#bruce wayne imagines

[gay-dorito-dust]

You may request A batboys reacting to the death of the reader

First time writing for Tim, so he’s probs ooc in this one.

Dick feels as though he’s failed you.

He tries to act like he was fine but he was far from it and everyone knew it as they stepped on eggshells with him during this time.

Dick would often find himself sat on the very rooftops where he’d take you on countless dates or just to star gaze and talk as though you were still with him.

It was his own way of comforting himself with your loss but that was never enough to stop the tears that fell from his eyes when he spotted a bright star he’s never seen before until now, and laughs humourlessly.

‘I see you’ve finally made your way amongst the stars huh sweetheart?’ He’d say as your star would twinkle in response, making him chuckle. ‘You’re so beautiful, the brightest of your kind.’ He adds sombrely as he wipes his eyes with the back of his hand as he felt his heart sing out for you, only to receive nothing in return.

Reality was often disappointing but with you it was a fairy tale.

Waking up to you was a dream within itself and getting to do mundane things with you before heading off to work was something that could only exist in a daydream.

He knew Hayley misses you as badly as he does with how he’d hear the poor dog whine and whimper at the door, as if waiting for you to walk through it and tackle her with kisses and love like you always did, only to get nothing for hours.

‘I know, I miss them too.’ He says against Hayley’s fur as she whimpers and whines at the door. ‘I miss them so fucking much it hurts.’ He adds as he allows himself to mourn for you alongside his dog long into the night.

Jason blames himself for not being fast enough or strong enough to keep you protected and safe.

The apartment you once shared with him that only recently had started to feel like home to him now felt cold and haunted with the ghost of you, so much so to the point he avoids it at all cost.

Nothing felt right without you, everything felt wrong and unjustified that he became more ruthless then before on patrols just to let off some steam and would come back from them more beaten and bruised then normal.

He didn’t care, he couldn’t feel anything anymore with how numb he became after loosing you.

Dick and Roy would stop by to see how he was doing but each visit was the same with Jason refusing his older brother and best friend entry as he held one of your plushies tightly against his chest. He knows they mean well but he just couldn’t find it within himself to hear the same thing he’s heard from everyone else; It just felt disingenuous after a while and didn’t feel as though people truly understood the impact that you had on him throughout your time together.

Jason would become more destructive with himself and going headfirst into danger without a second thought and damns his teammates for dragging him out by the scruff of his neck as he fights and kicks out of their hold. He doesn’t want to be saved! He just wanted to be with you again, why couldn’t they see that?!

After loosing you Jason becomes more prone to angry outbursts and often lets them out on the wrong person but he couldn’t care less at this point, his favourite person was gone and he was left back where he was before you.

Lost and deeply afraid.

Tim would retreat from everyone and everything by cooping himself into his room, rarely to come out.

He’d rather rot in his bed and on his phone, looking through all the photos you’ve taken together and seeing just how happy you both were, all the while a pit in his stomach grew at the thought of all the plans you’ve made but would never get to do.

He hated how easily he gave you his heart and hated it even more at just how easy it was to loose you that he wishes that he could stop himself from meeting you for the first time, just so he could selfishly save himself from the best moments of his life and the inevitable heartbreak he’d soon suffer.

Tim would do anything in his power to get you back but knew that it just wasn’t possible.

He knew Jason was given life by the Lazarus pit but he wasn’t willing to subject you to that even if he was held at gunpoint. He’d rather you rest in peace than force you to live with the knowledge that you should technically be dead.

Tim would remain in his room, wondering about the what ifs and the what could’ve beens if you hadn’t died. Would someone have taken your place? Was your death an unchangeable fixed point in time that was meant to happen?

He would only be reunited with you in his dreams where he has saved you and you had gotten to live out the rest of your life happily, rather then left for dead in an alleyway not too far from the place where you were originally going to meet up for date night.

Damian dedicated his life to getting revenge.

He had lost the light in his life, so why should he think his adversaries should live when you weren’t even given the option?

There will be more bodies pilling up on the streets of Gotham at a faster rate than normal whenever Damian is on patrol, much to Bruce’s dismay.

His anger and grief was all consuming and that left little to no room for logic to make him stop and see what he was doing was no better than the thing that took you away.

Life was black and white for a long time for Damian and you were the colour.

You were the air he breathed and without you he was gasping.

He knew about the Lazarus pit in his grandfather’s possession and its mythical properties and how it gave Jason a second chance at life. However he was at a cross roads on using it for his own selfish gain, on one hand he could have you back and everything would be fine again, but on the other hand you wouldn’t be the version of you he fell in love with…

Damian didn’t know what to do. The grief, the anger, the sadness…it was all too much for him. He felt as though he apart of him was missing and he would never get it back, it just wasn’t possible.

Bruce feels as though nothing has changed since his parents death.

He may be older, faster, stronger and wiser but that didn’t mean nothing in the face of death, and your death only proved that to be true as he held you in his arms, holding you close to his chest as he quietly sobs into your cold neck.

Much like Tim, Bruce doesn’t take care of himself anymore and it was up to Alfred to make sure that he doesn’t keep over and die unexpectedly.

‘They wouldn’t want this for you sir.’ Alfred would say as Bruce slams his hands down on the surface of his desk. ‘And what would you know that they want for me Alfred, y/n’s dead and it’s my fault.’ He would bark and bare his teeth at the only father figure he had in his life, a father figure whom has seen this expression bore on the young master’s face more times then he could count, but it still hurt him to see Bruce in pain and heartbreak.

‘They would want you to take care of yourself, sleep proper hours, eat full meals, shower, reach out to anyone,’ Alfred began to walk towards Bruce and place a hand on his shoulder, where he could practically feel the unbridled anger and pain radiation through him that he kept under control. ‘They wouldn’t want you to wallow in pain alone, Gotham needs you.’

‘And I needed them.’ Bruce replied sharply, aggressively wiping his eyes with his hand as he looks over at a framed picture of you that he always kept nearby. ‘All I wanted was them.’ He adds softly this time as he looks at Alfred, lost and confused at what to do now that his anchor was gone. ‘I miss them so much Alfred.’

Alfred brings Bruce into his arms, much like he did when he lost his parents, when he lost Jason and now you, allowing him to burrow his face into the Butler’s shoulder and softly sob into the fabric. Alfred felt his heart break even more as he rubbed Bruce’s back in an attempt of bringing him comfort. ‘I know master Bruce, I know, but you’d be doing their memory a great disservice by destroying yourself.’ The older man started as he looked over at the framed picture of you and smiled soberly, you were a beacon to Bruce and Alfred wasn’t afraid to say that he viewed you as his in law with how happy you made Bruce and that was all Alfred could ever want for him.

Now that you were gone, Alfred couldn’t help but feel that the manor got just that little bit lonelier without you.

[i-yap]

Fights between bruce and y/n

bro is so paranoid, he knows everything about you . Everything , and when u find out he extensively stalked you, it prolly didn't sit well. with tim he stalks cuz he loves you. bruce has really serious trust issues and he stalked you to make sure u wont uh lets say steal his sperm and train your kid in the league of shadows .

he sucks at communication . like he will not explain why he does what he does and struggles to talk. Especially in like aggressive confrontations , he'll just go silent and batman persona like . so once you both calm down and sit in a secluded but calm place all alone he will prolly explain his pov. just be gentle with this giant please

hates nonsensical activities, sorry but its facts. he will give you his card take your friends for shopping but bruce has to run a company and the justice league and ( his kids if its batdad au) whats the point of trailing behind you while you look through clothes like? he isn't into fashion, he thinks you look pretty in everything. you guys get to spend no quality time why not just spend those 2-3 hrs taking you out for dinner after ur done shopping?

doesn't really get how expensive gifts can make someone uncomfortable. he is sort of used to gold diggers or rich women. so when you refuse diamond necklace cuz it isn't even a special occasion wtf brucie, I cant just take that , he wont get it. He prolly wont stop either. Will for sure end the argument with" this necklace has now belonged to you and no other woman deserves to wear. so throw it out if you don't want it but I am not taking it "back to the store" or whatever that means"

he is so smart, sometimes forgets that everyone else is not. he thinks its cute when u get super confused but you feel dumb and it'll take a genuine conversation where he tells you that he thinks your the smartest, kindest and most interesting person he has met and IQ or hacking skills or whatever has nothing to do with it.

getting him to retire.

[msfantasy-comics]

The Perfect Match

Bruce Wayne x Reader

Summary: A head cannon on how you’re the perfect match for Bruce.

Warning: Established relationships

Masterlist - Tip Jar

Bruce had always considered the concept of a perfect match to be a feeble notion. The idea that a someone could be perfect and perfectly compliment one’s self was simply illogical and just not possible.

But that’s the thing about hypotheticals, they’re just theories until proven otherwise. Bruce can distinguish five instances on when he recognised you to be his perfect match.

Intelligence:

You weren’t a genius capable of rattling off theories and solving impossible equations. Not by any means. You were, however, incredibly intelligent when it comes to people and making them feel important.

It wasn’t a super power or psychological trickery. It was that you listened to people and ask them questions about their hobbies or family.

It was the way that you leaned in as if you were keen to hear what that person had to say.

It was the way you smile softly when people start to babble off in excitement as you reciprocate the conversation

Whilst you didn’t fully comprehend quantum physics or the engineering to Bruce Wayne’s degree

You sat there happily indulging Bruce as he discusses a new equation he solved

It was the way you made him feel like he could talk about anything without judgement or without your eyes wondering elsewhere in boredom.

Bruce: “Anyway, you probably have more important things to do.”

Y/n: “Don’t be silly. You’re just as important. Go on, finish what you were saying.”

Independence:

Bruce dreaded needy women who are utterly incapable of being self-sufficient. Who required rescuing and constant entertainment like a puppy.

Bruce: “I have an emergency work trip for an unspecified amount of time. I probably won’t be able to contact you too much. Will you be okay without me?”

Y/n *acting like a damsel in distress*

Y/n: “Oh no! I’m being abandoned in the biggest mansion with a butler, a library and a black Amex card. What could one do with one’s self? What a travesty!”

Bruce would return from his two week trip excited to see you again after not being in contact the whole time.

Only you weren’t at the mansion at 4pm on a Tuesday.

Bruce *calling your phone*

Y/n: “Hi honey! I missed you so much!”

Bruce: “Come home and show me how much you’ve missed me.”

Y/n: “What? I finish work in an hour, surely you can survive 60 more minutes without me- oh I have to go, I’ll see you soon my love!”

Supportive:

Bruce didn’t make it to your anniversary dinner.

He didn’t even have a chance to call you and cancel.

He exited the bat cave feeling utterly guilty for abandoning you on such an important occasion.

Bruce felt utterly defeated. A failure of a father. Batman got into a one on one fist fight with Red-Hood, attempting to save the Jokers life, only for his son to forsake himself. Now he had to face his failures as a husband.

Opening the door he sees you laying in bed, scrolling away at your phone.

As soon as you noticed him you tossed the phone and made a mad dash, pulling him into a bear hug.

Y/n: “Honey, I’m so proud of you. Being there when your son needed you most. You’re such a good man. Don’t be hard on yourself, remember that Jason is a grown man who made his decision.”

Pulling Bruce to bed, you pull him into a tight hold and continue to comfort him.

Bruce really appreciated that you didn’t bring up his absence.

Bruce: “I missed our -“

Y/n: “You didn’t miss anything. Your with me now aren’t you? Happy anniversary my beloved.”

Emotionally Stable:

Damian was over your nagging.

Y/n: “Damian, you need to get more sleep. I’m worried your burning yourself out.”

Y/n: “When was the last time you had a proper meal? You can’t survive off burgers alone you know.”

Y/n: “When was the last time you saw Jon? You have to maintain your friendships or else they fall apart.”

Y/n: “Stop having these energy drinks! It’s basically poison for your body - have you had any water today? You look dehydrated!”

You snatched the can out of his hand and threw it in the bin.

Damian lost his absolute shit.

Damian: “Enough with your incessant criticism!You’re getting on my nerves!”

Crosses his arms over his chest and looks off in irritation.

Bruce stands frowning behind him, ready to give his son the scolding of a life time.

But instead your laughter booms across the bat cave.

You find Damian’s little outburst amusing and adorable rather than rude and hurtful.

Y/n: “You’re right D, I’m sorry, I’ll lay off you a bit.”

You’d pull him into that tight hug he says he hates but he always leans into your comforting hold.

Y/n: “You boys be careful tonight, I’ll see you both in the morning”

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Behind Closed Doors (mafia!bruce wayne)

Summary: unbeknownst to you, you become friends with the city's famous mobster.

WC: 1,3K

Warnings: fluff,angst, bruce is a mafia leader AU

Read on Ao3!

Clint Barton Version Here!

--

The dim lights of the bar flickered slightly as the low hum of conversation and clinking glasses surrounded you. The city was alive, but you were still an outsider—new in town, not yet used to the rhythm of things. You had hoped for a quiet night, a drink to wind down from the overwhelming chaos of moving to a new city.

That’s when you first saw him.

A man in a tailored suit, dark hair combed back effortlessly. His presence was magnetic, like something about him demanded attention without trying. He wasn’t loud or boisterous, but his calm demeanor stood out in the crowd. And when his dark eyes landed on yours from across the room, you felt the pull—almost as if he had already decided you were worth his time.

He stood and approached you with a smooth stride, a slight, charming smile playing on his lips. “Mind if I join you?”

You blinked, caught off guard, but something in his gaze made you hesitate just long enough to give a nod. "Sure."

He slid into the seat next to you, the bartender already setting down a drink in front of him as if he were a regular. "Bruce Wayne," he said, offering a hand. His voice was smooth, controlled, like he was used to getting what he wanted.

"Y/N" you replied, shaking his hand. The touch was firm, but you noticed the way his hand lingered a little longer than necessary, almost as if he was savoring the moment. “I’m new in town.”

“I gathered that. Not many people in here don’t know how to blend in.” His smile turned a little teasing. “What brings you to Gotham?”

You shrugged, trying to play it off as casual. “Just needed a change of scenery, I guess. The usual story. New job, new city, new start.”

“New start, huh?” Bruce raised an eyebrow. "I can relate."

There was something cryptic in his words, and for a moment, the conversation faltered as you tried to read him. But then, he shifted the focus back to you, asking about your new life in Gotham and how you were adjusting. His charm was effortless, his attention focused entirely on you, and it wasn’t long before you found yourself laughing and talking about everything from mundane details about your job to the oddities of living in a city like Gotham.

By the end of the night, you were exchanging numbers, your curiosity piqued by his mysterious air, but also by how strangely comfortable you felt around him. Something told you there was more to Bruce Wayne than met the eye, but for now, you were content to just go along with it.

The next few weeks passed in a blur of coffee dates and casual conversations. Every time you met, it felt like you were peeling back another layer of him, but it was slow, almost too slow. Bruce always seemed interested in you—truly interested—but there was a distance in his eyes, a guardedness that made it impossible to get too close.

And then there were the disappearances.

You’d be sitting at a café, enjoying a warm drink, and Bruce would be there, his attention on you, his voice a calm presence in the noise of the world. But then, just as the conversation would begin to dip into something deeper, his phone would ring. His expression would change in an instant—controlled but sharp—and he’d apologize, excusing himself to take the call in a more private area.

You didn’t think much of it at first. Work. That was all he ever said. But the more times it happened, the more it felt like an excuse. And then you started to wonder: was he really that busy? Or was there something else going on?

One evening, after yet another brief and unexplained disappearance, you found yourself sitting alone at a table, swirling the coffee in your mug absentmindedly, thoughts racing. A small part of you had been entertained by his mystery, but now, it was starting to bother you. He’d been so elusive, almost like he was keeping something from you. And when he disappeared on the phone, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was another woman involved. Maybe that was why he was always so distant when you weren’t with him. Maybe the phone calls were just him checking in with his girlfriend.

You tried to push the thoughts aside, but they clung to you, nagging at the back of your mind.

It wasn’t until a few days later that your suspicions were confirmed—but not in the way you expected.

You were walking through the city, lost in your thoughts when you spotted Bruce across the street, standing outside a sleek black car. You froze. He was talking to someone—no, giving orders. The man he was speaking to nodded respectfully before walking away, and you could see Bruce’s posture shift just slightly, a certain authority in his stance.

That was when you saw it.

The man had passed by a neon sign on the corner—an inconspicuous one, but you caught a glimpse of the symbol on his jacket. A logo you recognized. One that wasn’t just associated with business deals or high society parties, but something far darker.

You weren’t sure what exactly you were seeing, but you knew one thing: this wasn’t just a businessman you’d been having coffee with. Bruce Wayne wasn’t just charming and mysterious—he was dangerous.

A mob boss. It made sense now, all the late-night calls, the secretive exits, the way people in Gotham seemed to give him a certain level of respect.

But before you could process the full weight of the realization, you felt a hand on your shoulder. You turned quickly, only to find Bruce standing right behind you, his face unreadable.

“I thought I might find you here,” he said smoothly, his tone even and calm, though there was an edge to it now. “You’ve been thinking about me.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you tried to swallow the shock creeping up your throat. “I... I didn’t expect this.”

He studied you for a moment, his expression softening. “I guess I should’ve told you sooner.”

“Why didn’t you?” you asked, unable to stop the words from spilling out. “Were you hiding something from me, Bruce? Or... was there someone else?”

A slight smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “There’s no one else, Y/N. But there are things about me... things I can’t share easily.” He stepped closer, his voice low, almost like a warning. “I didn’t want you to get mixed up in it.”

Your stomach twisted with a mix of confusion and anger. “Mixed up in what? What are you really doing, Bruce?”

He hesitated, but then, his hand moved to your cheek, his touch tender. “I’m doing what I have to do to protect this city. And anyone who gets close to me—who gets too close—becomes a part of that. You need to understand that.”

You looked up at him, a chill running through you. “So this—us—wasn’t real?”

Bruce’s gaze softened, a brief flicker of vulnerability crossing his face. “It was real. But my world is... complicated. I was hoping you wouldn’t find out this way. But I won’t lie to you, Y/N. This is my life. And if you want to stay in it, you need to accept what that means.”

Your heart raced as you tried to piece it all together—the man you thought you knew, the mystery, the lies. But no matter how much you wanted to run, something about him held you in place, anchored by the truth in his eyes.

“I don’t know what to believe anymore,” you whispered, the weight of everything crashing down on you.

Bruce’s expression darkened, his thumb brushing over your cheek before he spoke again. “You’ll figure it out. But just know—no one ever walks away from me once they’ve seen the truth. And that includes you.”

[urfavslytherclawgirl]

I cared...

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2.5k

Warning: Angst, swearing, crying, guilt, verbal fight, more than one POV, happy ending.

Summary: Bruce decides he will start dating you just to get information about your family, which is part of the Gotham Mafia, but what happens when he catches feelings for you? Or when you find out about all this?

"We need information on the Falcone family," Dick told Bruce while they were in the car heading to the annual Gotham party, it was amazing for people like Bruce and Dick, vigilantes.

The Falcone family needed to get what they deserved, to be put in jail for all the crimes they committed.

"And how do you want to do that?'' Bruce asked genuinely confused, Wayne Enterprises could get involved with Falcone and his wild business, they were friends after all, but it would be risky and obvious.

"We'll see. I'll take care of it Bruce, don't worry." Dick said as they stopped in front of the hotel where the party was happening.

"Hello, Mr. Wayne and Mr. Grayson." The host acknowledged the two as they got in with smiles. The party was full of people, with warm lighting and soft music playing, waiters walking from one end to the other giving out beverages and chatting everywhere.

"There's Falcone," Dick whispered as he got a glass of champagne, "and one of his daughters. Oh--maybe we can see if she lets out something. She is your age, or maybe two years younger but still. Give it a try" Dick suggested while looking toward the girl wearing an expensive dress.

"I can't just go there and ask her if her father kills people or not." Bruce ironically remarked while looking around smiling as people greeted him.

"Not like that, charm her...you can try to ask her out on a date. You're Bruce Wayne, who would deny it?" Dick ended the conversation by going away leaving Bruce alone with his thoughts.

He could at least try. If he noticed it wasn't working he'd just end things with her, simple

But it did work, it worked too well for him to even remember what the hell he was doing, he talked to you at the party smoothly asking you out on a date, and that date was perfect, different from any other date he had ever had, while other women would ask him about his 'extraordinary' life you asked him what his favorite book was, or when he'd say that something didn't work out for him instead of receiving a ''How! You're Bruce Wayne!'', he'd get advice or you'd help him through it.

You were...the most caring person he had ever met, and it hurt him every day to do what he was doing to you, but he was too engrossed to even try to stop it and when he did he'd just end up admiring you even more.

But he was going to do it now, he'd end whatever the two of you were having today, he was sure of it.

He had invited you to watch a movie in the screen room at his house and he'd find a way to end it.

"I'm going to get more popcorn for us. Not too much salt and definitely no butter, I know you, Bruce." You smiled and left the room with the empty popcorn bucket. This weird feeling formed in his stomach, maybe it was the anxiety of it all. All of a sudden warm arms hugged him from behind putting the popcorn on the seat next to him, he automatically kissed your cheek making you smile

You sat back down as Bruce looked at you with drunken eyes, he took your hand that was in your lap and kissed the back of it.

He was going to do it.

"You make me really happy."

He was going to do it.

"You're the most beautiful girl I've ever seen."

He--

The two of you were now kissing passionately.

-

You were looking for Bruce in the middle of another party Gotham was hosting, with yet again many people making it even harder for you to find Bruce.

"Bruce!" You called out as you noticed he was walking towards an exit with a dark-haired young man, you walked through the crowd of people and finally made it to the exit.

"Bru--"

"Did you really not get anything, Bruce, we needed that information. Come on, you've been dating that girl for at least a month and she hasn't told you anything we can use against Carmine?"

Information? Use against my dad?

"What?" You whispered making the two look at you as Bruce's eyes widened, you scoffed and started walking away.

"Wait! Please, wait!" Bruce called out walking towards you, you stopped and turned around in anger.

"Where you using me, Bruce? I thought you cared and were genuinely interested in me! Was this shit all a lie?!" Tears threatened to fall from your eyes but you tried to resist the urge.

"Please let me explain--" But you didn't even let him finish, "Explain what, huh? How I was dumb enough to believe all the things that came out of your mouth? Or how I was stupid for even thinking you cared? Because I did! I cared about you and us, so much..." He looked at you with guilt in his eyes, he stepped forward then took a few more steps when he noticed you didn't step away.

"Please believe me now, I do care about you, and it was all true, all my emotions and all the things I said, all true. I made shitty decisions but none of it was fake." Bruce put his hand on your cheek , you looked at him for fe seconds, thinking.

You slowly put your hand on top of his hand that was resting on your cheek and pulled it away, toward his chest, pressing it there.

"Find someone else." You said turning around and walking away.

My dear

Please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you the way I did. I was a child and an idiot, but you have to know that I meant everything and you were one of the only people who treated me like a human, and I'll always be extremely thankful for that.

I care so much about you and I will never forgive myself for how much I hurt you, you might not even read this letter but I'm still giving it a try, for you, I'd always try.

You were right, I did lie, but only for the first minutes after that every emotion I felt was real, you are the most beautiful person I've ever met and I do care about you, in fact I love you.

Just know that you will always have a place in my heart and that I'll always be here in case you need me.

Bruce Wayne

You read the letter that was sent to your office, and after reading it front to back you left work immediately, got into your car and raced through Gotham.

As you stopped in front of Wayne Manor you didn't know what to do, so you started with the basic going to the door and ringing the door bell.

"Nice seeing you again, I wasn't aware Master Bruce was getting a visit, please come in." Alfred said after opening the front door.

"Master Bruce is in his studies." He whispered before leaving you alone, you sighed and started walking.

"Alfred I'm busy, for the last time I don't want tea." Bruce said as you opened the door, he was writing another letter with his hands between his head thinking in what to write.

"I'm not here for tea." You answered closing the door and walking towards his desk, he immediately looked at you with maybe hope or something else in his eyes.

"I got your letter," You said walking towards a bookshelf full of old books.

"What you did, was hurtful, but I get it, my father isn't the best man in the world. I love you too." Your voice was almost like a whisper as you turned your head towards him.

"I don't know if you meant it or not when you wrote it in your letter but it's fair for you to know." As your body fully turned towards Bruce you gasped bumping into Bruce, who had swiftly gotten up from his chair.

"I love you, and I promise you I won't ever lie to you again. Never." He said hugging your body while kissing you.

"Okay, I got it, no need for these many emotions. Keep up with your emotionless reputation." The two of you laughed.

[ktficworld]

"You want a last minute dancer and I want to gate crash Wayne's party. We have a deal."

[justanoasisimagines]

First Impressions.

Summary; Bruce is distracted when he meets you at a Gala Pairing; Bruce Wayne x Female Reader WordCount; 552 Credit to cafekitsune for the banner and the divider!

Bruce navigated the room with practiced ease. He slipped into the room with precision. Bruce knew exactly what to say, and who to say it to. Bruce knew the attendees who he needed to work harder to obtain what he wanted.

Events like this Bruce often remained focused during a Gala such as these. Albeit, he often found himself bored. It was all about keeping up appearances.

However, Bruce was distracted tonight. A long flowing black gown glided across the floor. Eyes met momentarily as Bruce allowed a subtle smile to grace his lips. A mirror image as you brought a champagne flute to your crimson-painted lips.

Bruce didn't care for any other guests tonight. Except you. He wanted to make your acquaintance. Suddenly, Bruce was no longer engaged in the current conversation. He nodded his head, providing short answers. Desperate to end the conversation to make his introductions.

Bruce allowed the conversation five more minutes before he made his excuses. He took two champagne flutes from the waiter passing by.

You were alone, taking a breather from the constant barrage of questions and fake pleasantries. Unlike many you were attending because you cared about helping under privileged children. Unlike those who were heard to spread and hear gossip.

"You look like you could use this" Your eyes glanced up to be met with the hose for the evening. Blue eyes met yours. "Thank you, this place looks beautiful." You examined the room taking in the sight. His team had done an amazing job. Except Bruce couldn't admire he view because he couldn't take his eyes off of you. You were breathtaking.

"I can't take the credit. I have an excellent team. They're the ones who made it possible." "Well then you have a great team, Mr. Wayne, you should be proud." "Thank you and please call me Bruce." Bruce angled himself towards you, interested in taking in every minuscule detail about you. That was only the beginning for Bruce, he wanted to know you inside and out. Bruce's nerves were on edge. He'd never been so compelled before. Never by another person. "So what brings you here tonight?" "I work alongside the charity. You're doing excellent work you have no idea how much of an impact the donations will have getting kids off the streets, giving them a chance at life." Bruce admired the way you spoke, The passion in your voice, the way your animated hands reiterated that. "I'm always willing to help any way I can. Gotham's youth are going to bring change. It's something I'm passionate about Bruce observed your smile widen. "I wish others here tonight held your sentiment. Most are here for the publicity and the idle gossip. Tonight's more about flaunting their wealth. They will not give a second thought to the children tonight." "Perhaps we could arrange dinner? Talk about the ways I could help. I'd love to get more involved. "Thank you, I don't know what to say." "Say yes. Let me take you out. Somewhere more intimate and less pretentious. We can talk about everything and make a plan. Bruce gave you a moment, hoping this could provide the opportunity to get to know you and create a different change rather than fighting Gotham's underbelly. "Sure I'll go to dinner with you."

[random-imagines-blog]

Imagine accidentally inhaling pheromones, making you unable to hide your feelings for Bruce Wayne.

A strange smell wafted through the laboratory. You couldn’t place what it was, but you could put a finger on the things that it was making you feel. “Oh no,” I said, looking around for who could have been the culprit of such an attack. The Joker? No, this wasn’t funny enough, he’d blow the place up. Scarecrow? He was more into fear gas, not ... whatever this was. Poison Ivy? ... Perhaps.

To your disappoint, your instincts had taken over more than your smarts for once, pressing the emergency button that would send Bruce down here. Or rather, Batman. You were one of the few people who knew his identity, and he hired you to work for him, finding you to be an extraordinary inventor, coming up with ways to improve his gear, and come up with new ideas. But now he was headed down here. And you weren’t sure if you were going to be able to prevent yourself from doing something very, very foolish.

A metallic sound was heard as the secure doors opened. “MASK!” You managed to shout, and Bruce pushed a button that made his mask unfold in a way to cover his mouth and his nose, and filter in the air. You hoped that was enough. “What is it?” He said, walking forward, looking around for an explosion of some sort. A spilled beaker. Anything that made it look like a science class gone awry.

“I don’t know - pheromones,” You said, trying to wave the air away from your face but it was too late. “Pressed the emergency button by mistake - gotta vent this out - sorry, I have it handled...” You went to the computer system and started to type things in to start one of the emergency filtration systems. One was to keep dangerous chemicals in, to keep them  from spreading to the city, and others was to get them out quickly. You started the operation for the second one when you felt a hand on your shoulder.

“Hey,” The voice didn’t come out all broody and gravelly like Batman’s did. It was all Bruce through the mask. “I trust you, just relax, and focus on what you’re good at.”

Oh - you really wished he didn’t touch you, because it just set off the reaction.

Goosebumps erupted on your skin. Your face started to feel warm, beadlets of sweat breaking out on your forehead. Your heartbeat increased. Your pupils dilated as you saw the reflection of Bruce in your computer screen. And now he was touching you. His hand - so hot against your skin, you instantly felt feverish. He noticed your reaction, and then slowly let go.

“N-no, please,” You said, putting your hand on top of his, feeling his skin beneath yours, the contact making even more feelings surge through you. “I’ve had feelings for you for a long time and I-” Your breathing started to grow heavier. You were forcing yourself to remember to breathe in through the nose and out through the mouth. “I just want your hand to stay there while I do this - oh God, please forget this is happening.”

Bruce bristled for a moment, but then he relaxed his hand against you. He kept it there, under yours, while you typed with one hand into the computer. The vents opened and fans started to spread the air out of there, the unnatural pheromones leaving with it, out into the woods beyond the cave. You were left still trembling slightly, still holding Bruce’s hand. Once you realized you were, you moved yours quickly, putting it into your lap.

“I’m sorry-"

“Don’t be,” Bruce said, patting your shoulder, before taking his hand away. “I’ve been wanting to hear that for a long time now.”

Requested by: Anonymous

[thebigbadbatswife]

Day 1 - Pegging

Pairing - Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Warnings - 18+ content, if you're under 18 leave immediately! Smut, Pegging, FemDom, Anal Sex, Doggy Style, Strap Ons, Submissive Bruce Wayne, Nicknames, Hand Jobs

Summary -  You and Bruce try something new in the bedroom.

“Are you ready, Brucie?” 

Your voice was all teasing and full of temptation. He could hear the smirk that was on your face. He was on his hands and knees, on the bed, with you sat directly behind him.

Tonight had been your idea. Asking him to give up control, even for just a little bit. As much as he hated giving up control, he trusted you and what you had proposed sounded good. Really good. How could he say no?

“Yeah, I’m ready,” he replied. The question came off as strange to him. You knew he was ready. You had watched him prep himself earlier. Fingering himself open, slowly stretching his hole, while you had watched from the armchair. Your legs spread, resting on the arm rests of the chair while you had very lightly touched your clitoris. Enough to work you up, but not enough to come close to coming. Then realisation hit him. You were giving him a way out, if he wanted it. Like the many times he had tried something new with you and he had made sure you wanted it. He didn’t want or need a way out. He wanted you to fuck him.

His body jolted and his breathing hitched as you applied some more lube. It was cold, sending goosebumps all across his body. He felt the mattress dip as you moved, settling between his legs. The anticipation of it all had his cock feeling harder than it had ever been before.

He felt the head of your strap-on press up against his puckered hole. One of your hands smoothed over his back before coming to rest on his hip. Slowly, you pushed the head of the dildo inside of him. The stretch was delicious and had his mouth dropping open as he took as shuddering breath. You chuckled as you stroked his hips, as you continued pushing inside of him.

He clenched down and moaned as the toy already rubbed against his prostate. Bruce could feel the warmth radiating off of you and the feel of the harness against his body, as you bottomed out. He was grateful he had chosen the penthouse for this tonight. There was no need to add to his family’s trauma.

You were murmuring softly. Letting him know how good he was doing. Sprinkling in a few “pretty boy”s here and there. He couldn’t explain what that nickname did to him. How it made him feel. All good things, of course. Much like the feeling of the toy inside of him. Making him feel so goddamn full. It had him briefly wondering if this was how you felt every night he slid into your wet, hot cunt.

His hands gripped the covers and he could feel precum leaking from his cock. 

The mattress creaked as you shifted, slowly pulling out of him before pushing back in. The action sent electricity shooting up his spine and he moaned again. Though he had a preference for being quiet, mostly so he could hear your noises, he wasn’t ashamed of his moans and groans. Plus they let you know how much he approved of what you were doing. How good it felt for him to be fucked by his girlfriend.

As his body relaxed, each thrust became easier, letting you go faster and harder. The sound of your hips clapping against him filled the room, along with his moans.

“Feels really fucking good, doesn’t it, pretty boy?” you purred his nickname. He could hear it in your voice. You were enjoying this a lot. Watching him lose himself completely to the pleasure coursing through him. Falling apart because of you.

He didn’t trust his voice not crack, so he responded to your question with a guttural moan, that he definitely didn’t mean to come out like that. Fuck. The things this was doing to him. Him. Bruce Wayne. The Batman. Gotham’s Dark Knight reduced to a needy, moaning mess by his girlfriend’s strap-on. Thankfully, what happened behind closed doors stayed there.

His cock ached, badly. He was starting to get desperate for it to be touched, but he couldn’t do it himself. He didn’t trust that he wouldn’t just collapse on the bed, letting you have your way with him even more than you already were. Fortunately it seemed you had read his mind because before he could try to speak up, he felt your hand wrap around his shaft. You stroked upwards, wiping away the precum that had been leaking out of him with your thumb. You chuckled softly at your discovery.

“Already a mess and you haven’t even emptied your balls yet, baby.” The way you were speaking to him had a shiver run through him. He liked it a lot. He didn’t think that he would, yet here he was wanting more of it. Your hand released his shaft so you could give his balls a quick squeeze before you started to stroke him again. The squeeze made a choked noise leave him. A noise he was certain you enjoyed.

As you stroked his cock, your thrusts became harder, more forceful. Each one moving him forward a little bit. The pleasure made his eyes roll in his head. His orgasm building up quickly, like a speeding train. He wasn’t going to last much longer and you were sure as hell making sure of that.

“Going to be a good boy and come for me, pretty boy?” you asked him, fucking him harder. The constant feeling of the dildo hitting his prostate, the way you were stroking his cock and how you were speaking to him, sent him over the edge.

He came hard, his body shuddering as he emptied his balls. He felt some of it hit his chest, the rest of it staining the covers. His mouth dropped open in a soundless moan as you continued to fuck him through it. Stopping when he made a small sound of protest from the sensitivity of his cock. His forearms shook as he did his best to hold himself up. 

Bruce felt like he was up on cloud nine. All of the tension releasing from his shoulders. The force of his orgasm relaxing him completely. For the time being at least, it seemed you had taken the weight of the world off of him.

You released his cock, but remained sheathed inside of him for a moment. You were panting yourself, and you hadn’t even come yet tonight.

Slowly, you eased the toy out of him. The emptiness it left behind felt… odd to him. He couldn’t quite find the words as he let his body finally give out and collapsed onto the bed. His limbs felt like jelly.

“How was that?” you asked. The dominance you had just shown was completely gone. Instead replaced by well… you. Eager to find out how he had found that. “Was it good?”

“Yeah, baby,” he replied. “It was great.”

“Good.” You rubbed his lower back reassuringly. “You did so well for me.”

He couldn’t help, but smile softly, as he looked over his shoulder at you. You were resting back on your knees, a fine sheen of sweat on your body, your breasts bouncing slightly with each deep breath you took. The harness was still in place, the straps digging into your skin. You looked amazing to him.

“You must be pretty worked up right now,” he said.

“Yeah.” A smirk was on your lips. “Want to help me out with that?” you asked, already starting to remove the harness. Ready to chuck it to the side.

He nodded. “Of course I do.” 

He rolled onto his back and, with the harness gone, you moved up his body, your legs coming to rest either side of his head. Your cunt was dripping, arousal smeared on the inside of your thighs and your clitoris swollen, begging for his attention. His licked his lips, swallowing thickly. He couldn’t wait to devour you. Show you how appreciative he was.

You lowered yourself down onto his face, gasping as his mouth was quick to meet you.

[gay-dorito-dust]

Hii sweetie, how are you? Are requests open rn? I'm soooo sorry if they arent and i'm botherig you, but can i make a sugestion please? How would batboys (including bruce if possible) would "react" to missing you while on a mission? And maybe in the end the reenconter? Just an idea❤️

I’m sorry that it’s taken me this long to write this and I hope that it’s everything you want and more.

Dick; sits and sulks as he stares at his phone.

I’m joking…or am I?

He’d be mentally counting away the hours before he came back home to you once more. He tries to act professional and keep a level head seeing as how leaders aren’t meant to have room for errors, he’s learnt that the hard way many times. But he can’t help but yearn to be in your arms and fall into the deepest sleep ever knowing that you were close by and above all safe.

He would use this as motivation to get through the long, long night of patrol in hopes of making time take pity on him and go just that little bit faster, just for his selfish convenience. He just so desperately wants to see you and Hayley cuddled up together on your shared bed, or watching a movie together if you were still awake this late at night. You held a piece of his heart without even knowing it.

So when he feels the patrol come to an end, he’s gleefully beating the piss out of the goons he’s come across with a smile across his face. It’s borderline terrifying image that will forever remain burnt into the deepest parts of his teammates memory for a good long while.

The minute Dick came home and you so happened to be waiting for him, he was already scooping you into his arms and holding you close to his chest as he buried his head into your neck.

‘I missed you.’ He murmurs.

‘I’m pretty sure that’s my line you’ve just stolen.’ You joked as you ran your hand through his dark hair, relived in seeing him home safe and unharmed.

‘Well it’s my line now because I really did miss you,’ Dick said, tightening his hold on you, ‘you we’re all I thought about tonight and how much I wanted to come home and be where I want to be most, in your arms.’ He adds tired and you couldn’t help but coo softly at him.

‘Aww Dickie bird.’ You began. ‘You sound about ready for some much needed sleep.’

Dick lets out a deep sigh as he practically slumps against you. ‘That sounds like a good idea. Is Hayley in bed?’

‘Yes.’ You answered, rubbing his back soothingly.

‘Her bed or ours?’ Dick asks.

‘Do you even need to ask?’ You reply with a chuckle and from that alone did Dick get his answer.

Jason; he’s a little impatient with having to wait to come back home to you, so much so that it tends to end with him brutalising his adversaries more then usual.

Whoops.

He doesn’t apologise at all.

He was so use to coming home to a empty apartment after patrol that long nights like these never use to bother Jason, as it often meant he had something else to do other then stare up at his ceiling, waiting for sleep to catch up to him. Now that he had you however, all Jason wants to do was come home as soon as possible just to catch a glimpse of your sleeping figure on his -now your- bed.

He’s grown addicted to being at your side no matter what that being apart from you for prolonged periods of time made Jason feel hollow, as though he was missing a vital part of himself somewhere and that vital part was you.

So when he gets home he’s already dropped his helmet off somewhere and kneeling before you as you held his face in your hands and groaning as he presses his face further into your hands.

‘I’ve missed you so much tonight chipmunk.’ He admits.

‘I’ve missed you too jay bird.’ You replied, pressing a kiss to his nose, squealing when he stole a quick peck from your lips as you smacked his bicep shortly after. ‘Someone’s feeling particularly loving tonight.’ You add.

Jason groans as he looks up at you with his pretty, pretty eyes that never fail to take your breath away. The mere image alone of this six foot something man kneeling before you was enough to make you feel like the most powerful being in existence. ‘Is it blasphemy for a man to show his partner how much he’s missed them now?’ He asks and you couldn’t help but laugh as you pressed another kiss to his nose, pulling away enough to see him smile dopily at your kiss.

‘No, but it would be great to be warmed ahead of time before you try to steal another kiss.’ You said and Jason smirks. ‘So you’re telling me there is going to be a next time?’ He says teasingly.

‘Don’t let it go to your head hotshot.’ You reply, grabbing one of his hands and pulling him towards the bedroom.

‘I think I already have sweetheart.’ Jason says with a smile, happy to be home.

Bruce: keeps tabs on you during patrol whilst also remaining vigilant and dedicated to the task at hand.

Bruce was a master at multitasking.

He would always make sure you were safe and decried whenever he got a couple minutes to breathe on his own. He even has a special alert made for you in the instance where you were in danger walking home.

He even finds himself looking at shops you’ve told him about going to, but never doing so due to scheduling conflicts and making a mental note to take you there as a treat to spoil you rotten.

Bruce had more experience in neglecting his own wants and needs for the betterment of Gotham and everyone living in it. So while he may miss you dearly, he knew that his dedication to bettering Gotham’s crime rate one villain, underground drug syndicate, crime lord at a time outweighed that greatly.

So the moment he comes home to you he smiles softly as he allows you to remove the cowl from his head, gently place it down elsewhere, before moving on to wiping the black makeup clean from his eyes.

Bruce knows he could easily done it himself but much rather prefers it if you were the one to do it instead, as it often allows him to have a moment alone with you. No interruptions nor distractions could make him break his gaze away from yours.

‘You’re doing Gotham a whole lot of good Bruce.’ You tell him as you finished wiping off the last of his eye makeup that he puts on under the cowl. ‘ Not many people would be willing to try to keep a dying city alive. Im so proud of you for doing the unthinkable.’ You add as you press a kiss to his cheek.

‘Someone’s got to shoulder the responsibility of this town and I’m more than willing to shoulder that responsibility everyone else who can’t.’ Bruce replies as he takes your hands in his own, kissing the backs of them as his thumbs caressed each of your knuckles. ‘But coming home to you reminds me I’m not alone in this endeavour and I don’t know how to thank you enough for standing by me.’

You smile. ‘You don’t need to thank me at all, just take care of yourself alright? We don’t want the Dark Knight running on fumes now when he’s just getting started.’

Damian: naturally goes by his father’s example and remains focused on the task at hand.

He was trained for long nights like these but you’ve become somewhat of a problem during them.

Damian had often found himself sat on a rooftop somewhere, looking down at two people enjoying the other’s company, and immeditly starts to imagine that it was him and you instead.

He hates how easily his mind drifted towards you during patrol with his father or his other siblings but he just can’t help it but crave for your presence. It makes him feel weak and vulnerable but ironically he doesn’t hate it as much as he probably should’ve. He’s even found himself wanting to count stars with you at one point during patrol until he got him act together to take down a few goons.

He doesn’t admit this to anyone as he’s already felt embarrassed enough that he didn’t needed to be embarrassed even further by the miscreants he’s made to called his family. For he knew they’d never let him live it down for being so caught up on you, they’d called him everything their small minds can come up with for the sake of teasing their younger brother.

So when he comes back to you, he doesn’t say anything other than hugging you uncharacteristically tight against his chest.

‘Someone’s missed me.’ You joked but when Damian didn’t say anything but tighten his grip on you and huff did you change your tune. ‘Oh you did. If it’s any consolation I missed you too.’ You add as you both stayed there in each others arms.

‘Just…hold me will you…please.’ He said softly as he sunk further into your embraced and he closed his eyes, secretly happy to be back home with you.

‘I’m fine with that.’ You replied as you concede to his wishes, just happy to see him home in one piece.

[ichorai]

talk ; bruce wayne.

track nine of WASTELAND, BABY!

pairing ; rpatz!bruce wayne x fiance!gn!reader

synopsis ; it’d been years since you died. bruce stood silent in front of your grave, hair damp from the cold rain. you approached him from behind, tipping your umbrella forward just enough so the tears of the sky would stop mingling with his own.

words ; 6.8k

themes ; angst, action, fluff, engaged au, ex-thief au

warnings / includes ; faked death, injuries/blood/violence/death, depictions of human trafficking, a lot of Emotions, reader used to be a thief, mentions of the joker and harley quinn, alfred cameo !! and one smutty-ish sentence?

main masterlist.

The ground was sodden with rainwater, mud clinging onto his black boots. Its long laces were loosely dragging through the dirt, wet and filthy, but he couldn’t be bothered to retie them. Rain dripped from the hair that hung limply from his head, frigid drops pricking his skin and meandering down his cheeks. The cold air from the sky was a pleasant but striking juxtaposition to the hot tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, conveniently camouflaged by the rain. It wasn’t often that Bruce Wayne cried, but for you, he allowed himself to shed a few tears.

After all, it was the third anniversary of your death.

He hadn’t shown up to your funeral—well, from what Alfred told him, he wouldn’t have made much of a difference. There were hundreds of people there. He was just glad he wasn’t there so the vultures of public press didn’t have the chance to shove flashing cameras into his face.

He could just imagine the headlines: Bruce Wayne At Gotham’s Most Notorious Thief’s Funeral, Y/N L/N And Bruce Wayne: A Tragic Romance, Bruce Wayne’s Ex-Criminal Fiance Killed By The Joker.

Bruce coughed into his fist, masking a strained, broken sob as his eyes trailed down your headstone, where your name was carved in stone. His shoulders trembled. The sky thundered. He bit down on his tongue. His lungs felt thick and heavy, as if slickened with tar. 

There were nearly a dozen bouquets of flowers crowded around the stone. Bruce noticed that there were several wilting roses amongst the heap of petals and thorns. 

You hated roses.

“Hope you didn’t leave me any of those,” said an eerily familiar voice from behind him. All of a sudden, the rain stopped pelting his head, shadowed by a dark umbrella, just enough to stop the tears of the sky from mingling with his own. “You know I hate roses.”

His shoulders tensed.

Chest constricting, your name slipped from his lips, nearly lost to the pelting rain. 

“The one and only,” you said. “It’s been a long time, Bru.”

He turned around, stiff. His eyes twitched in disbelief. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat. A part of Bruce, the grief-stricken part, wondered if he was hallucinating you.

But you were here, in the flesh. And there was a small grin coyly toying at the corner of your lips. You had a hat pulled low over your head, nearly shielding your bright eyes as well, and you were dressed in loose, dark clothing. 

The ring he gave you dangled on a thin silver chain around your neck, gleaming as if regularly polished. You silently noted that he still wore his own engagement ring.

Bruce’s supposedly dead fiance tilted their head, regarding him with veiled fondness.

“Come on,” you said, pointedly turning away so that the umbrella was no longer hovering over him. He flinched when the cold rain touched his skin. He stood there for a second longer, still in shock, before numbly following behind you. 

Rust. 

Bruce could smell it everywhere.

“I know it isn’t much,” you said, shouldering the creaky door to the abandoned warehouse open, “but it’s home. For now, at least.”

You glanced over your shoulder, catching Bruce’s hardened eyes. With pursed lips, you shook the water out of your umbrella before shucking it closed, tossing it somewhere in the corner. Bruce watched as you busied yourself with lighting small gas lamps on rickety metal chairs, before allowing his gaze to briefly dart around the room. It was spacious in a way that was unsettling—dark and dreary, cold and lifeless. There were a couple dozen boxes stacked along the opposite wall, lining the large, moldy windows. A beaten down sofa was placed off to the side, with a thin blanket messily thrown over the back. 

You’d been living here this entire time? 

When he spoke—his first words to you in three entire years—it was shaky and saturated with raw hurt. He was… he was so inexplicably angry with you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, so quietly you nearly wished he was yelling instead. “How could you… how could you do this to me? To Alfred?”

The splinter within the fractures of your heart was all of a sudden a large stake, and Bruce held the hammer.

A small sigh fell from your lips and you turned to face him fully. “It’s a long story.”

Bruce’s frustrated countenance remained unchanged. “You better get going, then.”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, before dropping down onto your patchy sofa. “You don’t wanna sit down?” you asked. He gave you no response. “Alright, then.”

There was so much to tell him. You didn’t know where to start.

After clearing your throat, you finally croaked out, “That night three years ago—I contacted the Joker through Harley Quinn. She was an old pal of mine from my crime days. Through her, I asked him to meet me under Gotham’s largest bridge because I had a deal to make with him. A part of me wasn’t sure he was going to show but—my reputation as the city’s most famous ex-thief was more than enough to convince him. He was curious, you see. He thought I was coming back into the business of stealing. It didn’t take him long to realize that I wasn’t planning on working with him, and he was about to call his cronies for back up, but I knocked him out before he could reach for anything. I planted evidence of my death on him—a knife with my blood on it, his fingerprints over my equipment, his hair on my clothes, my skin under his nails. The next couple of hours, I was across the city, ingesting a fake-death pill—potassium cyanide. The next day, the entire world thought I was dead, killed by the Joker—though if you dug up that grave you were standing over earlier today, you’d find it to be empty. I framed him so he’d land in jail, Bruce. Like he deserves to be.”

Bruce’s pallid complexion made it look like he was going to keel over and hurl. “Why? Why did you do it?”

“There were people trying to kill you because of me, Bru,” you whispered. “They wanted me dead, and they wanted you dead, too. I was protecting you. If I’m gone, then they’d no longer have a reason to kill you.” 

“YOU COULD’VE TOLD ME!” he roared, his pain ricocheting throughout the warehouse. All of a sudden, he was no farther than an arm’s length away from you. The blue of his eyes gleamed with a mirage of resurfaced bitterness and anger. His voice quietened, “I could’ve done something. I could’ve helped you. We could’ve worked through it together.”

You shook your head. “You knowing I was alive would’ve put us both at more risk. I had to do it, Bruce. I… I had to do it so I wasn’t under the eye of scrutiny anymore. Being the most famous ex-thief and Bruce Wayne’s fiance meant more eyes on me than practically anyone else in the country. One tiny slip up, and I’d be in jail right next to the Joker!”

Bruce reared back upon realizing what you were saying. “You faked your death to steal again?”

“No!” you bit back, voice cracking. “Not to steal. To help—just without the cops on my back. Without the Penguin breathing down my neck. Without Deathstroke hunting me down. I did it to protect you and help the city in my own way.”

Silence stretched thin between the two of you. Bruce was tense, frozen in front of you, repeating your words over and over in his head.

“I still love you, Bru,” you said, reaching out for his arm. “That’s never changed.”

He moved out of your way, flinching at the mere prospect of touching you.

“Then what do you want from me?” he snarled, gruffer than he had intended. “I grieved you. I couldn’t—I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d failed you. I couldn’t save you. It tore me apart, Y/N. I just… I loved you so much. You meant so much to me. And to just… leave without so much as a goodbye! Not even a note!”

Your hand fell back to your side, a sharp ache clawing within your ribcage. 

“I’m sorry,” you said, gritting your jaw and willing the surfacing tears away. “I’d love to hash this out with you, B, but there’s more pressing matters at hand. I would’ve never told you that I’m still alive if I really didn’t need your help.”

There was a beat of silence. Bruce shifted, shoulders hunched over as if he wanted to cave in on himself. The thought of being around you right now was simultaneously the worst thing he could do to himself, and what he desired most. 

He missed you—painfully so. He missed the hard, determined edge to your expression whenever you concentrated on something. He missed the way you used to cradle him close to you when he had terrible nightmares, kissing around his bruises. He missed the way you’d playfully bump your hip against his while the two of you worked on the same table. He missed the way you'd lewdly moan your special nickname for him—Bru—into the mattress when he rolled his hips into yours from behind, pressing hot kisses down your arched spine. He missed your infamous grin, and how it never failed to replicate itself onto his own lips. He missed your scent—a homely mix of cinnamon and lavender, a smell he wanted to drown himself with. After you’d died, he’d sleep with your hoodie pressed against his nose—and he did so until the perfume wore away, and the last trace of you was gone. He missed your laughter, your lighthearted banter with Alfred, your help on missions when he found himself at a dead end. 

This time, you were asking for his help.

And how could he say no to that? 

Bruce’s sore eyes darted from the rusty ceiling to you, watching him intently. “What is it?” 

Hope sparked within you, like a candle lit in the middle of a hurricane. “Human trafficking, Bru. That’s what I’ve spent the past three years trying to take down. Gotham is rampant with it. If I told the police… they would’ve been five steps ahead and relocated across the country and we’d be right back to square one. I finally got my hands on some intel—they’re moving a bunch of kidnapped children through the abandoned railways under the city tomorrow night. I don’t know where they’re going, but I can’t let them leave, or things would get infinitely more complicated. I don’t know how many exactly. Could be a couple dozen. A hundred. Maybe even just one. But I know I have to stop them—and I can’t do it alone.”

There was something akin to awe behind Bruce’s blue irises. “The five missing kids randomly appearing in a homeless shelter last year—that was you?”

A weak grin nudged at the corner off your lips. “Yeah. The poor things were being forced to manufacture illegal firearms with scrap metal parts.”

Another beat of silence. The hesitance in Bruce seemed to wane away with each passing second. 

“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Bruce stepped closer to you, eyebrows furrowing. The fact that all of this was happening right under his nose made a sick feeling twist his stomach.

Your lips trembled. Slowly, you pulled out your phone, pressing on a video file and held it out to him. He took it from you, watching with horror as the grainy footage played. Half of the screen was black, as if filming from behind a wall. The kids were chained, manhandled and shoved into a truck by several armed people, screams and cries echoing along the metal walls. There was a louder shout, closer to the person recording, and the camera began to wobble and shake, pulling away from the crime scene as they began running. The video was cut off there. 

He felt sick. His eyes flickered back up to you, anxiously worrying on your bottom lip. 

“I filmed that around a day ago,” you whispered, throat thick with emotion. You began to physically shake. “I saw it. I tried to stop them—but I messed up. One of the guards turned around the corner and saw me. I killed him, Bruce, or the entire operation would’ve been blown. I… I—”

There was a cold hand on your shoulder. His thumb brushed against the bare skin of your collarbone. Your fiance kneeled in front of you, nodding his head to silently tell you to go on. You swallowed nervously.

“Thankfully, the rest of them didn’t know I was there. I don’t know where the kids are now, and it kills me to wait. All I know is that they’re planning on taking them through the railways tomorrow. It’s the best shot I have.”

Bruce’s stare burned into you. “You’ve been managing on your own for the past three years. Why are you only asking for my help now?”

You winced, pursing your lips. “The man I killed—he didn’t go down without a fight.” 

Gingerly, you shifted your hands down to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up to reveal tightly wound bandages over your stomach. Much to your dismay, they were soaked through with copper-hued blood, a dark shade that sent a queasy tremor up your spine.

Almost immediately, a shadowed, closed-off expression melded over his features. You couldn’t exactly tell whether or not he was angry at you, or just angry in general. 

“You’re bleeding,” he stated, rather bluntly. You bit back the urge to berate him for spelling out the obvious, and remained quiet as he told you to lean back. “Do you have extra bandages?”

“Yeah—in that box in the corner there. Nicked ‘em from the pharmacy down the block.”

Bruce frowned at that, but didn’t vocalize his disapproval. 

In the box, he’d noticed a bottle of alcohol beside the bandages, grabbing that as well. 

He strode back to you, softly asking you to peel back your bandages. You complied, but not without a grumpy divot appearing between your brows. If you weren’t practically bleeding out in front of him, Bruce would’ve found it to be rather endearing.

There were several lacerations across your abdomen, some shallow, and others deep. There were stitches across the more serious wounds, but they were done shoddily. Bruce sent you a look, swallowing hard.

“These look awful.”

“Why don’t you try stitching yourself up, then?” you hissed, biting down on your palm as he started cleaning up your wounds with an alcohol-doused bandage. 

Bruce couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was cleaning up his fiance’s stab wounds after three years of their supposed death. A part of him wondered if he’d wake up from this nightmare, sprawled across his bed with his nose tucked into your hoodie. 

But this was real. 

Your muffled groans of pain brought him back down to earth.

You were real. 

As swiftly as he could, he neatly wrapped fresh bandages over your waist, murmuring a shaky apology when you cried out from the stinging agony of the combined pressure and the cleansing alcohol.

“What else have you been doing?” Bruce asked, much to your surprise. Your eyes darted to his, and his skin flushed with heat, shifting his gaze to the ground.

It took you a moment to formulate a response. You were walking on eggshells around him, afraid that a slip of your tongue would make him get up and leave. “I’ve been in international waters for the majority of the time—staking out meetings, organizing heists, stealing from the rich—all that lovely jazz. I went to France, Mexico, India, New Zealand—trying to find something to do. My purpose. I guess I was traveling all over the place to run away from Gotham for a while. But I came back—because Gotham will always be my home. Because Gotham is where you are.” You fixed him with a pointed gaze, and Bruce swallowed uneasily. The hazy blue of his irises darkened a shade. You spoke again, voice lowered, “I gave all the money to charities, by the way. A couple of orphanages, too. Balancing out the scales, Bruce. For all the shitty things I’ve done.” You gritted your teeth when he wound another set of bandages over you for good measure. 

Your words made an overwhelming sense of nostalgia wash over him, like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. There was good in you, no matter what the press had to say about that. Bruce knew that you were doing your best to help Gotham, just like he was. In your own way, of course, but it was what made Bruce fall in love with you in the first place. 

You cared so much for Gotham. For its people. Even when they probably didn’t deserve it.

“Ironic that I fell in love with one of the richest men in the world, isn’t it?” you chuckled, lolling your head back onto the sofa’s armrest, staring up at the rusty warehouse’s ceiling. Bruce could feel his chest constricting. “What about you, Bru? What’ve you been up to since I’ve been dead?”

The man gave you no response, merely lifting one of his shoulders in a tense shrug. He wasn’t sure he was ready to divulge the past few years to you just yet. As much as he missed you, dreamed of you coming back to him—he couldn’t find it within himself to tear down all the barriers he built around himself since your death. 

It was all too sudden. Bruce needed time.

You understood him all too well, much to his mild relief, and hummed noncommittally, as if to say ‘take your time’.

“You can’t tell anybody that I’m alive,” you said breathlessly, after a moment of terse silence. “Not even Alfred.”

Bruce’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like keeping secrets from the closest thing he had to a father, but he knew that it was necessary. “What’s the plan?”

“They’ll be moving tomorrow. Are you in, Bruce?”

Only now did he realize that his hands were still splayed out over your bandaged abdomen, and he jerked back, as if he’d burned himself. You propped yourself up on an elbow, a hint of an amused grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

God, you were so beautiful. 

It took a great amount of effort for him to look away from your lips, and he focused on leveling his gaze with those bright eyes of yours.

“I’m in,” he said.

You smiled, all warm and utterly heart-breakingly wide, and Bruce could swear the air stilled around the two of you. 

“Alright.” Your hand reached out to clasp his pale, cold one. He couldn’t pull away. He should’ve. He didn’t want to. “We strike at midnight.”

There was something about Bruce’s Batman suit that made you stop and stare at him with awe. Quite a few adjustments had been made to the outfit the past three years—the bulletproof platelets over his chest and abdomen were much more form-fitting than before, and a lightweight cape draped down to his ankles, dark as the night. His mask was different as well—it was tighter and covered more of his face. Seeing him like this made you remember that Batman didn’t hide in the shadows—he was the shadow.

He caught you watching him, the blue of his eyes flashing almost dangerously beneath the moonlight. You noticed the way his gaze trailed up and down your form, soaking in your own suit.

It was a simple outfit, made up of a long, cowled coat, the hood draping over your forehead and stopping just above your eyebrows. It was a mottled hue of grey, perfect camouflage for the dull concrete jungle of Gotham city. A mask of the same color covered your nose and mouth, leaving just your eyes for Bruce to see. The rest of your outfit beneath the coat was dark and well-fitted, with several compartments to store your gizmos and gadgets. 

There were two daggers slid into your utility belt and a third emergency one strapped to your left shin. Further hidden within your pockets were a multitude of smoke grenades, ropes, and throwing stars. 

You had a small pistol wedged into your belt, but that was only for worst-case scenarios. You knew Bruce didn’t like guns.

The two of you stood before the entrance of the abandoned railways, the gaping tunnel overgrown with moss and greenery. He gave you a weary glance, non-verbally asking if you were ready. You gave him a soft nod in response. Graffiti lined the walls near the front, but as the two of you walked in, there were fewer and farther in between. 

The plan was clean-cut. Locate the children, take out the guards, and high-tail out of there. Your fiance (or was it ex-fiance? You weren’t quite sure) had made you promise not to kill anybody but—given the circumstances, you weren’t entirely sure if you could hold up to that promise.

Bruce had this innate ability to move in a way that if you hadn’t known he was already there, you wouldn’t have seen him at all. His hands loosely wrapped around your wrist to guide you to the right, and you couldn’t help but hold your breath at the minimal contact.

In the distance, the two of you heard echoing murmurs, gruff voices of what sounded to be a pair of boisterous men. They were getting closer, and getting close fast. In a whirl of dark fabric, you found yourself pressed up against the wall, Bruce’s face mere inches from yours. His long cape draped over the both of you, blending seamlessly into the shadows. 

It took you another second to realize that his entire body was slotted against yours. His scent warped around you and consumed you whole, an overwhelmingly nostalgic aroma of fresh mint and blueberries and something purely, entirely just Bruce. You inhaled sharply.

This close, you could see the thin flecks of pale green amongst his blue irises, the smudged mascara around his eyes, the small, faded scar on his jaw. You could—

Oh.

A lump formed in your throat. You could hear his heart beating—feel it—thundering against his ribcage, just above where yours was. 

Heat spidered beneath your skin, crawling up your neck and flushing your cheeks. Bruce watched you with an indiscernible gaze, jaw set. Perhaps it was a trick of light, but you could’ve sworn you saw his pupils dilate, dipping towards your lips for a millisecond before flicking right back up to meet your heady stare. 

Desperate for a distraction, you craned your neck, and caught sight of the two men passing by. You bit onto the inside of your cheek, swallowing down a tirade of curses when you saw that they both held guns. Of fucking course they did.

Another couple of minutes, and they turned the corner, speaking to each other loudly. Bruce stepped away from you then, still keeping his eyes trained on you.

They both have guns, you signed with your hands. Sign language was something the two of you learned together during your first year of dating—it was always handy in case of emergencies such as this. 

Bruce cocked his head in understanding. Stay in the shadows, he signed back.

You nodded, and the two of you took off once more, skimming across the gravel so quickly that you were practically floating. 

The two of you slowed to a halt in front of several wrecked train cars, rusted and filthy with neglect. You peered through the glass, noting a few guards milling in front of trucks on the opposite side. That must’ve been where the children were. Tilting your head to look further to the left, you caught sight of a row of children lined up against the wall to the side of the tunnel. Chains shackled their wrists and ankles together. They were entirely silent, which unnerved you more than anything.

You’ve done this a million times before. Why were you so nervous?

Ah, right. Maybe, just maybe, because last time, you got stabbed. Or maybe it was because the love of your life was right by your side—the man who was supposed to think that you were dead. 

You bit down on your tongue in a fruitless effort to quell the nausea roiling about in the pits of your stomach. 

With a gentle hand to Bruce’s shoulder, you signed, Six kids. Get them to safety. I’ll take the guards.

Not allowing him the chance to protest, you reached into your coat’s pocket and brandished two smoke grenades, your other hand sliding out a dagger. You leapt through the totaled train’s doors, before pulling the pins out with your teeth, chucking them amongst the lounging guards. 

Shouts erupted as two large plumes of ashy white smoke encompassed the entirety of the tunnel. Silent as the night, you snuck up behind two guards, bashing their heads together hard enough to render them unconscious. Your dagger flipped in your hand as you knelt, sweeping around and stabbed another right in the leg, dragging the blade down the entire length of their shin. An ear-splitting scream ricocheted across the stone walls of the tunnel. 

That was when the gunshots started ringing out. You were able to dodge them lithely, watching the trajectory of the amber sparks made by the ricocheting bullets and ducking away from its sweeping arc. You drove your dagger straight into the jugular of the guard with a gun, kicking him back until he fell into the gravel, gurgling incoherently through the blood flooding his mouth. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bruce ushering the children through the wrecked train cars, towards the exit. Panic seized its dark hands around your heart as you spotted another guard—the last one in sight—pointing their gun towards Bruce. 

You ripped your dagger out of the guard’s throat in no less than half a second, pulling your arm back to hurl it through the air. The blade embedded itself cleanly through the side of his head, the impact sending him crashing into the wall. 

A breath of relief slipped your lungs, and you ran over to scoop the fallen gun up, shoving it into your belt. 

Bruce had all the kids—it was time to go.

You dashed through the first set of doors into the train.

A deafening gunshot rang out to your right, and you dove down out of pure reflex.

But you were too late. 

Searing pain blossomed over your chest, your stomach, your head—everywhere. 

Children screaming. 

Footsteps thundering. 

The gravel beneath you—cold and sticky with your blood.

Bruce yelling your name, panic saturating every syllable.

The edges of your vision flickered with darkness.

Chest heaving—heaving—heaving—your breath leaving you—

Bruce… the children…

Oh, fuck. Everything hurt.

Your head throbbed angrily.

“Wake up, Y/N. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!”

Bruce’s voice was tightly interwoven with dread—bordering on hysteria as he knelt down over you, palm applying direct pressure to the bullet hole in your abdomen. A low moan fell from your lips at the searing agony that shot up your body. 

As soon as your eyes dazedly cracked open, Bruce swore under his breath, mild relief seeping into his blown eyes. You’d only been down for no less than two seconds before he ripped his batarang from his armored chest, sending it arcing through the air to the last gunman, striking him down. 

Not a single thing registered in your mind as Bruce swept you into his arms, carrying you down the tunnel and ushering the children along with gritted teeth and panic-laced words.

An overwhelming sense of terror still coursed through the very fibers of his being. He couldn’t lose you—not again. 

“Bats, put me down,” you said, hoarsely. “Put me down.”

A protest was on the tip of his tongue, but the warning glare you sent him made him reluctantly comply, gently lowering you down to your feet. Your hand clutched his bicep for stability while the other still held pressure against your bullet wound. There were so many emotions coursing through him that he nearly felt dizzy with the overwhelming barrage of turmoil. 

The two of you soon reached the end of the tunnel with half a dozen kids in front of you. Bruce herded them into the back seats of the Batmobile—it was a tight fit, but they were small and eager to leave. One of the little girls started crying as soon as she sat down on the leather seat of his car, and Bruce could feel his heart lurch with an ugly amalgamation of anger and concern. 

He slid into the driver’s seat just as you slumped into the one next to him. A groan of pain left you as you began rifling through the car dash’s compartment, whipping out a roll of bandages and began winding it around your abdomen. 

The car purred to life and in no less than half a minute, you were jetting off, leaving the dirty crime scene far behind. 

Bruce’s eyes darted from the dark road to you, nearly bleeding out in the passenger’s seat. You were panting shallowly, head tilted back as you swallowed uneasily. Sweat beaded your forehead.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” he whispered.

“No,” you replied, a biting edge to your tone.

Bruce’s eyebrows drew together. “You have a fucking bullet in you.” His voice lowered, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I can’t lose you again.” The last bit was said softly, his voice cracking with raw hurt. 

You shook your head, stubborn. Your voice was quiet enough so the trembling kids in the back wouldn’t be able to hear you. “Don’t take me to the hospital, Bru. It’ll ruin everything I’ve built the past few years. Nobody can know I’m still alive.”

There was a beat of hesitation. Bruce clenched his jaw so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure. “At least let me take you back home. Alfred can help you.”

You frowned but kept silent. Going back to the Wayne Mansion was less than desirable, but it was the best choice you had—the other being bleeding out to death in your rusty abandoned warehouse. Your nose twitched as you slowly shifted to look out the window. 

The drive went by much quicker than expected, mostly because you were fading in and out of a pain-induced unconsciousness. When you cracked your eyes open again, your head was pounding angrily and your bullet wound pulsated hotly in tandem with the thick, languid beating of your heart. You could faintly make out Bruce in his Batsuit just outside of the car, leading the kids into a building. 

Your gaze shifted upwards, a sigh of relief falling from your lips upon seeing the gotham orphanage sign. Bruce helped the woman at the door usher the children in, before handing her about a dozen fat wads of cash. The look on the woman’s face was priceless—mouth gaping and eyes misting over with unshed tears. His lips moved, but you couldn’t hear him from inside the car. 

Once Bruce made sure the kids were safe inside, he nodded once to the woman, before turning back to the Batmobile.

He slid in smoothly, checking all the mirrors to make sure that nobody had followed you. 

“How are you holding up?” he asked, quiet and uncertain.

“I’m alive,” you replied. “Could really use an Advil right now, though.”

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Think you need a bit more than an Advil.”

You couldn’t find it in you to reply, the edges of your vision darkening at a concerningly rapid pace. 

“Hang on for me, baby,” Bruce whispered brokenly, his hand darting out to grasp your limp one as he drove to the Wayne Mansion, slamming down on the gas. “Hang on.”

The street lights began to expand into a million shards of light as your eyelids drooped.

Blinding, blinding, blinding. 

And yet you could see everything. The blue of Bruce’s eyes that constantly glanced over at you. The trembling of his pale hand on the steering wheel. The tacky blood that meandered down your sides and pooled into the crevices of the leather seat.

All of a sudden—

It all went dark. 

It’d been three years since you stepped foot in the Batcave. 

Really, it was just a private underground railway beneath the Wayne Mansion, but it definitely wasn’t fit for its original use and you were sure at least a couple dozen bats made the dark tunnel their permanent home, thus its name.

Bruce carried you out the car and into his work station, worry woven between every muscle. He deposited you gently onto the table, just as the elevator door rattled open. 

Alfred stepped out, and he immediately blanched upon seeing you, bleeding and teetering on the edge of death itself.

They exchanged a couple hurried words, but you couldn’t hear much. Everything was blurry. 

A tear slipped down your cheek when Alfred made his way to you, his hand cupping your cheek. He had a medkit clutched in his hands, and he popped it open right beside your head. 

“Hi, Al,” you murmured hoarsely. “Long time no see.”

“Hello, my dear,” he replied fondly, deathly calm. It might’ve been a trick of the dim lights, but you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes misting over with unshed tears. “Last I checked, you were dead.”

If you weren’t in so much pain, you would’ve laughed, and given him an easy shrug. “Plans changed, I guess.”

Mustering what little energy you had left in you, you turned to look at Bruce as Alfred began peeling your clothing back to start working on your wounds. 

“Hey, Bru,” you whispered. Bruce’s lips twitched at the nickname. “If I don’t make it—”

“Don’t say that,” he gruffed.

His warning fell upon deaf ears and you spoke again, determined. “If I don’t make it, for real this time, just remember that I love you. And I’ve never stopped.”

Something in his chest broke, and a suffocating sob thundered within him. He clutched at your limp hands, whispering out your name just in time for you to hear before you let the darkness take you one last time.

The first thing you noticed when you came to was Bruce’s hand still holding tightly onto yours. The second thing was the fact that the pain in your abdomen was no longer unbearable, but instead subdued to a sharp ache. 

Your gaze roamed around the room, and you dimly realized that you were in Bruce’s bed—the bed that the two of you had slept in together when you were together. He was asleep by the edge of the mattress, hunched over in a position that wasn’t at all good for his spine. 

He still had the black eye makeup on, smudged and flaking off, dried bits of mascara on his cheeks. His hair was mussed, as if he had raked his fingers through several times. 

When you shifted a bit on his expansive mattress, Bruce stirred awake, the blue of his eyes shifting from confusion to panic to relief in a matter of seconds. 

“Hey,” you croaked. “Thanks for getting me here. And tell Alfred thanks for patching me up.”

“We nearly lost you,” Bruce replied hoarsely. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Alfred wasn’t sure if you were going to make it. There was so much blood.”

A pained smile stretched your lips thin. “Well, I’m alive. Sort of. How long was I out?”

“A couple hours,” he replied. He exhaled quietly, lowering his head. “I never stopped loving you, too. After all these years… I should be mad at you. I was, at first… but I’m not anymore. I’m just—glad. I’m glad you’re here.”

You blinked, tilting your head. Slow, you wrapped your wrist around his hand, gingerly moving it up to your lips. You kissed the back of his palm, and he cupped your face tenderly just as the familiar sensation of tears began stinging the corner of your eyes.

“Oh, Bru. I’m so sorry for causing you all this pain. I’m sorry.” You hiccupped, not wanting to dissolve into a mess of tears right in front of him. “I love you so much. I wanted to come back every day, I swear. I had to do it. I did it for you.”

A glimmer of pain warbled in the blue of his irises. “After you died… I was in a bad place. I nearly killed the Joker when I visited him in prison—I was this close. Gordon took me away before I could. From then I just… I lost myself without you. I spiraled. I was vengeance. Then the anger just sort of left and all I had left was just this… this ache. This hurt that never went away.”

A part of you was surprised he was opening up. It was as if the dam had cracked, and the water was spewing out and Bruce just couldn’t stop. He began to cry softly, the dark mascara meandering down his face once more and his hand shaking against your cheek. You could feel your heart crumbling through the bones of your ribcage, and you wanted nothing more than to hold him close to you. 

“Please stay,” Bruce croaked. “I can’t lose you—not again. I can’t go through that again. Please don’t let me go through it again.” His forehead fell to the mattress right beside your hip as his hand fell away from your face and his body shook. 

This was him begging, you realized in shock. He was begging you.

Helplessness placed its dark hands on your shoulders, and you were frozen for a second. 

“Bru, baby, I—”

“Please don’t leave. You can fight crime undercover with me. Here. By my side. Please—I love you.”

Tentative, you reached over and gently ran your fingers through his overgrown hair. This seemed to quell his shaking just a bit. He stayed in that position for another minute before peering up at you. 

“I’ll stay,” you said. “But we’re going to have to be careful. I can’t risk more people finding out I’m alive—and I can’t risk dragging you down with me. I need you to understand that if things go south, I’m leaving immediately—to protect you, Bru. And as long as you won’t hold me back from my own missions. We might’ve stopped one trafficking transfer tonight, but I have no doubt that there’ll be plenty more to come.”

For the first time in a very long time, Bruce smiled. It was a small one, the kind that twitched at the corner of his lips and wrinkled the corner of his mirthful, tear-glossed eyes. 

He shifted upwards so he sat beside you on the bed, pressing a chaste, affectionate kiss to your forehead. His palm found its way back to your jaw, and he rested his temple against yours. 

It’d been three long years since you kissed him.

You arched your neck just enough so his lips would meld over yours. A pained, broken noise fell from Bruce’s throat, and he surged forward, kissing you back with just as much vigor. He missed this. He missed you. 

He avoided touching your stomach, afraid that he’d hurt you or rip the stitches of your wound. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Alfred how you’d managed to hurt yourself even more. 

As he kissed you, your hands moved to grip his biceps, nails digging into his shirt. His nose bumped softly into yours and he could feel your radiant smile growing against his lips, utterly contagious. Your homely smell, the mesh of cinnamon and gentle lavender invaded his senses, and he nearly started sobbing again at the pure nostalgia from it all. 

You were back. You came back to him.

“As lovely as this is,” you husked, voice lowered an octave, “I still need you to promise me you won’t hold me back. You’d be Batman and I’d be… a ghost.” It pleased Bruce immensely to see your chest heaving, and your pupils dilated as they shamelessly darted from his eyes to his lips. 

“I promise,” he whispered against your lips in reply. Despite everything that had happened the past few days, he still trusted you to take care of yourself. A thrill shot through him when the cold engagement ring around your neck pressed flush against his chest. “How’d I be able to hold back a ghost, anyway?”

You smiled into him, before tugging him down for another kiss.

[msfantasy-comics]

The Love triangle

Toxic!Bruce Wayne x Reader

Summary: Bruce is caught up in a love triangle with Cat Woman and Y/n. Decisions must be made.

Warning: Bruce is depicted as an unhealthy love interest. An ambiguous ending.

Tip Jar - Masterlist

Bruce never thought he’d be caught up in a love triangle.

One moment he was enjoying the company of two wonderful women, next minute, Alfred is lecturing Bruce on his greediness and advising him to be selective.

Alfred: “Master Bruce Y/n is a fine young woman who is delicate in nature. You know just as well as I do that she expects monogamy. Choose between the two master Bruce. You cannot have it all.”

But it’s really not all that simple.

Selina his lover and his confidant. They have been sharing a bed together for so long that there is no surprises. It’s just too hard to part ways with someone who understands you better than you understand yourself.

He knows all of Selina’s quirks, and knows what to expect of her at the worse of times.

He couldn’t possibly part ways with someone so important.

But then there’s Y/n.

Y/n sparked a part within himself he never knew existed. She turned him into such a love sick fool.

He craved the feelings of normalcy, stability and safety that Y/n nurtured into their relationship. She makes him so happy, and makes him feel so safe and secure. It’s a feeling that he has not felt in a relationship.

The decision is far too grand. Selina is predictable, and consistency is comfortable. But…

There is no denying that Bruce’s feelings for Y/n is stronger. But the issue is… she’s unpredictable.

One major mistake will cost him. Y/n will not hesitate to walk out on him if he gives her a reason to.

So he should just stay with Selina, right?

But… is he just denying himself a chance at a happy ever after because he’s too scared ?

Selina will always be there.

Y/n will not.

So he better give it a proper try with Y/n and breaks things off with Selina. She’ll always be waiting for him anyway.

Selina: “So what are you saying Bruce? Are you saying your done with me? Your committing to little miss boring and normal? She’s a civilian Bruce, she can never be part of our world.”

Bruce: “She brings me happiness.”

Selina: “And I don’t bring you happiness? You sure look happy after I see you.”

Bruce: “Pleasure is not the same as happiness.”

Selina: “How dare you… after everything… you know what Bruce? You’ll mess it up somehow just like you always do. And when you do, you’ll come crawling back to me just like you always do.”

And with that she left - leaving Bruce by himself

And with you listening outside the door with a clenched fist.

[caplanbuckybarnes]

Bruce Wayne Drabbles & One Shots

updated November 23 2024

Main Masterlist

Requesting Rules

Batty Sympathy || Summary: You can’t hold the sadness in anymore. Bruce comforts you after the gala the pair of you attended together.

Behind Closed Doors || Summary: unbeknownst to you, you become friends with the city’s famous mobster.

A Gotham Affair || Summary: Bruce marries you in front of Gotham’s finest.

Lucky You || Summary: you stay awake worried about bruce after you return home from a gala in the city

Not Worth It || Summary: you were never worth his time.

[urfavslytherclawgirl]

Unusual Visit

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 900+

Warning: Swearing, only one POV, bruises, blood, needle (closing a deep cut).

Summary: Bruce breaks into your house wanting you to heal his bruises and because he wants cuddles.

You woke up with a weird noise coming from your living room and glass breaking, you got up and got a baseball hidden in your closet, mostly because Gotham isn't the safest city of all and because your boyfriend, Bruce, suggested you did it in case someone tried to break into your house.

"I have a bat and some internal rage I can use!" You announced slowly walking into your living room with your bat raised into the air.

"Calm down--shit--it's just me." A shaky but familiar voice said near a shadow, the further you walked the more you noticed Bruce wearing his suit and using the wall as support.

"Bruce! What happened to you?" You asked throwing the bat on the couch and walking towards your boyfriend, Bruce was hurt with blood going down his face under the mask and his suit almost ripped in a few spots.

"You should've seen the other guy." He laughed as you helped him lay down on the couch and take his suit off so you could see what was bruised, the longer you saw the more you got worried. He had a nearly broken rib, two purple bruises on his chest, and a deep cut on his stomach, his arm had a few purple spots and his nose was bleeding.

"I'll go get my first-aid kit." You announced walking away quickly and going into your bathroom, after getting it you kneeled down on the floor next to the couch Bruce layed on and opened the kit.

"I have a needle to close the cut and arnica ointment for the purple bruises, which one do you want first?" You asked as Bruce looked at the needle then at you.

"Do you know how to use that thing?" Bruce asked in true concern as you rolled your eyes, getting up and walking towards your kitchen to get a bottle of whiskey.

"Drink it, it's good for pain. And yes, I do know how to use it, Bruce." You answered handing him the bottle and getting the needle and nylon thread.

"I'll start in 3, 2--" you said before starting to close the wound on his stomach, Bruce whispered swears as you were to focused on the deep cut to care.

"Fuck, you forgot the 1." He pointed out making a face of discomfort looking at the cut.

"I know, it's a tactic I learned it with my doctor when I was a child. Every time I'd get a shot she'd do this, it helped a lot." He nodded and closed his eyes.

"All done." You said, making a knot with thread and cutting it with a pair of little scissors that came with the kit. You got up and went to your kitchen to get a pack of ice and a wet cloth.

You kneeled again and started to clean his mouth and nose full of blood then lightly pressed the ice pack on his nose. You got the palm of his hand and pressed it on the ice pack, meaning you wanted him to hold it so you could apply ointment on his other bruises.

After putting back the first-aid kid where it belonged you helped Bruce walk towards your bedroom and lay down on your bed.

"Get some rest, Bruce." You said sitting on the edge of the bed, he put his hand on your cheek, moving his thimb left and right.

"Stay with me, please." You nodded and got up from the edge of the bed walking towards the other side, you lay down next to him and pressed your chest on his back, wrapping your arms on his chest under his arm.

"Take more care of yourself, Bruce. I need you alive for us to be together." You whispered, making Bruce laugh then hiss in pain, you smiled and kissed his back, his scars.

[currymariana]

GUYS, I' AM BACK!!!!

Actually, I never left; I just struggled to find the motivation to write again. I was feeling unhappy with my writing style and constantly comparing myself to others, thinking things like "they're so much better than me" or "that's how you should write" or "you suck," and those kinds of things. I wasn't frustrated with my story, but with how I wrote it.

But after a while, I realized a few things: English isn't my first language (heck, it's not even my third); I'm not a professional writer; this is just a hobby, and if there are people who enjoy it, it can't be all that bad. I was being too hard on myself for no good reason. 'The tear in my heart' is a story I've had in mind for a long time, and I wish to share it with anyone who's interested. I've every bullet point mapped out from the beginning to the end; now, I just need to shake off my laziness and self-criticism and actually write it. And I don't even know if people are still interested.

With that being said, I've decided to make some changes. From now on, I'll be rebranding the entire aesthetic of the story, possibly even reconsidering the title (it started to sound a bit tacky to me - but i would like to hear your opinions) and updating th cover too. I'll be changing some scenes just to ease my mind, but these won't alter the storyline at all.

I don't even know if anyone is even reading this; or if it matters to you. Yet I'm writing this for myself and perhaps help someone going through a similiar thing. Don't be too hash on yourself; this is meant to be enjoyable, so embrace the fun. If you want to write  a cheesy story or a serious one, follow your heart. We're not earning from this; we are fans who write fiction (or make arts) for others fans. If it's not fun anymore, it's okay to let it go. We're not flawless, and neither are our content. But do what's best for yourself —I extend this advice to writers, artists, and all who engage with this form of expression.

I'm sorry for the lengthy text, but I felt it was necessary only to express myself but also to explain  and express my gratitude to everyone who enjoys or has ever appreciated "The Tear in My Heart." You guys are absolutely the best; thank you for everything. And for those still here... I hope you'll enjoy this new phase.

[hyper-fixates]

Nightcrawler

Bruce Wayne/Batman x AFAB!reader (no pronouns/gendered language).

Explicit content (18+)

Word count: 6.3k

Tags/warnings: descriptions of blood/injury, angst, allusions to sex, groping/touching, descriptions of medical treatment (suturing), fingering/pussy play, explicit language, unrequited feelings (let me know if anything was missed!).

Summary: Bruce confronts his feelings after you put him back together. Again.

Notes: wrote this all the way back in 2020 right after the first trailer came out…found it sitting in my computer files and figured i shouldn’t let it go to waste! since it was written before the movie came out, please excuse/forgive any inaccuracies regarding the batsuit, terminology, setting, and characterization (and the painfully amateur writing) 😣 

The cave is always a little too frigid for your liking. 

Especially when it’s already well into the late hours of the night—a time you definitely shouldn’t be awake. The long fluorescents buzz and highlight the metallic sheen of everything, while still piercing through any inch of unguarded darkness in the gloomy room.  

A light breeze swirls around your huddled figure every so often, and the rhythmic sound of water continuously dripping onto floor somewhere echoes throughout the quiet, isolated space. There’s still some changes and additions that need to be made to the current set-up he has, but it does the job for now. You don’t bother taking note of what needs to get done—you’ll probably forget it all an hour from now anyway.  

You let your head roll back onto the chairs headrest, and your eyes skim over the time at the bottom of one of the monitors screens. 

3:43am. It’s been almost four hours—you always wait. 

You wait even though he tells you not to, and even though you know you maybe shouldn’t sometimes. But you can’t help it. It’s habit at this point. You’re down here at 10pm on the dot. Daily. 

You don’t need to be, but you are; it’s tradition for you to be part of his prep and routine before the nightly endeavour out into Gotham, even if you just sit and watch as he slowly works his way into the suit piece-by-piece, fiddling with various tech accessories that you don’t even know the names of yet.

You try to pass the time by organizing and sorting his skewed files, papers, and small pieces of armour that have been damaged beyond repair—meticulously placing them in their rightful spots on the seemingly never-ending line of desktops, shelves, and hidden drawers. 

But mindlessly arranging anything and everything only lasts for so long before there’s nothing left to do but sit. And think. And then sit some more.

Not knowing how long you’ll be rolling around in one of the padded office chairs for is one of the prices you have to pay for caring too much, and he reprimands you for it, even as you furiously dump an entire bottle of rubbing alcohol onto his body, and he never shows that it affects him in the least. 

He’s stubborn. He’s stupid. 

Your eyes wander along the blank stone walls as you slouch further into the chair, stopping when you see the time again: 3:47am. 

You let out a heavy breath through your nose as you repeatedly click the tip of a pen in and out. You push yourself around in slow circles with the toe of your foot, letting the spinning room distract you for just a few moments just to pass another minute at least.

This isn’t necessarily part of your job. He knows that, and you definitely know that. A lot of things have changed with your workplace duties, clearly, as you notice some earlier pieces of his armour piled in one corner of the room.

Unsurprisingly, things have…happened here and there. It’s becoming a more common occurrence, but it feels circumstantial and…convenient. Maybe it’s all meant to happen at this point. You think about it often enough—too often. Enough to make things awkward for yourself sometimes.

Another anxious glance at the leering clock: 3:51am. “This is fucking ridiculous,” you reason with yourself, getting up from the chair and tossing the pen on the desk. 

You resort to pacing around the grand floor space, now closely watching the entrance and exit as you circle by. All you can do is wait—

And just as you turn your back to the computer displays and monitors, the clocks turn to 3:59am. 

You cut back sharply to begin another circle, and there he is. Four hours later. Alive.

The broad shadow makes your heart stop for a split second, but the only physical reaction you have is your knees locking, keeping you in place and giving you no choice but to stare at the familiar, broad outline of him.

“You’re a fucking idiot, Bruce.” It slips out, a little rushed and aggressive, but you mean it. He knows you well enough to not take any literal offence from it.

Your harsh acknowledgement prompts him to walk in further.

“Yeah, you said that last time,” he points out casually, sauntering into the blinding lights with calm steps, coming around to the front of the desks.

You observe his gait with a hard stare—you take notice of how he hesitantly bends and twists at the hip when he leans back to rest against the edge of the metal desk, rolling his head back until his neck pops with a relieved grunt. 

He’s already got the cowl, cape, and gloves off, so whatever the problem is, it must be worse than what he’s playing off, as usual.

And then you see the issue. “Do you need help with that?” You point at his stomach and drop back into the chair, deflating with concern. 

Your alert eyes study the suit, looking at the damage. 

“With what?” he counters, seeming unaware—avoiding; yet his dark eyes confidently meet yours as he rests back on his hands, trying to find some comfort and seem unbothered by whatever desperately needs your attention underneath the sturdy armour. 

A very thin layer of blood has seeped through a small displacement in the suits plating, soaking into the tri-weave fibers that cover the titanium. You roll your eyes and scoot back to a shelf where a med-kit sits, one that you put together specifically for nights like these, which is every night.  

Positioning yourself back in front of him, the chair brings you to the perfect height to get a good look at the impairment. You can already tell it’s a knife wound just by the location. It’s at the perfect height. It cut perfectly in-between the overlapped layers of plating, perhaps the biggest flaw the suit has. You’re sure he’s aware of that now.

You inspect it briefly, tugging up on the bent piece slightly to see the amount of blood beneath. He takes a deep breath as the dense pressure is relieved from the tender area. 

“Shit—” he breathes in relief. You’ve only heard that clipped tone slip out of his mouth on very few occasions, one of which was barely a week ago, yet you still tense at the vivid memory that you never really want to let go of.  

He’s not one for reminiscing, but unfortunately, you are.       

“It’ll only be a few stitches,” you say gently, letting the plate mold back into place softly. You tap the hard armour pointedly. “Take it off.”

You flick your eyes up to his—the black paint has smeared around just a bit more compared to when he smudged it on with no real technique earlier.

You’ll help him get it off later.

He brings a quick hand through his damp hair and starts unclipping the few clasps hidden on his shoulders and chest. One by one, the durable pieces are detached, and you carefully place them off to your right as he hands them over.

“Can you get the one in the back?” He motions over his shoulder. You nod and mumble a thoughtful ‘mhm’ as you both push yourself onto your feet again.

He turns his back to you, leaning forward on his palms and presenting the last clasp that sits in the middle of his spine. You know he can reach it, you’ve seen him do it before. You flick the clip, carefully pulling away the last plate. He physically relaxes his already tense muscles as soon as the extra weight is removed.

“I don’t know why you do this every night. It’s not worth it,” you confess while rummaging through the med-kit for a needle, surgical thread, topical antiseptic, a gauze pad, and a self-adherent bandage wrap to hopefully hold it all together.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment as you carefully lay out the supplies next to him on the desk.

“I have to…” he whispers, trailing off, but you catch it, shaking your head as you thread and ready the needle with severe concentration. 

“Turn around, please.” He shifts back to where he originally was without a word, leaning back against the cool steel with hesitation once again.

You grab the bottle of antiseptic and apply a generous amount onto the pad, delicately holding it as you take a seat in front of him once again.

“Are you sure you wanna stand for this?” you grimace. The hot sting of a sterile compress isn’t the most enjoyable sensation to experience, especially while bearing weight.

He looks down at you, looking rather uninvolved with the priority. Dazed and distracted; something that could be mistaken for the potential amount blood loss, but the gash isn’t big enough for that possibility. 

This is something you’ve seen more often than you’d like to.

“Just get it done,” he starts, “You know I can handle it.” He dismisses the option, letting his head roll back with a deep inhale as he waits for you to start.

You say nothing in return. Carefully balancing the compress in one hand, your other cautiously pinches the soft, spandex material of his base-layer shirt. It fits comfortably, hugging tightly around the curvature and muscle of his body, improving his movement in the suit.

The shirt is slowly pulled away from his stomach. The thick blood sticks around the tear in the fabric, making it peel away instead. You drag it halfway over the rest of his lower abdomen, pulling and letting it bunch up tightly, staying isolated from the torn skin below.

You stare at the ugly cut for barely a second before you quickly dab the antiseptic around, patting it into the irritated, puffy flesh and watching it fizzle with each pull back.

Sometimes, you feel like he likes the pain. Like he purposefully seeks out the discomfort of an incapacitating injury in hopes of suppressing the turmoil of concern…worry…love… 

It gives him something else to focus on instead of the sorrowful emotions that avoiding you doesn’t seem to fix. It’s only been making it worse, and things are beyond saving now.

Your free hand gently rests against the burning skin of his waist, and his head drops forward at the surprising contact.

“Calm down. It keeps me steady,” you chuckle, shaking your head lightly.

He hums thoughtlessly in response, unconvinced with your excuse, maybe. 

There’s that sudden anxious tension in the room from nothing but a fleeting graze of fingertips. The uncertainty of who’s going to make the first move this time.

You do one more press and then pull the soaked pad away, examining your progress before discarding the bloody material.

“It might only be four sutures or so,” you determine while gently squeezing the inflamed edges closer together to try and gauge the amount of work needed.

He inhales sharply, tightly gripping the rim of the desktop. “Well, the faster you stitch it, the faster I’ll be able to—”

“Don’t even finish that sentence.” You cut him off with a harsh but accidental hard squeeze of the torn flesh, making his words die in his throat with a groan.  

That wasn’t something you really needed to hear right now, let alone think about as if he wasn’t just bleeding out in front of you only minutes ago. 

You know how that sentence ends; you’ve heard him say it more times than you’d like to admit, but you can’t let him have his way tonight.  

You glare at each other for a moment. Your eyes hold a tired frustration behind them, but his hold a different kind…something that is able to get you to do whatever he says, something that makes you giddy with anticipation, and something that makes you feel just a little more alienated afterwards.

“You can’t lie to yourself anymore,” he says instead.

You laugh coldly. “Well, neither can you. I’ve stopped doing that a long time ago. You should try it sometime,” you counter, snatching the threaded needle with anger while maintaining your unimpressed gaze.

He sighs, messing with his drying hair again as you begin suturing quickly—not so you can get to what he was alluding to, but the opposite. 

For once, you don’t want that, and you don’t want the burden of sadness that comes with it.

But it’s so…tempting.

He gave himself away. You haven’t. And of course he’s leaning against the very spot you were pinned down against a week ago, feeling the contrast to the emotions you’re feeling now: excitement, passion, comfort, love—

It puts you into a conscious daydream for a moment. But you’re awoken from it when you feel his body jolt suddenly. You see the needle poking into the tough muscle of his side instead of the spongey cut.

“Shit— sorry,” you mumble, shifting your focus back to the final suture and looping it through itself securely in a rush.

Seven stitches in total, you notice. You were close.

You grab the bandage wrap and press it firmly over the closed wound before snaking it around his back. You’re able to get two layers from it; the pressure should stop any possible bleeding, but he always manages to tear it open anyway. Sometimes you think he does it on purpose just so he has a good excuse to see you.

“Done,” you sigh, packing up the med-kit and rolling back to its shelf.

You stand from the chair and go to make your way to the exit without another word, not interested in any other interaction tonight. Well, that’s what you hope for, but you’ve learned that he will never let you go peacefully.

You go to pass by him mindlessly as he’s carefully pulling his shirt back down, but he manages to grab ahold of your sleeve quickly when he sees your destination. The effortless pull makes you skid to a stop, twisting back towards him with your inverted momentum, almost smashing your face in his chest, but you stop yourself with your forearm.

He holds onto you tightly, with a purpose, as you share a moment of mutual hurt and resentment. His dark eyes, the opaque paint making them look just as black in the hazy lighting, search your conflicted ones desperately.

“If I asked you to stay, would you?” he asks quietly. There’s no demand behind it, seemingly afraid it’ll scare you away. 

His face softens, perhaps relief from asking. He’s never had to before.

You furrow your brows together in shock, dumbfounded at his apparent stupidity in this continuous situation. You scoff lightly at his rather domestic request. “Why? So we can just dance around the truth like always?” Your voice never raises in volume, but your tone gets harsher as you continue.

“So I can hope that maybe you’ll come to your senses and fucking realize that I lo—”

The hand he had wrapped around your arm moves to the back of your neck before you can even say the word or finish your passionate rant. He promptly pulls you right to him, his deft lips quickly doing the much-needed apologizing in that moment. 

It’s feverish and assertive, seeming out of place in the cloud of desolation and melancholia…yet you don’t stop him. You don’t want to.

He knows you’ve needed this. Not the rushed, messy, convoluted kisses that come from your desperate fucking after a hard night or a close call, the ones that seem to happen almost by accident, by pure circumstance. There’s just always something missing…

Fervour. That’s what you feel now—that’s what you’ve wanted from him every single time he took control of you with ease for the night. You’re never able to make it back up to the manor either.

You shudder slightly when his hand moves to your jaw, gripping it firmly as he slides his mouth against yours consumingly, sucking your lips gently and teasing your tongue with his cautiously. You moan when he deepens the kiss further, letting his tongue fully overlap yours with a practiced versatility. It subdues you, inviting him to give and take as he pleases. 

Several whimpers fall against his lips as you stretch onto your toes to meet his height as best as you can, trying to get more even though he’s already giving you plenty. It’s pensive. Each movement thought out and executed with a purpose, something that you can feel has a very clear destination in his mind.

You let him maintain authority, let him kiss you with a force that could bruise if he didn’t soothe the pressure with his soft tongue occasionally, dipping it back into your mouth quickly after. Your taste seems insatiable to his starved soul.

It all draws you in further, and your hands find themselves grasping at his shoulders instinctually when a forceful hand snakes through your hair to gain better control of you.

Your mouth feels a little numb and swollen from the welcome force, and he pulls away hesitantly when he feels your soft touch finally rest at his collar delicately. He barely lets more than an inch get between your lips, and you can feel the reluctancy in his movements as he pulls back. 

You open your eyes slowly and see his sombre expression—more sombre than usual. The sorrow in his eyes and the agony on his brow is enough to force you to speak up first.

“I wish you told me months ago,” you whisper, lightly resting your forehead against his own as you wrap your arms around his neck, confident that he won’t pull away like he has before.

He looks longingly into your forgiving eyes, taking his hands and sliding them down to your hips in solace; an abrupt switch from from their dominant spot around your face. You understand the conflicts he has to live with. Most of them are caused by his vigilant habits in the night, yet you expected everything outside of that to still be easy for him. 

Unfortunately, trauma picks and chooses its victims at random.

You find yourself looking for words. Maybe for the moment you realized he was different, when he changed.  

“I wish it wasn’t so hard for you, Bruce.” You try to comfort him, provide some ease for his always anxious mind.

He squeezes your hip, silently reassuring you that it’ll be fine, that it won’t kill him.

“I wish it wasn’t so hard for you,” he retorts in an indignant tone, irritated with himself. 

He regrets all of it. Most of all, he regrets making you feel unloved. The nights where he used you as a release, when he would act like nothing happened, when he would unconsciously ignore you, and when he ultimately closed himself off in the end.

“It wasn’t fair. It was…selfish,” he finishes forcefully, taking a quick breath to regain some composure.

“I just don’t want you to be part of that life,” he admits tentatively. 

You can see he’s telling the truth. The way he doesn’t meet your gaze again. He does it to avoid the confrontation that comes with honesty.

You pause to take in his confession, closing your eyes for a moment with relief, but his tone is like a bullet to the heart. The dejected feeling of you possibly not wanting to be here with him in this moment.    

“‘That life’?…You mean your life?” you reason, sounding surprised with his absurd claim. 

You’d think that having done this religiously with him for a year would make him think otherwise, regardless of your acts together. You always showed up no matter the circumstances or emotions.

He pushes against your hips lightly, making some space between your bodies, and you shuffle back without hesitation. You let your arms fall away from his shoulders, and he does the same as you distance yourself.

“My life is your life,” he explains. “What happens to me affects you, why can’t you see that?” His face falls slightly. The realization of you not knowing you’re significant enough to be considered part of his life is…heartbreaking. 

There’s so much you could say to that.

You let the silence linger briefly. “Maybe I’d be able to see that if you weren’t afraid to be in the same room as me,” you say, voice quiet as you test your reasoning.

You don’t want to start a fight. You just want to understand. You want to know why.

You notice how he hesitates when around you, and not in a flattering or complimentary way. It’s avoidant, scared, and even worried. Worry of confrontation.

He takes a deep breath and wraps his arms around his stomach in comfort, carefully avoiding the fresh bandage. 

“I…I’m not…scared. I’m—” Batman doesn’t get scared from feelings, but maybe Bruce Wayne does.

“You’re unsure,” you finish for him. His eyes meet yours with a sense of hope that you’re understanding.

“I just…don’t know how to go about…all of this,” he motions between you with a flick of his hand. 

All of this…meaning—

“Love?” you try, making it more of a rhetorical question.

He presses his lips together in surprise before offering a firm nod. He doesn’t trust himself to say it. It’s hard to wrap your head around. It couldn’t just be that, it had to be something more problematic? Complicated? 

But yet, it all makes sense because he’s him—he doesn’t necessarily do romance; there’s no time. You know that. You’ve seen how he is, nothing but a fleeting moment in the night to most, even to you. 

It all clicks, and you rub your face in relief and exasperation. You can’t blame him for it all. You can for some, of course, but a relationship needs communication from both. It can’t be a one-person effort, but that’s what it ended up being.

He was just trying to protect you. That’s all someone can really ask for, but the execution wasn’t right. He abandoned you emotionally to protect you physically, and that’s not the right balance.  

“Why didn’t you just tell me the truth at the beginning? So I wouldn’t spend all this time thinking I was doing something wrong,” you pleaded, stepping closer to him again to pull an answer from his huddled form.

The closer you get, the higher you have to tilt your head to hold his gaze.

He looks right back, overwhelmed. “I didn’t know how to say it…I didn’t know if you felt that way. When I realized you did, I thought it was just…too late,” he admits, stuttering briefly at the end.

It was clearly hard for him, too. But was it not apparent that you were waiting? For him. For anything.

You look down, nodding your head in understanding. “I don’t think I could’ve made it any more obvious, but lust can be confused for love, so I understand.” You were serious, but some sarcasm slipped through at the end.

Lust is deadly; it will bait you, hook you, and then drag you under it’s pleasurable and irresistible cloud of euphoria, disguised as the domineering man in front of you.

“At least you know now,” he says, matching your tone. 

He straightens his posture and locks his cold stare onto yours momentarily, searching for something he still can’t seem to find. 

Giving up, he turns to collect each piece of armour you set aside, and he busy’s himself with meticulously putting it back in its rightful spot for tomorrow.

You watch him with surprise, but there’s no anger at his dismissal. You feel relieved. Relieved that you know. You don’t expect things to be normal right away, not with him. 

You know he’ll come around, but you can’t help but ask a prying question just to entertain your already validated thoughts. And to keep him talking. There’s still so much you want to know.

“So…” you start lightly. “You said you weren’t sure if I was interested at the beginning,” you say carefully.

He stops moving the instant he hears the curiosity in your tone. He turns back to you slowly, an amused expression on his face. Shit—

You hesitate when you catch his look, but continue cooly. “So, if you didn’t know…then why did you keep, uh…” You lose your words, too afraid to be so blunt and direct about your past endeavours.

It seems taboo to discuss it while not in the moment itself. Sometimes you wonder if it’s just a dream. Too good to be true.

He raises his brows knowingly as you trail off, entertained with your hesitation and embarrassment.

“Why did you— why did we continue…”

“Fucking?” he finishes for you bluntly, a small smile playing on his lips, yet it’s devoid of genuine humour. It screams danger.

He chuckles when you nod your head wordlessly. “Like you said, lust is confusing. You can never seem to get enough, and I don’t think I wanted to.” He pulls the sleeves of his tight-fitting shirt over his forearms, watching you carefully as you consider his words.

His tone was suddenly light, confident. He could feel that you were walking the fine line of giving in or leaving without another word. 

“I’m not trying to persuade you into doing anything, if that’s what you’re thinking about,” he clarifies softly when he sees your eyes dance across the floor rapidly.

You laugh lightly, glancing at him reluctantly. “I’m not, but you wouldn’t have to, anyway,”

That makes him narrow his gaze in question. 

You raise a brow in response. “What?”

He glances over his shoulder at a monitor, very obviously reading the time: 4:29am.

And you realize exactly what he’s doing. Why would time matter unless you were to suddenly become busy. Tonight was on the shorter end of time spent putting him back together, and you never fall asleep quickly or peacefully anyway…that’s if you were to attempt it or even make it that far.

You watch him speculatively, still mindful that he’s injured, and probably very, very sleep deprived at this point, even though you can never say for sure.

He doesn’t sleep much. You seem to be his biggest distraction.

He twists a dry strand of hair between his fingers as it’s brushed back from his face, black eyes full of self-assurance as he turns to you for what will be the last time tonight.

“You think we can make it back to the manor?” His relaxed yet serious tone startles you, making you consider the options quickly.

Hard and cold floor, small and cold desktop, small rolling chair—none are ideal, but you’ve made all work before…when he didn’t offer another option, mind you. It was never momentous enough to have taken place outside of the cave. But the manor is…farther. There’s a buffer you don’t think will be beneficial. 

Who fucking cares—

“Here seems to work just fine,” you quip nervously. You haven’t taken notice of how your legs have gotten…shaky. 

There’s a burning heat between your thighs, an ache that blazes bright from anticipation and just him. Just knowing what’s to come. It feels like you’ve done everything imaginable at this point, but that doesn’t lessen your excitement. 

He gives a small smirk that fades just as fast. “Figured you’d say that,” he finalizes. 

Stepping back to you with graceful movements, you’re chest-to-chest again in an instant. He glides a delicate finger up your neck, hooking it under your chin and tilting your gaze to his intimidating one.

“Tell me what you want.”

You desperately want to say ‘anything’, but you know he won’t settle for that. 

You get lost in your thoughts, thinking of the possibilities you can choose from, and he waits for your answer patiently.

“A week ago…when you came back with a torn rotator cuff in y-your shoulder—” you stumble through the sentence but never break from his studious eyes.

“You, uh, didn’t pay any mind to it even though you definitely should’ve, and you had me down against the desk,” your voice turns to a whisper as you recount the events—as vague as possible to save you the embarrassment of being too vulgar in, perhaps, an irreplaceable moment.

As soon as you finish, you swear you see a flame flicker in his eyes. The same one you feel grow stronger in your cunt at the same time. Your knees almost buckle from anticipation, and he can only make it worse from here.

“That’s…a good choice, even though it was kind of impersonal,” he ponders, clearly running through the events of that night.

He’s not wrong. He kept your chest pinned tightly to the surface of the frigid desk, taking you from behind. No hand-holding, no kissing, no eye-contact, no nothing. 

You went on to figure that it was better—easier for him that way. You never seemed to mind anyway.

“That’s nothing I can’t fix,” he mutters, finishing the thought; already set on an alternative for both of you.

Your brows pinch together, curious of what he means exactly. But you don’t have much time to think about it.

His hands quickly curve around your jaw, keeping you still as he swiftly interlocks your deprived lips again. It’s zealous and luring, pulling you even further under the crashing wave of temptation and craving.

The soft joining of your mouths makes your stomach jump with exhilaration and eagerness, clawing your hands into his hair with a gasp of bliss as he grabs your waist just as hard in response. You let out a soft sigh of relief, feeling brave enough to gently bite at his bottom lip as his warm, encompassing hands slide under your shirt.

He barely lets you break for air, delving back into your mouth just as fast as he left it to reposition. The intensity of the heavenly moment builds its tempo, and you find yourself pushing against his chest. Not to pull away, but to try and push him towards the cold, awaiting desk behind his wide shoulders.

You manage to get a single word out in between the consuming and now sloppy kisses he offers. “Bruce—”

He hums contently as he swallows your thoughts, connecting your tingling lips forcibly. He’s too fixated on the passion. He wants it to last forever, but there are more demanding impulses that will be tended to first.

“Bruce,” you gasp when you break apart again reluctantly. He notices the calm assertion in your voice, and only slows the onslaught of kisses enough to reply.

“I know,” he soothes your neediness, now delicately pressing his greedy lips to yours repeatedly in understanding. The heartfelt action controlled by nothing but spirited lust.

His hands glide back up to your jaw, cradling your face in comfort as you twirl the long strands of hair at his neck between your fingers. Heavy breaths cloud your already tangled thoughts, leaving him to take the lead again. 

He gives you one last intense taste of him, stroking his tongue teasingly over yours, firmly capturing your lips together in the process with a pleased moan. You’re almost chest-to-chest, a minute sliver of space keeping your bodies just distanced enough to not completely lose what little control both of you have left.

He’s taken note of how tight your thighs have been pressed together, and how your breaths are becoming shaky with each passing second he uses to dominate your mouth.

You’ve taken note of how his tactical pants, in fact, can’t hide his very prominent arousal for you, and how you can feel the warmth finally releasing from his exerted and thoroughly worked muscles. The heat seeps through his shirt and goes directly to your body, making you shudder when you feel the change in temperature.

You draw in a breath when he finally pulls away. His obsidian eyes wild with excitement and dominion. You’ve seen this look a lot, and you’re ready to hop on the desk without another word.

He floats his eyes down your body observationally, but you don’t notice. All of this is a lot slower than you’re used to. Well-paced. If it were any other night, you’d be on round two by now at least. You’d be whining with pleasure, shaking from release and overstimulation, dripping around his cock as he buries himself as deep as your cunt will allow, over and over until he simply feels better. 

He was always generous with what he gave you.

You press a hand against his chest again, and he moves this time. Taking a  long stride back, he tries to conceal an amused smile as you push him toward the desk. Your eyes light up when you see the knowing and teasing look on his face.

A quiet laugh rumbles against your hand. “This isn’t how it usually goes…” He smiles lightly.

You smile with him. “I never said it’s gonna stay this way,” you challenge, your eyes twinkling with mischief. 

You never take charge. You never dominate. He’s more well-versed with it, and you won’t dare to try to match his competence. 

The backs of his thighs bump the rounded edge of the desk, and your stomach jumps with elation when his index finger instantly hooks into the waistband of your pants, pulling you just a little closer.

But he leaves it there. He slides it side-to-side along the hem, gently caressing the sensitive skin of your lower stomach playfully. You look into his eyes as he casually continues the slow motions. 

Your eyes flick down to his hand instinctually, out of pure reflex, and you watch his finger disappear further as he smoothly twists his wrist, palm resting against your lower stomach momentarily before his shoulder shifts too…angling his hand to travel down. 

His fingers graze lower, creeping to a spot that so easily welcomes him. 

One of your hands grabs onto his shoulder, simultaneously steadying yourself with a gasp as you bring your faces closer again. He gives a fleeting, comforting kiss, not leaving much behind.

His towering height makes it easier for his hand to reach its destination all too quickly. And when a careful and precise finger slips in-between your folds, your eyes close in anticipation and with the thought of relief.

Your minor reaction makes him smirk. Thankfully, for him, you don’t see it.

It’s sad just how wet you already are, but it spurs him on. He let’s his fingers explore, alternating between rubbing you and slipping a single digit inside, only doing so to gather your arousal to rub across your clit smoothly. 

A quiet moan gets caught in your throat as he repeats that process a few times, building you up and teasing you onto the edge continuously. 

“Mm— please, f-fuck—” you whimper, fisting the shirt in your grip on his shoulder. 

You don’t need to finish that sentence for him to know exactly what you mean. He needs it, too. His tactical pants have become increasingly uncomfortable.

Your plea makes him apply more pressure to the slow strokes he gives your throbbing cunt. You all but drip onto the two fingers that glide over your aching clit and back to your slick entrance, occasionally giving you what you want. 

He pulls them slowly in and out of you, making sure you feel them nice and deep before he drags them against something that makes you pant with desperation. Your eyes remain shut, brows pulled together tightly as you focus on the sensation of his intent touches, but he watches your face appreciatively, analyzing your pleasure with each movement he makes.

A particularly harder jolt of his fingers up into you makes you choke, caught between a gasp and a whiny moan. That makes his eyes drop to where his hand disappears.

He hums in satisfaction. “Is that the spot?” he questions with a mocking tone, knowing full well what the answer would be. “I think it is…” 

You nod your head quickly, eyes reopening ever so slowly to meet his. 

His eyes are full with devilish aspirations, and your knees almost give out when he roughly thrusts his fingers back in again for a final time. You let out a small cry of bliss and dissatisfaction when he slips them out of you, wiping them off on his pants carelessly. 

You were decently wet before, and you are definitely abundantly wet now.

“I think you need to lie down.” He sounds concerned, but you know it’s just for show to make your heart pound harder.

He takes your hand from his shoulder, holding it securely as he shuffles your bodies around, putting you in his place and himself in yours. Now your thighs rest against the desk, and he crowds you against it.

“Lift your arms,” he says cooly, observing your dazed expression with care.

You raise them, and he pinches the hem of your shirt, delicately dragging it up your torso and over your head with caution. He tosses it on the chair off to the side.

Your eyes catch the mangled slash at the bottom of his shirt again, and you quickly reach for the thin material. 

He doesn’t question your intentions, letting you maneuver the thin fabric over the bandage, his chest, and extend onto your toes to pull it over his shoulders. He peels it from his arms, and your hands can’t help but wander across the firm muscles that stretch around his entire body. 

The power he holds within him—the Batman—is unparalleled to anything you’ve ever seen. It was terrifying. It was unbelievable, the things you’ve seen his body do. And he would continue to push his limits.