manor and for once, Bruce wasn’t thinking about the pressure of Batman or the chaos the boys would definitely stir up tonight. His attention was entirely focused on the one making your way towards him. He stood just outside the grand entrance, dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored suit that fit him like a glove. The soft crunch of tires on the white powder alerted him to your arrival, and as your car pulled up, Bruce started to feel the nervousness. He adjusted his tie with a single hand.

When you stepped out, his breath caught.

You were breathtakingly beautiful. Dressed in an inky black that hugged your figure in all the right places, the fabric shimmered under the outdoor lights of the mansion. The smile you gave him when your eyes met melted all the nerves that had been harboring in his system. He was finally calm and composed, for what seemed like the first time in the evening.

“You’re early,” Bruce pointed out softly when you walked up the stairs to meet him in front of the door, and his eyes sparkled with little stars at the sight of you. How did he get so lucky? “You look stunning, by the way.”

“I didn’t want to keep you waiting. And thank you. You clean up well, too, Bruce.”

Your gaze held a playful edge in it as you accepted his hand, locking your palm around his bulging biceps and squeezing warmly. The touch added the missing piece of the puzzle Bruce was trying to solve while his cheeks warmed a rosy pink under your influence without any hesitation. The gesture felt natural, like it always belonged there.

The two of you approached the doors of the manor in a shared silence, although it didn’t feel a bit awkward. You took a moment to take in the place. It was like something out of your childhood dreams — tall, arched windows glowing with the soft light of a dozen garlands lining the entryway. The faint hum of holiday music and the occasional sound of laughter echoed through the manor.

It was Bruce’s home.

“Do you always go this big for Christmas?” you voiced a question that's been sitting on your mind since the moment you saw the large Christmas tree from the entryway to Bruce’s living room. Decorated with lots of ornaments, it looked lovely, accompanied by a heap of presents.

“Alfred insists,” admitting with a soft chuckle, Bruce rubbed the nape of his neck as he led you deeper into his home. “And the boys like the holidays. I want them to have the best.”

The scent of pine and cinnamon enveloped your senses the further you moved. The sounds grew louder, too. You awe made him feel lighter somehow. The dining room at Wayne Manor was nothing short of spectacular this night, with the long mahogany table adorned with a dozen of flickering candles and plates of food that looked like it belonged in a holiday spread for a cookbook.

You were sitting beside Bruce (he kind of insisted anyway), your hand occasionally brushing against his. He helped you settle into the chair which earned a teasing glance from Dick. Speaking of his oldest son, he was sitting across from you with an easy grin that told you some questions would come your way sooner or later. Tim was at Dick’s right, while Damian occupied the chair from the other side of his father.

The evening was more than successful in your opinion. Steph asked you about your favorite literature, while Tim quizzed you on trivia about Gotham (which you surprisingly got all right). Damian, after much persistence from Dick, shared a story about his latest art project, though he kept glancing at you as if trying to gauge your reaction.

Through it all, Bruce remained by your side.

When the night finally came to an end, and everyone drifted to their own space of the manor, Bruce walked you to the entrance with a gentle hand against the small of your back.

“Thank you,” his gaze met yours as he handed you your coat, effortlessly helping you slip your arms into the sleeves. “For coming tonight. For putting up with them.”

You gifted him with the most precious kind of a present; your smile, smaller hands reaching up to adjust the collar of his dark suit. “Of course. They’re wonderful, Bruce. I enjoyed myself tonight.”

For a man who othen found himself at loss for words when it came to talking in emotions, Bruce found himself smiling softly with his heart feeling lighter than it had in years. Because for the first time, Christmas didn’t feel like an obligation. It felt like a new beginning.

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bratscave · 5 months ago

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nsfw bruce headcanons !

— with all of his past playboy tendencies, i'm like 99% sure he isn't as rough as tumblr dc smut community makes him out to be. bruce craves genuine love and slow, firmly yearning love making though he'd never openly admit that.

— actually a big yapper during sex? like always gruffing and complaining about something very mandain while like... pulling out your third orgasm?

— literally spends half the night murmuring about logistics or some board meeting as he’s tugging your knees up, pushing you down into the mattress, each word rumbling low and delicious, barely making sense because he's burried into your clit.

— overstimulates you on 'accident', he's just firmly convinced he knows exactly what you're able to handle and to what extent as well. though he'll stop if you say ofc

— likes to loosen up on the dom part of it sometimes, especially when he comes home after a long patrol. in those nights, he’s all grit and quiet murmurs, his usual control slipping as he buries his face in the curve of your neck, half-rough and completely vulnerable, every lingering kiss a reminder of how deeply he needs this, needs you.

— really likes to takes his time, doesn't matter how many cases he has on his deck, when he's with you he's as patient as it possibly gets. it's just to silently show you how special and loved you are and because he simply enjoys it.

#🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 . bruce! thoughts #bruce wayne headcanon #bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne scenarios #bruce wayne #bruce wayne fanfiction #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x y/n #batman smut #batman imagine #batman x reader #dc smut #batman fanfiction #batman headcanon #batman fic #batman

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girlkisser13 · 8 months ago

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being married to bruce wayne would include

• galas, charities, balls, etc. become more a part of your life than you probably ever wanted them to be.

• once you two officially become a couple, you become gotham’s "it" couple. whether you want to or not.

• in the press, the two of you are often depicted as gotham royalty.

• even before the two of you start dating, you swear you feel someone's presence at night whenever you walk home from work.

• it wasn't until a mugger attempted to steal your purse that you finally learned where that feeling of being watched had been coming from.

• when the dark knight told you to be mindful of your surroundings and to hurry home before swooping away into the night, you could only nod with widened eyes.

• you didn’t say anything until you got home, to be honest, you geeking out: it’s not every day that someone gets to meet "the batman".

• you gleefully call your boyfriend about it. he doesn’t answer it until later, but you can hear a smirk in his voice as he responds to you fangirling.

• eventually, you find out about his identity on accident.

• as expected, you’re a little upset. someone you were romantically involved with was masquerading around town dressed like every night was halloween, getting into dangerous situations.

• after the two of you talk about it, you begin to understand why he does it and while you may not necessarily agree with some of his more controversial methods, you can’t help but feel a sense of pride that he’s putting everything at risk just to make sure what happened to him doesn’t happen to anyone else.

• alfred always reports to you first whenever something happens to bruce, knowing how much he truly means to you.

• you’re the one he listens to the most (even more than alfred) when it comes to what he should be doing whether it be a complicated mission or something as simple as eating a much needed meal.

• most of the time you would find yourself waiting at a restaurant for an hour before he would text you that he can’t make it because he’s being held up.

• when he does show up, he’s late, he looks like a mess, and he greets you with a lop-sided smile and half-lidded eyes. and you melt because you remember that he did choose you and you do love him.

• bruce’s absence is always outweighed by his affection. he loves touching you even if it’s just your shoulders or your fingers or your elbows. he always finds a way to be close to you when you’re together.

• he’s always trying to make up for the lost time with you by getting you expensive gifts and trips, only for you to reassure him that he doesn’t need to do all this.

• you’re always able to tell when he’s had a particularly rough night. his usual silence feels different; heavier.

• he becomes a lot more handsy with you, more affectionate. as if you’re the last flower in a prized garden and he never noticed until now.

• if you’re asleep by the time he gets back, you may get woken up by him caressing your cheek, rubbing a thumb over your hand, or him putting his big arms around you to pull you in close.

• one of your favorite things though is definitely seeing the family. most of the time you see alfred and always try to tease recipes out of him which expertly deflects.

• whenever the bat kids are at the manor, he invites you because they love you and he knows you love them too.

• dick constantly flirts with you and teases you and bruce. you love to play along with him because it makes bruce very uncomfortable.

• he finally proposes to you after three years of the kids telling him to do so. you obviously say yes.

• the two of you decide to have a small, private ceremony at the manor. friends and family only.

• bruce 100% cries as soon as he sees you walk down the aisle in your wedding dress.

• alfred volunteers to be the wedding planner, because he always knew that you would be the future mrs. wayne. <33

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invincibledc · 6 months ago

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‼️TWIN SHENANIGANS‼️

Platonic Damian Al Ghul-Wayne x Twin!Reader

Imagine having two demons that are from the league of assassins…but only one of them is a true menace to society while the other is just …normal?

Two robins? Double trouble for Bruce because Damian is the older twin while you are the younger one. Of course you will follow him without a doubt.

You two paint, draw, and do anything together, it’s a nice sibling bonding. Sure what if Damian was a bit jealous and almost booby-trapped Dick when you started calling him “brother.” So what?

You need help? He’s helping you, not by just giving you straight up answers but mostly letting you understand.

Someone picks on you, immediately they have a bruised eye and lip. But that’s when Damian is having a nice day though, if he isn’t. He almost sent them to the hospital and got expelled.

Sometimes you two hold each other hands as if you both were the girls from “the shining”😭

When you can’t figure out what outfit you want to wear, don’t worry! Your twin Damian is gonna lay you out straight! He immediately makes you match with him as he smirks at you two looking the same.

You both do combo moves with each other. Literally training each other to see what moves you can pull off at the same time.

Tim was scared of you, like he personally thought you were gonna try and kill him only for you to make him a drawing and he immediately calmed down. That was until a certain demon popped up talking about “Twin, let’s go.” And you left. Making Tim confused before realizing twins exist…man coffee was getting to his brain.

I won’t lie, Damian may be a small bully towards you. But when you cry, that’s when he stops and show his soft side. You are his other part of him, it hurts to see you cry.

Literal definition of “only I can mess with my sibling…”

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hanasnx · 1 year ago

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BRUCE WAYNE was in the hot seat. Well, more appropriately, Batman was in the hot seat. Which meant it was time for the billionaire playboy to make a public appearance so controversial, any press worth their tacks would cover his televised blunder rather than some depressing masked vigilante’s dealings. People prefer gossip over politics, and Bruce knows how to work an angle.

You’re a fresh adult, but the people already know you. A perfect Gotham sweetheart: a little darling on the front cover of lingerie magazines, starring as a bombshell in motion pictures, named the honor of the Ice Princess last month. You wore your little feathery outfit, next to nothing in the freezing cold, and turned on the city's giant Christmas tree lights just as the Ice Princess does every year. Known for your youth and beauty, Bruce knew you were the perfect candidate to take all the attention away from where it shouldn't be. Tabloids couldn't decide whether to praise the seasoned billionaire for landing a nineteen-year-old catch, or condemn him for having a mid-life crisis.

"Bruce Wayne seen with Gotham's Ice Princess." was everywhere anyone looked. It seemed the city had taken quite a protective role over you, which is exactly what Bruce needed.

Now that he's got you, he flaunts you. He lets you lug him around town, any local events that could be televised are his priorities. There, he makes a big show of touching you in ways only a lover is allowed to. Things that make you pat his huge bicep scoldingly. "Brucie!" you chide with a gasp, "You're so shameless." you say, but you fucking love it. How he openly mouths at your neck, lapping and sucking on your pulse point enough for lewd pretty sounds to slew from your parted lips. Little whimpers that any onlookers eat up.

He'll grope you unabashedly, big hand grabbing at your ass or giving it a swat. He needs those cameras to see how gross he is, how crazy he is about his nineteen-year-old situationship. If you get kissed, it's fucking sloppy. Mostly tongue, tongue outside the mouth as much as he can appropriately get away with. His "dirty sense of humor" will bleed into the public scene as well, hugging you from behind only to jokingly engulf your neck with his hand to fake a choke.

Every single one of these things he does for attention, leaves you hot and bothered. Frustrated from his treatment of you that's so warm when there are prying eyes, but so cold when you're finally alone together. You want Bruce Wayne to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you, but when doors are closed suddenly it's: "Something's come up." or "The sushi hit me wrong." Or the worst one of all: the polite, civilized, but uninterested act. You're all over him, begging for him to finally fuck you after stringing you along and teasing you so ardently all day, and he treats you as if you are an acquainted business associate who has overstayed her welcome. You don't get it. An hour ago he was pulling your neckline towards him for a peek down your dress, and now he's showing you the door with a smile on his face.

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mostly-imagines · 5 months ago

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Sugar on the Rim vol. II

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

part one

warnings: heavily implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), smut, oral fem!receiving, nervous but enthusiastically consenting reader

You’d tried to calm your nerves but they couldn’t be helped.

You’re anxious about everything, all of it. What he wants you to do, what he’s expecting you do, whether it’ll hurt, whether you’re ready.

You think you trust Bruce, but you also know that these things are different for men and women. You don’t necessarily expect that he’ll have a mind for what you’ll need, but honestly, neither do you. You don’t know what to do to make this easier for yourself—you don’t know what to do at all.

You bought the lingerie, you’ve got it on under your clothes and it feels like a costume. You can’t tell if that aids or worsens the anxiety.

You’re fidgeting with the hem of your skirt and you wish you could quit it, you’re radiating enough nervous energy as it is, you don’t need to be sending him visual cues on top of it.

Bruce holds your free hand in his as he guides you through the manor, you think it’s a different section than you’ve seen before. His hand engulfs yours unfairly as he leads, but the touch of his skin is so warm and inviting that you can’t tell if your hand is still shaking under it. If it is, he pretends not to notice.

He guides you up the stairs and into a corridor and then another before you arrive at a set of double doors. You’ve never seen double doors on the inside of a house before.

He lets you in ahead of him, and you have a distinct thought that you’re glad he can’t see the look of awe on your face as you walk in. His bedroom has an entire living room inside of it, and altogether it’s bigger than your whole apartment. A maroon couch and matching chairs surround a grand fireplace at the front of the room and the resulting glow from the active embers has the area shrouded in a warm light ahead of the shadows filling the rest.

You glance past the seating at his bed; large and proud. It’s definitely bigger than a king sized, with an overhead canopy and streams of dark burgundy curtains draping down from the corners. There’s another set of closed double doors past the bed, you imagine leading to the bathroom.

The end of the room displays a large window seat that looks like it’s never been used, and vast tinted windows. You look up to find the ceiling higher than you’ve ever seen in a bedroom with a very expensive chandelier hanging over it all.

He takes your arm, steering you out of your wonderment and leads you towards the couch rather than the bed, gesturing for you to sit down with him. You do, quietly glad when he positions himself so that you’re close to each other but not pressed right up against you. He’s able to relax his body more than you’re able to fake it on yourself, and you think your thoughts must be vibrating out of you by now.

One hand comes to rest on your thigh as his other nudges your cheek towards him. “Hey, nothing’s happening right now. No need to be nervous.”

You nod blankly, but your thoughts are running wild with everything that you very much are nervous about.

He takes your hand in his, rubbing circles with his thumb.

“You’ve got to relax,” he coos, “Remember what I said?”

You take a breath, “You’re not going to throw me in the deep end.”

“Exactly,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead. “Just wanna make you feel good, right?”

You nod, easing your posture.

He looks you in the eye, “You gonna let me?”

You hum, nodding again.

“Good girl,” he purrs, pulling away.

You quickly find that the distance is not at all what you want, and you decide to push forward—as forward as you can—sitting up again to peel your jacket off. He watches you move with a look in his eyes, you take it for intrigue but it may just as well be something akin to pride. Pride in you? He’s openly flirted, kissed you, and straight up propositioned you for sex—but sure, he’s proud of you for taking your jacket off.

Your nerves transition into insecurity before you can catch them, and you’re starting to feel a little stupid, like a child playing pretend.

You watch tentatively as he tilts his head at you, running his own assessments of your actions.

“Will you come sit on my lap?” he asks you after a moment.

You suddenly become acutely aware of the amount of air in your lungs. This feels like a big request and you’re not even sure how to take his meaning. Does he want you to sit sideways? Your back to his front? Or fully straddle him?

He wants whatever you want, he’d said. What do you want?

You glance down at his thighs, covered by fabric more expensive than you can imagine. Positive confirmation rings through your head immediately, willing you to push yourself forward a little more.

You reposition yourself over him, straddling his lap in spite of your nerves.

Again, he looks pleased. Happy even. One of his hands comes to stroke soothing patterns across your lower back, the other resting on your waist.

He makes sure to catch your gaze, “You’ll tell me if you want to stop.”

He follows when your eyes stray, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

He places a tender kiss on your cheekbone, “How did shopping go?”

“Um, good. It was good. One of the sales girls helped me,” your breath is shaky as he kisses your jawline.

“Yeah? Tell me about it.”

“I, uh, I just went to this little boutique up on third street,” he places another kiss on the column of your throat as you talk. “Um, it took longer than I thought it would. There were so many choices.”

His hands come up to soothe over your ribs, pulling you a little closer as they do. He hums for you to keep talking, his kisses continuing to lower until they’re down to your collarbone, though they remain relatively chaste.

“I—I didn’t really know what to look for,” you admit, breath shaky as you exhale.

“But you like it?”

“Yeah, I—I do.”

He hums, smiling against your skin. His fingers inch under the seam of your shirt, caressing your waist. “Can I take this off?”

You nod timidly, trying not to seem so on edge with anticipation. You’re not confident that he can’t see right through you.

He presses another chaste kiss to your neck upon receival of the permission, and your shirt begins to come off slowly, his hands skimming every new bit of skin revealed. As he pulls it over your head, he glances down at the baby pink bralette you’d picked out for yourself.

He groans quietly as he takes in the sight, “Oh, pretty girl. Beautiful girl,” He noses at your chest, leaving little kisses where his lips make contact with your skin, “Look at you. Prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

Your stomach flutters as his hair tickles your cheek. His hands roam up your sides, stopping to stroke placid circles along the sides of your breasts.

His touch makes its way around your back, expertly undoing your bra clasp without a second thought. Your bra hangs forward a bit off your shoulders, but he leaves the work of entirely removing it to you. And you do, with more confidence than you’d imagined yourself mustering.

He immediately shows his appreciation, kissing and caressing your chest with lover-like admiration. Your head falls back involuntarily as he noses at your soft skin.

He’s breathing heavy when he pulls back, humming low and deep before lifting you up off his lap to stand. The sudden shift has you a bit thrown off, working to catch up as he kneels down in front of you and repeats his earlier process with your skirt—kissing your thighs and tugging the fabric down bit by bit.

When it’s discarded on the floor you stand only left in your underwear, the lace practically illuminated against your skin.

He looks up at you from his place on the floor and smiles as he takes in the sight of your body. His hands find your hips as he asks you, “Has anyone ever seen you like this before?”

You hesitate for half a second before answering truthfully.

His smile grows, “No, you’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he’s nodding, “Yeah, I know.”

As he rises to stand he scoops you up by the back of your thighs and lifts you in the air with no discernable effort. Now at face level with him, you get a bit bolder and lean in to kiss him. He kisses you back, pleased, beginning to walk the two of you over towards the bed.

He sets you down gently atop the soft mattress, kisses pushing you backwards to lie back on the bed. He scoops your wrists up and leisurely moves your arms up above your head. His grip is benign as he releases one hand in favor of holding your jaw. Your kiss is deep and controlled on his part, but in a way that makes you feel light in the head. You like the cloudy-sensation very much.

After a while, he pulls back to look at you with clouded eyes.

He practically purrs, “You’re such a kind girl. So sweet to everyone, all the time. Will you let me be sweet to you?”

Your breath is shaky as you nod, attempts at hiding your anticipation failing.

He nods back at you with a faux-sympathy across his face. “Let me hear you say it.”

You force air into your lungs, giving you the willpower to speak the words. “Will you touch me? Please?”

The corners of his lips turn up, “Of course, sweet girl.”

He nips at your jaw as his hands travel down, petting the inside of your thighs with a touch so feather light it almost tickles.

Your knee jerks inward towards his hand, your body desperately seeking out more of this new sensation. He obliges, tracing his touch back up, up, up until his hand dips under the lace trim of your panties, skimming over your clit. Your hips flinch back away from him momentarily in surprise, only to press back forward a second later.

He actually laughs at the action, like it’s endearing. You feel a little silly for it, but you’re not given much time to dwell as he persists, brushing against you with a bit more pressure.

He tilts his head, watching your expression carefully with a remarkably pleased look on his own face. “How’s that, sweet girl?”

You nod, beside yourself. “Feels good,” you whimper. “Feels really good..”

You don’t necessarily mean to, but your hips grind up against his touch, your body too mesmerized with the sensation to remember to be embarrassed.

He’s certainly not complaining about it though, his quiet coos encouraging you to chase the feeling.

He lets you grind up against his hand, taking in the needy look on your face with contentment.

“Poor girl,” he tuts. “Just need somebody to take care of you, huh?”

That makes your cheeks burn, but your attention finds itself more concerned with the urge to squeeze your thighs together.

You whine when he pulls his hand back out of your underwear, only for him to stand resolute in his actions.

“Not yet, sweet thing,” he hums, pressing you back down to the bed with a light but firm touch when you try to sit up.

He hushes you gently, murmuring for you to be patient as he shifts his position over you.

He starts to move down your body, leaving kisses in his wake. The sensation of his lips tracing down your stomach has you feeling butterflies.

By the time he reaches your waistline you’re borderline dizzy from the anticipation, squeezing your legs together in an attempt to alleviate the ache.

He pauses there for a moment, torturously, and noses at the seam of your panties. A whine from you has him chuckling and finally moving to where you need him.

He kisses your clit over your underwear and you’re fighting thoughts of embarrassment over how sure you are he can taste how wet you are over the fabric.

It doesn’t seem to be enough for him though, as he tugs your panties down slowly, kissing your thighs as he goes.

Bruce’s hands hold onto your waist as he eats you out, holding you in place with an easy grip.

You squirm against the feel of his tongue and you can’t quite figure out what to do with your hands. You almost wish he’d made you keep them above your head but really you’re not sure you’d be able to keep it together if he had. You’re not sure you’re keeping it together now.

He groans against your pussy, and one of your hands flies to grip his hair without permission from your brain. If you’re being honest with yourself though, your brain isn’t really the one calling the shots anymore.

You gasp when he licks a bold stripe, “Bruce—”

He groans again, briefly breaking away from you. “Oh, say that again.”

You sigh out, “Bruce, please.”

He makes a pleased hum. “Good girl,” he murmurs before diving back in.

He complies with your pleas generously, giving you more. He’s gradual but resolute as he inserts two fingers into you, giving you the time to adjust. But he’d evidently done a very thorough job prepping you for it, you’re so wet that the initial entry doesn’t sting like you’d expected. No, rather the first thing you register is closer to pleasure. A lot closer.

He begins to pump in and out of you at he continues to suck at your clit, and somewhere during you have a distinct thought of “oh this is it.”

You let out a little gasp and for once, you break out of your own head and just relish in the way his fingers curl inside you.

The way your thighs squeeze around him as you come, doesn’t hinder him one bit, only has him applying his ministrations with more intent. It doesn’t take long for the trembling of your body to give way to full on shaking, your body stuttering beneath him.

He continues working at you the entire way through your orgasm, until you’re flinching from overstimulation.

He gives you one more lick before looking up at you with hooded eyes. “Y’taste sweet too, you know that?”

You can feel the blood rush to your cheeks as he starts to move back up to face-level, kissing the high point of your cheekbone.

He pulls down on your bottom lip, your slick wet against your mouth.

You open without question, a clouding urge to please him the only thing running through your mind.

He grumbles a low, pleased sound as you do, moving his hand only to provide room for him to kiss you again.

He sits back up over you and starts unbuttoning his shirt and you realize only now that he’s still fully dressed.

He glances down to his belt as he undoes the buttons.

“Will you help me out, sweet girl?”

You blink a couple times before registering the request, still overwhelmed by how quickly and skillfully he’d made you come.

You struggle a bit to push yourself up into a sitting position, but he supports you by your waist, nipping along your jaw as encouragement.

Your hands shake as you undo the clasp, and while you’re still very much eager, if not moreso, you’re suddenly confronted with the very real possibility that you’re about to have your limits pushed. He ate you out and did a damn good job, stands to reason that he’d want you to return the favor.

So it takes you by surprise when he’s nudging you back against the pillows, removing his pants himself.

He keeps you occupied with an intense kiss as he does, and the distraction so smooth it’s almost like it’s rehearsed.

You follow his lead easily, though surprised by his lack of desire to get his fill too.

He drapes himself over you nicely, his size easily dwarfing you out. He’s quick to block your chin from tilting down, gently bringing your face back up to meet his.

He shakes his head lightly, murmuring, “Don’t worry about that. I got you.”

You are worried about it, but you trust Bruce, you know you do now.

You feel the weight of his cock against your stomach, at this exact moment, feeling like not much more than a daunting task.

“S’alright, sweet girl,” he lulls, brushing your hair back. “Okay?”

As heavy as the simple question is, you don’t need to think about it before you’re nodding and moving your hand to hold onto his bicep.

He peppers kisses all over your face as he starts to push in, effectively starting to distract you from the pain of the stretch. He hushes your whines soothingly and kneads at your waist with confident hands.

Your arms lock around his shoulders on instinct, your eyes squeezing shut as you try to convince yourself he’s almost all the way in, but you know you’ve got aways to go.

He pauses halfway, imploring you to open your eyes so he can check up on you properly.

“Talk to me, sweetheart,” he softly urges.

You will yourself to blink up at him and try to take on the challenge of both him and his gaze. Surely, an impossible task.

But you manage shaky eye contact that occasionally gives way to glancing down at his lips.

It doesn’t feel good yet, but it only makes you more eager to keep going.

“I’m okay,” you nod, taking a breath. “You can keep going.”

He waits to find that reassurance in your eyes before he continues to push in, bestowing you a deep kiss in reward for your bravery.

Once he’s nearly bottomed out he waits a moment, then begins to rock in and out slowly, letting you get used to a starter of the sensation.

He brushes your hair back, weaving through the strands. “There we go,” he coos as you look down between you. “Doing so good.”

Your gasp is louder than they had been before, and closer to a sigh now.

He’s fucking you gently, with a decorum that exceeds what you’d earlier told yourself you were stupid for hoping for.

It doesn’t take long at all for his movement to start to feel really good and your grip around his shoulders comes around to a different kind of intensity.

He noses against your jaw, applying kisses whenever convenient. “‘S that feel good, sweet girl? Hm?”

He hits a particularly deep spot in you immediately after and it makes you borderline squeak. He huffs out a laugh that’s nothing short of affectionate.

“Yeah?”

He then attacks that spot with extra intention, hitting it absolutely expertly every time. He speeds up a little, lips latched onto your neck as he fucks you nice and deep.

He drops a hand down between you and starts rubbing circles onto your clit with a pace that makes you want to scream.

You can’t help the moan you release when he teeths at your neck, clearly aiming to drive you crazy. But damn if he isn’t going about it the right way.

His circles pick up pace and you can be sure you’re leaving nail marks on his back. He seems to only get more encouraged by your sounds, working you closer and closer to the edge with every whimper.

He finally lets you over after a minute of shamelessly relishing in your moans, himself following close after.

He continues moving in and out of you until you’ve both completely finished, slowly coming to a stop.

You get a moment to catch your breath before he pulls out delicately. You don’t even realize he’s moved before he’s got his boxers back on and is halfway to the bathroom.

You’re a little alarmed by the sudden shift in proximity, though you guess that’s the playboy experience, isn’t it? After a second you hear water running and assume he’s taking a shower.

You push yourself to sit up fully, minding your achy thighs, and swing your legs over the side of the bed. You glance at the foot of the bed where your underwear lies, then back over by the couch where the rest of your clothes lay discarded. You briefly contemplate how quickly you can get your clothes back on when the bathroom doors open again.

You glance up at Bruce, dazed, who looks surprised himself to see you sitting up. As he makes his way back to the bed you notice the supplies he has in tow and your brain begins to slowly start turning its gears again.

You don’t realize the glass of water in his hand is for you until he’s pushed it into your palm.

His other hand carries a wet wash cloth that you, again, aren’t able to register the purpose for until it’s in action.

“Drink,” he tells you as he spreads your knees apart gently, wiping away the mess between your legs with a notable amount of compassion for your sensitivity.

You do, gulping a few as he finishes, tossing the rag in a hamper before setting your glass down on the side table.

Your eyes return to the end of the bed and you nearly decide to get up, but he’s still standing so close to you, you’re not sure this is the right time.

You seem caught halfway between decisions now, you know you do. You’d honestly preferred when you thought he’d just ditched you for a shower because at least then this part wouldn’t be so awkward.

He watches you closely as you deliberate and seems to draw a conclusion about your hesitation rather quickly. His brow pinches as he processes, tilting his head at you.

“You’ve got to be joking,” he says, bewildered. “Right?”

“I—” you falter, looking to the couch and back to him again. “No?”

He stares at you for a moment with an expression you can’t define.

“Lay down.”

You don’t have a second to process before he’s climbing back in bed too, pulling you down to lay your head on the pillow.

He pulls the covers over you and splays an arm over your waist, clearly firm in his decision for you to stay.

Your eyes are heavy and his bed is so comfortable, it’s difficult for you to even consider either of you wanting you to leave now.

Maybe you’ll just sleep for a little while, get some of your energy back.

The way he traces soft patterns across your stomach certainly encourages the idea and doesn’t give you much power to resist.

You let your eyes flutter shut to the feather-light touch and listen to the steady deepness of his breaths.

Well, this isn’t so bad either.

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