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eupheme · 2 years

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Penny For Your Thoughts | Part 9.5 - Resilient

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Alfred Pennyworth x F!Reader

Rated E - 6.9k words

Tags: lots of fluff and smut, mentions of food, making out, authority kink if you squint, thigh riding, oral, soft piv, brief ref to somno

Summary: He comes home.

A/N: thank you to everyone who’s made it to the penultimate chapter! I really hope you like this. 💖 and thank you to @thaddeuscranes for telling me about Alfred’s canonical green (blue) thumb, which I couldn’t resist referencing. 🥀

After everything that has transpired, leaving the hospital feels almost unceremonious. There’s a final check-up, a list of follow-up appointments a mile long. A few extra minutes spent quietly thanking and wishing some of the staff well, people who you’ve gotten used to seeing every day.

And then, as your arm tucks into one of his, his other hand curling around the head of his new, gold-tipped cane - you’re stepping through the door. Walking out into the street, to where Bruce is waiting with his car.

It’s been weeks. Close to a month that he’s spent inside, other than the afternoon of the announcement. The days are turning even more gray, getting shorter. A bite in the air that makes his chest ache as he sucks in air.

The ride back to the Tower is quiet. Quick - it seems like no time at all before they’re parking beneath, taking the elevator ride up. The heavy doors opening, pulling in the golden glow from the foyer.

Walking forward with tentative steps, feeling like he’s been gone for months. Years. Parts of the room were still untouched in his absence. Others are ones that he’s thought about often.

You’re following him as he moves into the space, the trailing tap of your steps as he takes it in, not shying away from the wide, open room at the base of the dual staircases.

Holding your breath for a second as his head dips, sliding across the wooden floor, to where the heavy table sits. Sighing, as he focuses on it instead - his heavy palm going flat against the wood as he checks for marks.

A strange sort of melancholy at the thought of losing his old companion - the sturdy place where he’s worked and studied at for years.

Mind already working, noticing that the table isn’t in its usual place. Making a note to fix it, among a long list of other things.

Unafraid, so different that you had been, to continue through the room - down to the nook where the small office had been set up. Where it had happened.

A desk and chair sit upright, shoved to the side when you and Bruce had been cleaning up. A number of the decorations - old, heavy books, a set of worn speakers - had been damaged by the explosion, in the cleanup after. Taken down to the garbage together during the late nights and early morning over the past few weeks.

The tall built-ins had taken the brunt of the explosion - the carved arches at the top now splintered, the drawers blackened and charred. A few missing from where you had emptied them, setting them off to the side.

Residue from the fire extinguishers still clings to the corners of the room, settling in the grooves - powdery and white.

Alfred’s voice breaking through the silence, fingertips running over the high back of the chair. A quiet smack of lips, eyes lingering on the bookcase, “It’s not as bad as I had anticipated. We’re fortunate that the damage was not worse.”

Bruce is nodding, having come to that conclusion himself, “Fortunate that the seawall was not damaged here, as well. From what I’ve seen, the terminal would have been underwater.”

The mention of the flood makes your stomach flip, your gaze averting. You’ve had time to think about your own situation, and while it was far from ideal - it’s no longer an achingly painful subject. But you’re certainly not ready to jump in, to talk almost candidly about it.

Alfred’s eyes flick apologetically towards you, fingers curling tighter around the wood. You give a roll of your eyes, a small smile in response. A bit tactless, yes - but he wasn’t wrong.

“I’ve had similar thoughts.” His eyes move back to Bruce - fingers stroking the edge of his beard, tugging on the too-long hairs. “Well, to be more precise, I’ve been thinking about the Manor.”

Bruce’s look turns wary, uncertain.

Remembering what it had looked like when he had been there with Gordon.

What had transpired there.

And then, soon after.

“Why? Reminiscing about your rose garden, Alfred?”

A month ago, there would have been a sharp bite to those words, but now it’s almost a tease. Trying to work out the train of thought, so he was no longer in the dark.

Alfred makes a noise of begrudging amusement, “My thoughts were more along the lines of what lies beneath the garden.”

There’s a silence, as Bruce catches up. As he thinks about it, what he means as Alfred continues.

“It might be wise to have something available outside of the city.”

Bruce’s arms cross as he considers, “As?”

“Insurance. Backup.”

There’s a slow nod at that. Their eyes meeting, a silent conversation passing between them. You know little about the old Manor, other than that it was gifted to the city and renovated as an orphanage.

That it all but burned down, years ago.

But you’ve grown used to their cryptic conversations from your time spent in the Terminal, you mind sliding elsewhere as their murmuring continues.

Instead, thinking about the fact that out of everything, it seems that at one point, he'd had a rose garden. That tiny bit of tender, unexpected knowledge is tucked away in your heart, to keep safe for later.

“It might be worth making some inquiries. I could start them, if you wish.” Alfred is offering, but Bruce shakes his head.

“No, Alfred, that’s okay. I will.”

Alfred accepts the gesture for what it is, a small acknowledgement and kindness - taking something off his plate, though he didn’t have to.

The slow exploration continues after that, and somewhere between the kitchen and the long hallway to the right wing, you lose Bruce.

Leaving just the two of you alone to meander the space.

His hand finds the cracked-open door of the guestroom across the hall from his - one you’d left open in your rush to get to the hospital early this morning.

Nudging it open, the light from the hallway spilling over the cream walls, the still-made poster bed with your clothes littered across the top. The stack of boxes along the back wall, several pulled off to the side and opened.

Hesitating, eyes sweeping over the room before he asks, “Did you choose this room?”

You nod. Bruce had shrugged when you asked where to put the boxes that he had unloaded from your apartment. Not out of apathy for your situation, but more in a “take your pick” kind of way - many of the rooms had been all but untouched for years.

Whatever one you chose made no difference to him.

Which left you to trace your steps back to his room - choosing the closest available as your temporary dwellings.

“Have you been sleeping in here?”

Unconsciously, your eyes fall onto the bed - you’re sure it’s comfortable, but you haven’t even tried it. Your head ducks as you draw out the answer, suddenly feeling a little shy.

“No, I haven’t.” You confess, “I’ve been sleeping in your bed.”

His gaze feels like a weight, and you find yourself meeting it - his voice low and rough as he answers.

“Good.”

Your tongue pinches between your teeth as you bite back a smile, the door shutting quietly before he opens the one across from it. The door that leads to his.

A long-held sigh escaping from his lungs as he steps inside. Feet taking him to the bed, until he’s sitting on the edge, sliding the stiff dress shoes from his feet.

You’re slow to follow, watching as he tugs back the duvet, the sheets, sliding beneath fully clothed. Turning off the lights before you follow, climbing in next to him.

Turning on your side to face him, the low groan as his head hits the pillow.

“I’ve missed this.”

And maybe he means this room, his own sheets and pillows - after weeks of being confined to a hospital bed. Being amongst his own bedding must feel like relief.

But secretly, you hope he means this - the comfort as you settle into his side, head tucked against his shoulder.

“Do you want to rest for a bit? Dinner isn’t for another hour or so.” The words come out like a whisper, though you’re the only two in the room.

That had been your idea. Dinner. A quiet, intimate celebration - just you, Alfred, Bruce, and Dory - though he had protested the fuss. Ears and cheeks blushed a soft pink at the thought of the attention, but after some gentle encouragement, he had acquiesced.

“Just for a minute.” His breath is deep, as your fingers stretch across the breadth of his chest, until they curl near his ribs, “If you’ll stay with me.”

“Of course.” Your head tilts up so you can see him, his eyes already shut. Smiling to yourself, fingers squeezing a little tighter as your own close as well.

Curled against him, you’re asleep in minutes.

———

You wake to a dim room, the rhythmic chime of the alarm you set on your phone, just in case. The spot next to you is empty, but there’s a warm light shining from the narrow crack under the bathroom door.

It opens soon after you drag yourself out of the cozy nest, swinging your feet over the edge, the woven rug soft under your toes. Stretching, rolling your neck as the door opens, the interior of the bathroom hazy with steam as he steps out.

The gentle curve of a smile, as he comes to sit on the bed next to you. He looks like he did, like in your memories before. Too impatient to wait for an appointment with his usual barber, the edges of his beard neatly clipped and tidied. The sides of his head shorn to velvet, the rest combed back and styled.

You can’t help but smile, a hand raising to cradle his jaw as you lean in, tilting it as you examine, “There you are.”

“Here I am,” The soft rumble of his laugh, the comfort from his routine easing his nerves. “Feeling human again, at last.”

You huff your own laugh, nudging him with your leg, “You always look good to me.”

“Flatterer.”

His eyes are on you, the slight part of his lips. Heavy-lidded as his tongue peeks out to wet the lower one - as you’re already moving to press your lips against the clean-shaven curve of his cheek.

Drawing back to gauge his reaction from under your eyelashes, before moving to his mouth. The softest groan in his throat as you feel the warmth of his lips, the sweet familiarity, before he shifts even closer to deepen it.

His torso twists, as you move as well - the position limiting movement, but it doesn’t stop the tongue that strokes against yours, the teeth that gently scrape against your lip after.

Your hand still cradles his jaw, dropping to smooth across his shoulder, coming back up to cup the back of his head, fingers brushing the edges of still-damp curls.

It’s easy to see where this could go.

His hands finding yours, guiding them down to the knot in his navy silk dressing gown. Letting you pluck at it until it unravels, until it parts for you.

A shift as he lays you back, as his weight comes down to cover you as he fits between your thighs. Or - you sliding from the bed to kneel on the floor, taking every inch of him into your mouth.

He’d give you anything you wanted.

You were certain of that.

But the jingle of the snoozed alarm chimes again, pulling you from your daydream. Your eyes open as you draw back, but he follows after you. The flat of his palm curving around your hip, before fingers dig into fabric, skin.

“We can’t-” You pant, as his lips drop to brush against your neck - before pressing an open mouth kiss against your throat that makes you shiver, “We-”

“Mm. We can.” He hums against your skin, “I’ve waited ages to kiss you like this.”

You’ve waited too, the need and desire that coils in your chest, thudding between your thighs rages a silent war with your brain - knowing that Dory will be here soon - that your alarm was already set close to her arrival.

But you’re swallowing, debating - your words sounding less confident as he drifts lower, skin prickling deliciously as your breath hitches. As his mouth moves to the hollow of your throat, then your sternum.

Trying again, “W-We have to get ready.”

With a thoughtful hum he pulls back, a resigned acknowledgment - he knows you’re right. In all honesty, he would take no pleasure in being late, especially to the celebration in his honor.

“Of course, dove.” He agrees with a smile - but his hand still cups your cheek, thumb smoothing across skin. Heat still lingering in his steely gaze as he collects himself, intent on returning to this moment later.

“We mustn’t keep anyone waiting.”

———

It's nice to have the kitchen feeling almost crowded, despite its size. Your fingers absent-mindedly pull the strings of the apron - a pretty, almost silly thing you had bought for fun, blush-colored with ruffled edges - around to your back, twisting them into a neat bow.

Adjusting the front, before you're enveloped in the chatter as Dory pulls things from the pantry, the refrigerator. As Bruce, sleeves shoved up and eyes downcast - though still listening - pulls the griddle out from its old resting place.

The meal you had settled on was perhaps unusual - but that seemed appropriate, given how your life had been playing out lately. Breakfast - something you hadn't had in a long time - could be anytime, when time had less meaning.

Initially, you had thought about something else. About the dinner you had almost made, those weeks ago. But standing in the aisles of the grocery store, your hand had wavered, stomach churning. Sending you scuttling back to old, comfort food. Remembering earlier, happier conversations, from the same room you were in now.

There's fresh eggs, thick slices of bacon. Homemade bread and jams - a pancake mix that Alfred mixes up, insisting on making those himself. Uninterested and still unwilling to sit back, to let others do the work while he sits, idly by.

It's not perfect. There's a rogue egg that drops and cracks against the tile as you're trying to flip the ones in the pan. Elbows knocking together at the kitchen island as you all try to fit yourselves and the food onto the narrow countertop.

But it feels like home.

There's Dory, filling everyone in on the world outside. Asking about every detail about 'Mr. Pennyworth's' stay at the hospital, his recovery, how she had been glued to the screen for 'Mr. Wayne's' speech, until they're both sighing - Alfred's voice coaxing with a, "Just Bruce and Alfred, please, Dory. It's just dinner."

She remembers for a few minutes, and then forgets. It becomes a small joke, the little peal of laughter when she catches herself with the old habits. The stern look he gives her each time makes you laugh too, until you're joining in.

Earning a much different kind of look when you sneak your own with a bat of your eyelashes, "Pass the syrup please, Mr. Pennyworth."

One that sends a small fluttering in your chest. The hand casually curving against your thigh flexing, thumb sweeping just beneath the hem of your dress. A small, secret moment - letting you know he hadn’t forgotten earlier.

The night is one you'll cherish.

Conversation lasting long after the plates are empty, Bruce pushing up first to clear them. For a moment, it seems he plans to slip out - but instead he slides back into his chair. Lingering until Dory lets out a little yawn, just now noticing the time.

"So happy you're back at the Tower, Alfred." Her hand squeezes his arm, the reminder finally sticking.

"I am as well." He's smiling, "You're welcome back when you are comfortable."

None of you had missed the way her eyes had bounced around, doing some cataloging of her own. Years and years of her own preferences slowly engrained - the change had thrown her off as well.

You were sure she'd be back in a matter of days.

Saying goodbye feels different this time, when you’re on the other side. Alfred's hand resting on the small of your back as you wave - feeling the same sort of comfortable way when a friend leaves from your own apartment.

Not an ownership, not really, but more of the feeling in your bones that makes you feel tethered to the place, if only for a while. Like you belonged.

The deep sigh when you're left with just the two of you alone, Bruce walking Dory to the front door. Knowing he'll be heading out for the night, that he won't be back.

You’re closing the dishwasher, the last of the silverware tucked inside, when there’s the press of his chest against your back. Fingers that creep under the edge of the soft cotton apron. Teasing at the curve of your hip, sliding over the fabric of your dress.

The sweep of his hand makes you shiver, the beat of your heart kicking up a notch. The scratch of his beard against your cheek as he moves closer, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

Your own curving up in a smile as your head tilts, “What did you think?”

You thought the night had gone well. It was so nice to see everyone together. Alfred had been improving, especially now that he was home, amongst his own things and clothes.

“I think,” His voice is low, thoughtful. But then his hand moves again, up this time. Until his thumb brushes the underside of your breast. Then cupping it, making no mistake of his intentions, “That I want you to wear just this for me sometime, and nothing else.”

His other hand tugging at the ruffled hem of the apron for emphasis, your breath catching in your throat as you lean into his touch.

You still ached for him. The dinner has quelled the throbbing bite of need, but it was still there - flickering back to life as his lips brush against your neck.

Hips pressing against your ass as he pins you against the counter, only letting up when you wiggle, shifting around to face him.

“Is that right?” You smile, fingers lacing around his neck, “You really shouldn’t tease, you’re giving me ideas.”

His look turns darker, thumb and forefinger under your chin as he tips your face up, “Mm. I’m not, darling. It’s all I could think about.”

His smile matches yours, a hum of contented amusement as he leans in, where you meet him halfway. Lips slotting against yours, soft and pressing and warm. Hands that begin to wander, your own laugh bubbling in your throat when he’s leaning into you, almost bending you backwards into the cabinets.

The sound slipping into a moan when the kiss becomes more insistent - a brush of tongue, the grind of his hip. Your legs spread just a little bit wider so he can push closer, until you can feel him - unable to hook your thigh around him like you’d wish, but for now, it will do.

Part of you has no problem with where this is leading.

Of stripping down, getting bent over the counter, the kitchen island - with or without the apron. It isn’t as if the thought itself was new, you’ve certainly entertained similar ideas in private before.

But, there’s a hesitance - of not wanting to push too hard. He just got home. Of course you want him. Just not sure if the kitchen felt right, even if you were alone.

So your fingers find his, entwining, as you pull back. Eyes heavy-lidded, your question of “bed?” earning a nod, a bright glint in his own gaze. Following close behind as you lead him through the back hallway - well acquainted with the path by now.

The door barely closing before his lips are on yours again, your back bumping against the wood as he presses you up against it, caging you in.

Fingers tugging at the neat bow of the apron, the ties twisting down to brush against your legs. The kiss breaking so you can lift the strap over your head. Dropping it, leaving it to pool on the ground.

If he kisses you again you won’t be able to think, so you voice your concern, hands flattening against his chest.

“Is this alright? It’s okay if you’re not ready.” Your face tips up to his, meeting his heavy gaze.

You hadn’t been with him like this since the day of the accident. It hadn’t worked out at the hospital - the one or two times that kisses started to drift into something more, there had been an interruption.

He had been cleared to go home, to resume all of his normal activities. Had been there longer than anticipated, and therefore the worry was even more unwarranted - but, you couldn’t help it.

Alfred’s answering laugh is low, rough, “You’ve taken care of me long enough, dove. I’m not going to break.”

He shifts against you as proof, moving back in. A thick thigh spreading your legs this time, an intentional press against your center as your lips meet again - as you start to forget your concern.

Gently rocking against you as you moan into his mouth - fingers gripping the fabric at your waist, tugging it upward. Until you can grind down against the soft fabric of his trousers, your fingers twisting in his sweater for leverage.

You’re almost breathless - needy. Keyed up as your hips rock again, the sweet friction between your thighs as his tongue brushes against yours. Nails digging into the fabric as your hands clench, the dormant pleasure building swiftly now that you have him again.

Hands on your waist as they guide you into a rhythm, the flex of his thigh as he meets each grind of your hips.

His mouth pressing against your neck as his head ducks, a low gasp when teeth follow. The briefest pinch of pain blossoming through the thudding pleasure before his lips brush against your ear, his voice no more than a rough, accented rasp.

“Can you come like this, darling?”

Fuck. You want to - you think maybe you could. Your nod is short, gripping on a little tighter, eyes sliding shut as you concentrate. But the pleasure is starting to plateau, a low whine ripping from your throat.

“I need more.” You admit, before adding, “Please.”

The fingers on your waist dip down, beneath the rucked up hem. His thigh easing from you as he tugs at the waistband of your tights, the panties underneath.

“Take these off.” There’s an edge to his voice that does something to you, your hips wiggling as you help him work them down your thighs.

You’re pausing as you realize something, glancing up at him as you step out of them. As he’s moving back into place, your eyes dropping down to his thigh.

“But, your pants-” You’re squeaking, as his hands curve around your hips again. Nudging you into place, as you tug at your own dress to make room.

He hums, kissing away your expression, “Christ, I know. I want you to make a mess on them sweetheart. Show me how wet you are.”

And you are - slick and needy and moaning as the fabric presses against your bare cunt. The crisp crease running down the middle bumping over and over against your clit, a shock of pleasure shooting down your spine.

It’s not long before you find yourself where you were before - the sensations heightened, his teeth nipping at your lip as he presses himself closer. Releasing it to growl encouragements in your ear as a hand roams - sliding beneath your dress to cup a breast over your bra. Thumb pressing against a tight nipple as you shudder.

Each pass of your hips darkening the spot on his slate gray trousers, leaving a sticky smear of arousal behind. The blood pounding in your ears as the tight knot in your stomach coils - until your face is burying in the crook of his neck, your body seeming to move on its own.

Moaning against his skin, his name a hoarse gasp in your throat as your breath catches. Rutting yourself against his thigh, until the pressure becomes blinding - your head tilting back to thud against the wall.

The pleasure ripples and then washes over you as you come hard, the relief instant as you feel yourself clenching down around nothing.

Your gasps sounding high, muted to your own ears as your vision goes hazy, eyes closing as it feels like your heart is beating in your clit.

“Use my thigh, sweetheart.” He encourages, holding you tightly against him - feeling the tremble of your thighs, the tight pinch of your fingers as you cling to him, “That’s a good girl.”

Alfred’s leg moving once more, pressing steady, letting you ride out the last of the waves until your back is slumping against the heavy wooden door.

Your smile shy, a little huff of a laugh as your heels touch down on the floor, your feet going flat as you find your balance again.

His hand curving along your jaw, your cheek, before his lips brush against yours, “I missed all your pretty sounds, dove.”

Gently easing away from you, just as you reach for the hem of his sweater. He lets you tug it off him, over broad shoulders, letting it drop next to your clothes.

Turning with you as you give the bottom of his tie a little tug, leading him to the edge of the bed. The fabric dropping from your fingers as you sit down, knees spreading so he can fit between your thighs.

Your eyes slowly dragging up his form as his fingers loosen the tie, until it hangs limply on either side of his chest.

The path of your gaze snagging on the wet mark against his pants - your neck, cheeks feeling warm. Fingers reaching out to touch the spot, embarrassed, but he’s catching your wrist.

“None of that, now.”

Dropping your wrist so his fingers can work at the buckle of his pants, the gold winking against the light as it loosens. As he works the zipper down, pushing his trousers and boxers down his thighs at the same time.

Letting his cock spring free, swollen and heavy.

Your head tips forward, ignoring his length for now as your lips press against the window of skin where his shirt parts, his fingers still sliding the neat row of buttons from their matching holes.

The muscles of his stomach jumping under your touch - his own breath caught in his throat as he watches the slow descent of your mouth.

Dragging, a hum in your throat as you move over skin, the coarse, peppered-gray hair on his chest. Down over the curve of his stomach, following the trail until you can press a kiss against the base of his shaft.

His fingers reaching - grasping at the fabric of your dress. Anchoring himself to you as your eyes lift, as you place another. Kitten licks against his shaft as you work your way down to the tip. Alfred’s jaw going tight before he shifts back, easing you off him with an effort. Unsure if he’ll last if you take him into your mouth.

Wide eyes blink up at him, lips kiss-swollen as his hands find your hips, pushing you back into the mattress. An arm curling around as he tries to ease you further towards the headboard, until you’re smiling, pushing yourself back with bent elbows and scrambling hands.

Tugging off your dress when your head hits the pillows, back arching to catch the clasp of your bra beneath. Leaving both dangling off the edge of the bed as the mattress dips, as he follows at your feet.

A careful, warm press of lips on your ankle, calf, knee - kissing up your bare legs until broad shoulders are nudging your legs further apart. The edge of his neatly trimmed beard scraping your thigh, making your hips buck.

Heavy-lidded eyes flipping up to yours as he hovers just above where you ache for him. Shifting so his hands can tracing along your skin, thumbs pressing into slick, still-tender skin - spreading you open for him.

Making sure you watch as his tongue peeks out to flatten against your pussy, a slow stroke downward until he can dip inside. Pressing his mouth against you, his tongue parting your folds, tasting the tang of your release.

His eyes only closing then, a moan muffled in his throat as you whimper, your fingers coming down to smooth across the freshly-trimmed, velvet-short hair.

Pulling back to breath, voice rough as he groans, “I love eating this pretty little cunt.”

And his words make you clench more than the pointed flick of his tongue, sliding across your clit. Because he can say those words now, one he’s always held back. How much he loves fucking you. How he loves making you feel good.

How he loves, he loves, he loves.

With your next broken moan, one of his hands leaves your skin, dragging down between his own thighs. Fist wrapping around the base of his swollen cock, squeezing - holding himself back.

That, more than anything, makes your toes curl, knees fall open just a little bit wider. Encouraging him as his fingers tease at your opening, before he pushes in two. The stretch of them steals your breath, though you’re slick and hot and eager for him.

Starting slow with his thrusts, little movements with his wrists - building up until the fingers are curling, relentlessly stroking against the spot that has you seeing stars.

You’re nearly there again, the pleasure hot across your skin and singing in your blood. Thighs threatening to clamp around his head as your heels dig into the mattress instead, hip flexing with his thrusts.

“I love how wet you are for me. I love how you scream my name when you come.” He groans the words out between wet licks against your clit, though you’re so far gone it’s hard for you to hear them, “Can you do that for me, darling?”

His name rattles in your throat, a weak sound as you gasp. And then again, again, again as his tongue swirls around the sensitive bud.

Until you’re stringing tight, back almost bowing off the bed as you come. The name louder, strung out across syllables as you shatter, the hot pulse of your cunt squeezing his fingers, as he feels what he’s done to you.

When he pulls himself up to kiss you, you can taste yourself on his tongue. Bracing himself over you, his cock skating over the slick mess between your thighs, until you’re reaching down with him to guide him in.

Even with his fingers there’s the pressure as he enters the tight channel of your pussy, as you clench along with the fingers that grasp onto his shoulders.

His thrust is shallow, pulling back before he’s even gone to the hilt - until your leg hooks around his hip, pressing down until he’s sinking into you.

The rough curse when you’re hip-to-hip, when he’s as deep into you as he can be. When he has you stuffed full of him, you mouth open and panting as you kiss along his neck and jaw.

A slow roll of his hips as he looks down at you, spread out beneath him. Another, before he confesses, “I’ve been dreaming of having you just like this.”

Your smile is slow against his skin, still a mile high and glowing with the aftershocks as he continues, “Almost woke you up earlier, but you looked so pretty sleeping.”

A soft moan leaves your throat then - thinking about being pulled from a dream to the feeling of his mouth, hands, wandering across bare skin.

Whining the word “please” as you clench around him, his eyebrows lifting as he considers.

“Who’s teasing, now?” The words are amused, but his thrust stutters, a throb of his cock where he’s shoved deep and snugly inside you.

The pace slowly picking up, until he’s meeting your mouth - sharing almost clumsy kisses with each rutting thrust, the wet sound of his skin meeting yours.

If it was anyone else, you’d say they were desperate. Eager. But the way he moves - the way he knows you, the weight and curve of your body in his hands - it’s deeper than that. It’s passion, intimate and built up over the time you’ve been together.

The knowledge of what you like, every little detail and sound you make carefully cataloged. Hands that flatten to slide from your thigh to your knee - a rough sound in his throat as his fingers catch the joint, tugging until you’re opening further for him. Pushing him deeper, your head tilting back as you moan.

Sometimes, you try to stay quiet.

Sometimes, you have to.

In his office, in the passenger seat of his car as he leans across. Not wanting to draw attention as his fingers fill you. Opening you up to take him.

But not here, not tonight. You give him everything. Soft, breathless praises, words tumbling forth - “fuck, fuck, baby, youfeelsogood” - all strung together. Hands sliding up his forearms, grasping at his biceps as your back arches. Feeling the flex of muscle with each thrust, eyes opening again to gaze upward.

His elbows dig into the mattress as he braces himself - hands coming together to cup the back of your neck. Thumbs aligning as they trace along your throat, the tips pressing against your jaw, tilting your head up.

It’s different this time, just a little bit. Part of it is the knowledge of how close things had been - soaking up every touch, being here, together, in this moment.

But you think a bigger part is just the knowing. Or finally being on the same page - no longer being afraid that your feelings were too much. Were not shared, were not on the same level.

Because you can see it in his careful gaze, that they are identical. It makes you not want to look away, even if you could.

The cup of his hands keeps your head in place so he can lean down to kiss you, the brushing drag of his lips against yours as he swallows the little noises you make. The needy huff of breath that slides from your lungs with each thrust of his hips, until your arms are wrapping around his shoulders, pulling him closer.

Lips that slide to the space next to his thumbs, just below the curve of his jaw. Pressing, kissing against the spot where your pulse flutters for him, a rough groan in his own throat when your thighs wrap around his waist next.

Heels pressing into the small of his back, the curve of his ass, until his thrusts turn shallow - each one short and sloppy. The saw of his hips until each breath comes shorter, a tremble in the taut string of his shoulders.

He groans your name through parted lips - wishing for the endurance to feel you clench around him one more time. Unable to hold back the wanting after so long, too lost in the way you wrap around him.

Your own pleasure still curls warm in your belly, and it makes you want for him to feel the same. You want him to fall apart for you, want to feel the hot throb of his release against your walls when he comes.

So you beg him, a needy edge to your own voice.

“Make me yours.”

Not that you aren’t.

Not that you haven’t always been.

But your plea has his arms tightening around you, his low, rough gasp ripped from his throat. The sea blue eyes going wide as they as meet yours - as he’s ruined by your words.

You get to watch him this time. The final thrust that stutters as Alfred’s head tilts back. The little furrow between his brows as his jaw clenches, a low groan rumbling from his chest.

Pulling a rough, drawn-out “fuck” as your thighs tighten, as you clench around him. Feeling the flex of his hips as he empties into you - pushing himself deep with each pulse.

Before his face tips down, the curl of hair drifting across his forehead, where it had broken free of its careful styling. Half-lidded eyes opening to gaze down at you, a flash of teeth as he smiles without thought.

Together, finally - at last.

Later, you shift - until it’s your body covering his, propped up against his chest. Fingernails idly scratching over skin, through the smattering of salt-and-pepper curls on his chest.

A soft, contented sigh pulls from his lips, his own hand brushing across your bare shoulders, down your back. It’s comforting - the familiarity of his form, the soothing touch of his warm, solid touch.

Even though you’ve both gone through so much - apart and together - in this small, stolen moment, you’re happy.

And so your head dips, the words breathed out before you press your lips to his.

“Welcome home.”

———

When the streets become a little more clear, Bruce takes them out. The path taking them towards Old Gotham, where the flood had quickly swept through the streets as it made its way to pool downtown.

It feels funny, Alfred thinks. Sitting on this side of the car - he can’t remember a time before recently that he hasn’t driven.

He’s almost not sure what to do with himself.

Things look different from over here, though he can still feel his eyes drifting to check the traffic, his leg flexing on instinct when a car cuts them off.

Earning an amused sound and matching smirk from Bruce, who could do this in his sleep.

It’s quiet, other than the turned down music. Something he half-recognizes from the playlist that’s always running in the Terminal.

Not his thing.

But there’s the rhythmic tap of a thumb on the wheel, and when he glances back there’s a subtle movement of her lips as she stares out the window. Before noticing him, her attention pulling back as she smiles his way.

A hand slipping up to brush against his arm.

Not his thing - but he thinks, that’s okay.

They end up in an older part of town - all brick and stone buildings. The only tall panes of glass coming from the neat line of storefronts. Bruce pulls into a spot, glancing down at his phone, then up at the worn wooden sign.

Alice’s Antiques - the painted letters are gilded, fading at the edges.

Alfred frowns, his steps still a little slow. Each day is getting better, but the chill in the air makes his leg ache, still irritated from the accident. Bruce gets the door, the rush of warm air welcoming them in.

Inside, there’s little groupings of rooms. Dark, stained wood pieces, plush chairs, heavy tables with intricate carving - all in sets that nearly match.

She takes the lead now, weaving them into a side room, to a setup near the back. A tall display cabinet with stained glass flower windows is set behind a long, Victorian sofa, the back curving up at the edges before dipping down in the middle.

When he steps closer, he can see the roses carved into the wooden frame, the vines that creep down to the pointed feet.

A matching loveseat rests off to the side, in front of a short, marble-top table.

“We, well, she - found this set online.” Bruce asks him, with a gesture her way, “What do you think?”

“We might have to reupholster it. But the style is similar.” She adds, as if this clues him in.

Alfred isn’t often confused - long ago he’s learned to keep up, to process, to anticipate. But for a second he’s not sure, doesn’t understand what they’re asking him.

Finally, Bruce enlightens him, “For the Tower.”

Oh. His eyes snap up quickly as he frowns, “I thought you’d want to restore what you had.”

He had already been thinking about it, his memory good enough to recall the layout, the details of the furniture. He thinks he could find something comparable, he just hasn’t had the chance yet.

“I thought about it.” Bruce admits, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. “But then, I thought we could pick out something new. Together.”

He’s staggered for a moment, his eyes dropping to the furniture again. Seeing it for what it was now - a gentle offering, a fracture of a new start.

Imagining it for a moment - the roomy sofa resting in front of the heavy stone fireplace. Replacing the pair of solid wooden chairs, each built for one.

It’s a pretty thought. Something that until recently, he never pictured for himself. He’s been finding that a lot lately - his world slowly filling with new possibilities.

Bruce’s voice breaks his concentration, a worried edge to his words, “But if you don’t like it-”

“No.” He replies simply. Clearing his throat, because it suddenly feels tight.

“It’s perfect.”

Thank you so much for reading! The last part will be out next Thurs (the 22nd) 💕

(taglist - @rescuethewretched, @slavicwitchling, @zinzinina, @bacarasbabe, @kakashibabe02, @princessxkenobi, @maskhoper, @thelastemzy, @celestianstars, @squidlywiddly87, @queensgirl718)

#new chapter is up! 💖✨#alfred pennyworth x reader #alfred pennyworth x f!reader #alfred pennyworth x you #alfred pennyworth smut

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nostalgic90s · 2 years

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I also want to do a ghost AU but for Gotham, specifically Jerome x Bruce (I need some Valeyne in my life). My thoughts are scattered so keep in mind this is a rough introduction at best but when I get to writing it, it will be THOROUGHLY detailed :)

Jerome Valeska died around the early 1900s under mysterious circumstances, as one outdated news article revealed. His charred remains were discovered after a fire swept through the circus, destroying everything in its wake. Haly’s Circus is no more, and its members disbanded in search of work around neighboring cities.

Bruce, the handsome 21-year-old billionaire, returns from a lengthy vacation with Alfred Pennyworth at his side. They’ve been overseas for about a year while Wayne Manor underwent some serious renovations, including the addition of a greenhouse, new kitchen, bigger garage, and a luxurious garden maze and pond. Bruce also splurged on purchasing new furnishings for every room, but keeping the stuff that matters most, the kind with sentimental value.

One of the construction workers pays Bruce a visit to drop off some stuff they found while digging up earth and sediment. He presents Bruce with a large ornately carved wooden box, thinking it’s an antique that could possibly belong to the Wayne Family when they first started building the mansion.

Bruce keeps the interesting artifact in his spacious study, directly over the fireplace. It doesn’t take long for Bruce to notice a change in his home. There’s a distinct presence that he senses when he’s in the study, but never in his room or any other part of the manor. Sometimes there’s a flutter of wind or a breeze in the study when no windows are open. There’s specific areas that are colder then the rest and it makes Bruce shiver and break out in goosebumps. If he’s not actively looking around then he’ll feel eyes on him and for some, inexplicable reason, Bruce knows they are green eyes.

Everything changes when Bruce’s curiosity finally gets the best of him. Using a locking picking kit he purchased a while ago, without Alfred’s knowledge, the curious man goes to work on breaking into the box. He struggles and is so focused on his task that he doesn’t notice the way his neck hairs bristle or that a cold spot is surrounding him. Finally, he’s successful in his endeavors and there’s a soft click as the box unlocks. Bruce sets his tools aside and opens the lid, catching sight of what appeared to be folded letters and something shiny-

“GET YOUR FILTHY MITTS OFF MY STUFF!” a voice screamed into Bruce’s ear.

Bruce jumps higher than he has in his whole life. The box flies right out of his hand and bounces on the floor in such a way the lid snaps shut and locks in place. Bruce whips around, coming face-to-face with an angry apparition.

It’s a boy.

No, it’s a teenager, he looked no older then 18-years-old. He’s wearing a collared long sleeve, button-up dress shirt with suspenders attached to a pair of trousers that are a little too big on him. His clothes are dirty, caked with dirt and rubble, as was the crumpled hat on top of his head.

The apparition has no color whatsoever. He’s kind of grayish but transparent at the same time. The only subtle tint of color is in his eyes, they’re a faint shade of green, as Bruce presumed. Bruce isn’t crazy. Thank GOD he isn’t crazy. Oh wait... He’s staring at a ghost, maybe he’s suffering a mental breakdown.

The ghost’s scowl grows even more.

“H-hey” Bruce breathes shakily.

Then he’s gone. Bruce made the mistake of blinking and now his ghostly houseguest is gone.

(( Gotta love good reference pictures --- for the box and the outfit ))

#valeyene #ghost AU #I might just use the first few paragraphs as my summary!#enjoy this little snippet <3

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gaitwae · 3 years

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The Dark Angel [|] Batman x OC

read on AO3!

Warnings: Possibility of being bad, it’s a sequel.

Length: 8k

Summary: Bruce Wayne and Charlene fluff, i don’t really know XD

Ring, ring, ring.

The sun hadn’t even peeked over the horizon when the telephone rang, violently and loudly. Internally, Bruce knew it wasn’t an emergency — it was someone trying to reach him before the day started. If it was an emergency, the caller wouldn’t have dialed the Blackberry. It wasn’t the red phone; the small cell was for business, not pleasure, so it wasn’t that either; he had a small rotary for the boys in case they were sick or held up at the university or high school (or in Damian’s case, soccer practice). The ringing phone was the Blackberry.

His thoughts were all over the place. In the beginning, his first thought was that he really needed to change the ringtone. It sounded like Christmas bells on Kryptonian steroids. The darn thing was just outside of Bruce Wayne’s reach for the first time in years; that thought alone was infuriating to him. The more he dwelled on someone calling the Blackberry…

Ring, ring, ring.

“Not today,” he swore, heaving a sigh and hoisting himself off of the bed. His Blackberry kept buzzing and playing its tone on the nightstand like an angry massage tool from Tartarus. He wiped his face, and just before the contraption could finish its next Ring, ring, ring, he answered the call. “Bruce Wayne.” His tone was gruff; he wanted to make sure the caller knew that the excuse better be good. The billionaire wasn’t in the mood to play games with the idiot on the other line.

“It’s Clark,” the voice on the opposite end answered. Bruce tensed. Clark had no reason to call him this early — had something happened with Charlene? Did their trip to Smallville get tracked?

“Clark —”

“Don’t worry; this isn’t life-threatening. You left something in that suit jacket you lent me,” his friend explained. “We should talk… Soon.”

The tension that built in Bruce left instantaneously. He had almost forgotten: Weeks ago, an envelope had been slipped into the inside pocket for Clark to find. He couldn’t risk saying something around Charlene, or anyone else who could have found her, when the risk was so high. He didn’t expect Kent to find it immediately, but he didn’t think it would take weeks to discover the note.

“I placed it in the jacket intentionally,” Bruce replied. He laid back down, closing his eyes. He would have to go downstairs soon. The boys would need to be woken up. Alfred would reprimand him about his sleep, telling him that a ‘sound body and mind cannot operate under such conditions,’ when he came downstairs. He could already see where the day was taking him. “I was banking on you finding it much earlier. Why did it take you so long?”

A pause.

“I don’t think she’s going to like this, Bruce.” He could hear shuffling over the mic, the crinkling of paper. “She really won’t like this. She just bought a house; this is quite a big commitment.”

“I’m not proposing, Clark; calm down.” Bruce rubbed a finger under his eye once or twice. He didn’t have the patience so soon in the day. He reached over to his bedside table and switched on the lamp. “She would despise that, not to mention how we haven’t talked about it, yet.”

“I didn’t even know you two were really together.” Clark’s tone reflected an edge — either protective, disgusted, or judgemental — that told Bruce exactly how much trust he had when it came to Charlene Park. “The last I heard about the two of you was your most recent trip to Metropolis.”

“When I met with Luthor,” Bruce guessed. He chewed his cheek; he didn’t mind talking about Char, but when it came to his relationship with her, he preferred not to be bothered — his affections didn’t need to be questioned left and right. Char was a grown woman. She chose Bruce; that should have been the end of it. “We’ve seen each other in Gotham since then. I’m surprised she hasn’t told you.”

“Yeah, with Luthor. Char said you had coffee and she babysat Damian,” he said. His voice was rising. For having impermeable skin, Bruce was having surprising luck getting underneath it. “And what do you mean ‘surprised she hasn’t told you’? What are you implying? That you’re sleeping together?”

“We’re taking it slow,” Bruce answered. “If we were sleeping together, I’d be the one to tell you. You’ll be glad to hear that we aren’t.” Clark scoffed over the phone; clearly, he didn’t believe that. “I just thought you’d like to know what I’m planning; Diana will need to be informed as well. This is important. Char’ll need all the help she can get.”

“You know, I never did take you for the type of guy to be with Charlene,” the other man continued. “You’re brooding and dark; she’s not like that at all. You’ve got some nerve—”

“Is this all you needed, Clark?” the billionaire deadpanned, cutting the Kryptonian off. He looked over at the bedside clock. It read 4:22 AM . Superman was far more worried than he was letting on if he was calling at the witching hour.

He didn’t need to be. Bruce would make sure that the woman was safe above anything else — he loved her too much to just put her in harm’s way.

“You know she’ll be fine,” Wayne reassured.

“Do you think this is safe for Charlene? This lifestyle?” the journalist whispered into the phone. “Lois couldn’t handle it; who knows if Char can?”

“She’s more involved than we ever anticipated,” Bruce said. He wet his lips. Lois left Clark? Unsurprising. “She’ll be excited to join. She has the potential; why waste it?”

“What will the boys think? They’ll think they’re getting a mom.”

He huffed a half-humored laugh. The boys didn’t know yet — no one knew. Clark was the first to be told. “They love Char. It shouldn’t be an issue to let them think that. Damian already told her she would be the only acceptable candidate for a stepmother. In the next decade, they might have one.”

“You can’t be serious. You’d marry Char? She’s going to join the League?”

“I’m plenty serious. She’s going to be part of the Justice League’s inside informants if she wants to. Whether you approve or not.” He didn’t answer the marriage question. Marrying Charlene would require more time. He wasn’t ready; she hadn’t hinted at anything more. She had only stayed at the manor twice — he felt that was enough of a leap for now.

He didn’t need to marry her out of the blue, did he?

“I don’t approve. She’s delicate. What if she thinks that your attempt at being personal is —?”

“Goodbye, Kal-El.” Without another word, Bruce hung up the phone. Clark had too many worries; too many things on his mind. He was so preoccupied with Charlene’s life that he had to ask about her relationship instead of the plan to incorporate her into the League. He needed to let go and learn to trust others’ judgement… But then again, some could say the same thing about the Batman.

Bruce sat up in bed. He would be lying if he said he didn’t miss Charlene or said he never thought about fully committing. It had been three years since the gala; things were going well between them. If he was just a billionaire, he might have tried harder, pressed for marriage instead of bringing it up every now and then.

But he wasn’t just a billionaire.

Bruce wiped his face again and looked out his bay window. He could see the area of town where he first saw her… where the Batman thought Charlene Park would jump to her death. He hadn’t expected to even meet her after that. He hadn’t expected a wonderful woman who understood him. Meeting her seemed so long ago now. It seemed against reality to think he hadn’t known her at one point in time.

He could make a few calls before seeing his family, maybe create a funding account for Char when she was ready to join the League; he knew she wouldn’t say no if he explained himself the right way. She was warming up to the idea of helping him with all aspects of life — he was warming up to the idea of domesticity. At the same time, making the calls would be presumptuous. Who knew if Charlene wanted that, yet? He didn’t want to do anything without talking to her.

Char may have understood the Batman, but he certainly couldn’t predict her. The identity guessing and the kiss and the entire history of their relationship proved that fact over and over and over like a natural law. Everyone thought they were gravity: dangerous; inevitable; fitted perfectly to the human body like Earth’s atmosphere.

He thought they were just a coincidence that turned into a gift. Charlene was an angel; he was her knight in shining armor.

“Time to start the day,” Bruce mumbled. He got up from his bed. He looked out the bay window once again. He sighed deeply.

Gotham City.

Would this place really be safe as Charlene’s future home?

He looked away, resting his head against his pillow and trying to sleep again. The attempt wasn’t very fruitful — eventually, he got up and dressed for the day. He tinkered with the gadgets he had created for Char, tweaking it and wondering whether or not to pick up the phone and call her. Every day was another failed attempt to be the hero she needed.

“Ah! Good morning, Master Bruce,” Alfred Pennyworth greeted the dark knight as he descended from the stairway. The old man handed him a glass of water and the stack of letters that had been delivered overnight. “I take it you had a restful night?”

“Barely,” he sighed, squeezing his old friend’s shoulder in appreciation. Bruce drank from the glass, feeling the coolness spread downward. It was calming, but not the calm he needed. “I got a call from Clark Kent at about four in the morning. How are the boys? Are they all up? I had something I wanted to talk to them about.”

“Damian is awake; Dick has left for school; Tim is still sleeping; Jason never slept, I’m afraid.” Alfred cocked his head, eyebrows lifting as he studied his former ward. He stuck his hands in his pockets and took a careful breath, asking in a wary voice, “Is everything alright, Master Bruce? Was Mr. Kent’s call that important, sir?”

“Yes and no,” Bruce answered. He didn’t clarify; he couldn’t think of an answer for each question. He scratched his neck, taking Alfred with him as he walked down the hall. Each picture on the walls was of the Wayne family, and as he got closer to the end of the hall, each of the boys. Dick with his acceptance letter to Rutgers University; Damian’s birthday; Jason against a tree; Tim playing guitar. Countless family pictures. There was a spot on the wall waiting for Char, he realized. “We’ll just have to talk about it when Dick comes home. I’ll sit the other boys down and tell them not to leave.”

“Sir?” Alfred asked, now flabbergasted. “Are we in trouble?”

“No,” he said. He tried for a smile. Alfred didn’t relax, so Bruce stopped. “It’s just about Charlene.”

The butler nodded deeply. He leaned in and looked about the room to make sure no one was spying on them. The corridor was empty. He held his breath to listen, but the only sounds were their shoes clicking on the tile. “Sir, is Charlene… leaving us?” Alfred whispered. “I thought you and she were getting along rather nicely.”

Bruce didn’t react. “I’ll talk about it later tonight, Alfred. I’ll need to see Char when she comes back from Kansas — if she’s leaving, we’ll find out after I visit her.” He clapped Alfred’s shoulder. “But if she isn’t, we might have to reclean the guest room.”

“The guest room, sir?” Pennyworth grinned.

Bruce found himself surprised at that. Another joke, obviously, but he just hadn’t thought about that sort of arrangement with any seriousness. “Yes — she’s not going to be in my room, Alfred.”

“A woman who’s not so worldly, eh?” the butler chuckled.

Bruce smirked. “No, it would seem not.”

°°°

Charlene would have to say that her morning wasn’t going perfectly. Going down to see Johnathan and Martha was one of the best parts of the year. It was the best part of the upcoming summer season! But this morning, this last week, she had noticed that Clark was acting insane. Her instincts told her to ask, to say something, but she got swept away with her pseudo-parents fluttering about her and asking how life was in the big city.

“You look so grown up, now!” Martha cooed. She set her hands on Char’s shoulders and turned her about, checking her face over. Charlene had stayed with Martha and Johnathan for two years when she was a teenager. They were the closest she had to family. Every summer, she returned to stay with them for two weeks — whether or not Clark was there. Martha, now satisfied with how Charlene’s physique and health was, found her gaze set on the newscaster’s newest gift from Bruce: A small locket pendant graced with a rose-shaped diamond, tied around her neck by a silver chain. “I love this new piece of jewellery you’re wearing, sweetheart. What is it?”

“Has Clark finally made a move?” Johnathan asked. He took a sip from his coffee cup, craning his neck to see the necklace. He turned his head sideways at it, then hummed. “It’s gorgeous, honey. Whose gift was that? Was that from my boy?” He laughed, looking over at Kal-El. “Did you buy that for Char, son?”

“Er, no.” Char laughed nervously, holding the locket in her hand to hide it. “He isn’t going to make a move. He didn’t buy it. I’m seeing someone else; it’s going pretty well. He’s a businessman, single father.”

“Who are you seeing?” Martha gasped. She pushed a mug of coffee into Charlene’s hands, shuffling about the kitchen to try and find some food for everyone. This conversation was just before breakfast. “It’s such a nice necklace! When can we meet him?”

“He doesn’t want to push things too fast,” Char explained. She smiled brighter than she wanted to; she was nothing but happy when she talked about Bruce. She hadn’t seen him in almost three weeks due to work and flight preparations, his business meetings, and whatever secret project he was working on. “He’s got three sons and a ward who’s planning on surprising him with adult adoption papers for next Father’s Day.”

“That sounds just…,” Martha trailed off, pressing her lips together as she thought of the words. Charlene knew she was a little wary, almost disappointed. Seeing a man with multiple children either meant he was one of the sweetest men in the world or one of the more careless. How he raised his children was a completely different story. Not wanting to spread Bruce’s life story around to everyone, she just figured it was better to keep quiet about it. “How old is this man?”

“He’s thirty-seven,” she continued. “He, uh, adopted two of the three sons. The youngest was a different situation. Clark’s met him already.”

Johnathan nodded. He stuck his hands in his pockets and looked to Clark, who was still acting off. “So he’s a good man, then?”

“One of the best men,” Charlene swore. She opened the locket, looking at the picture of Bruce holding a rose to the camera on the inside with an inscription on the opposite side: “More than you know. - B.W.”

She showed Martha and Johnathan. Martha set a hand on her heart and Johnathan’s shoulder, smiling at the picture and carved words. “We’re taking it slow and old-fashioned; eventually, I’ll bring him down here for you to meet. Or he’ll invite you to his home — whichever comes first.” She grinned, closing the locket. Martha smiled at her.

“How long have you two been seeing each other? It seems like this man loves you,” Martha said. “Does he know your history? When did he give that pretty thing to you?”

“Yes, he knows my history. He gave me the locket about two months ago. I took him to my favorite spot in Metropolis and gave him a few written letters about my feelings.” She scratched her scalp. “The next time he saw me, he said he couldn’t just let me be the only one who ‘let their affections come to light.’” She laughed at her imitation of Bruce. Martha gasped and grinned.

“So you’re taking it so slow you haven’t told him you love him, yet?” Clark scoffed behind her. “You wrote a letter? After two years?” Charlene rolled her eyes, turning to see her best friend of nearly twenty years. The Kents’ faces drew up in surprise, but Char just frowned. He had barely said anything last night and this morning. Why did the first thing have to be about his distaste for Bruce?

“He knows I do; you know he isn’t big on words. We’ve found other ways of telling each other.” She crossed her arms. Clark mirrored her movement, rolling his eyes. He took his glasses off and set them on the table, pinching his lids closed. “How many times are we going to have to talk about this? I know you don’t like the idea of me dating anybody, but it’s going to happen. I might even get married; are you going to make nasty comments about that, too?”

“I might if it’s him. He’s going to get you killed, Charlene. Do you have any idea what he’s got planned for you?” He raised his hands and then dropped them.

“No, not really. Gosh, Clark, you realize it doesn’t matter. You’re Superman. He’s not any different from you. Let it go.” She waved her hand in dismissal. She tried to turn back to Martha and Johnathan. She didn’t want to get into the I’m-dating-Batman explanation today.

Kal-El screamed in frustration, hovering off the floor by a few centimeters. He combed his hair with his fingers — with both hands — giving away how anxious he was. Charlene knew there was more than he was telling her. “No, I won’t, Char. You need to be careful! He left a note in the suit jacket he left me, I called him—”

“Wait. Stop,” Char said, cutting him off and trying not to sigh in exasperation. She was getting tired of being constantly questioned over her boyfriend. He wasn’t dangerous, he wasn’t rude, he wasn’t going to kill her. Bats tried to actively keep her out of the dangerous details of his life; eventually, that would change… but wasn’t going to change yet. “This is about you two not communicating, again. Isn’t it?”

“I—,” he started. Charlene pointed her finger at him, hushing the alien. He shut up quickly at her silent threat. They both knew she couldn’t hurt him. Sometimes just the idea of her trying worked, though. He set his feet on the floor again. Char set her hands on her hips, taking a step back.

“Deal with that on your own. Please. I don’t want to break up with him because you’re acting like a kid, Clark.” She wiped her face. She knew that Ma and Pa were watching them argue and she didn’t like it. She hated being the center of attention (one of the Wayne boys would say that was ridiculous, considering she was a newscaster). “I appreciate you worrying, but I know what I’m getting into.”

Clark sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “And what if you find out years along the way that you don’t want to be Bruce’s wife?”

“That’s why we’re taking it slow, Clark. I’m not going to abandon you like Lois did; I’m not going to do the same thing to him, either.” She looked at the clock. “It’s six in the morning. Let’s help with chores, yeah?”

“You’ve gotten quite commanding since I’ve last seen you,” Martha chuckled. “Does all this change come from that Bruce?” She used the name in a teasing manner, which made the younger woman laugh. The old mother set plates out for breakfast.

“Yes, it is,” Char said. “He and Clark work together. He’s not too thrilled with me being a hero’s partner, yet.” She shrugged, sitting down at the table. Johnathan clapped her shoulder lovingly. Clark sat down next to Pa.

“They’re a good brand. If Clark trusts him enough to work with him, I don’t see why you can’t go with him.” Johnathan snickered. “Speaking of going with people. Son, have you heard back from that lovely Amazonian woman? You know, since you’re not with that reporter lady and, apparently, you gave us the wrong idea about Charlene. Honestly, I’m not too surprised about the Charlene bit; you two could never figure out if you were friends, siblings, or edging something more for as long as I can remember.”

“Pa, come on,” Clark whined. He crossed his arms, his cheeks colored with a red flush. Char didn’t know the Man of Steel would get embarrassed over Wonder Woman. She suppressed a giggle. And then he started stuttering. “Diana isn’t interested in me — Be-Besides, it doesn’t even matter. She’s a — She’s a very nice woman and I’m her colleague. That’s all. I’m going to steer clear of dating for a while. Sorry we didn’t tell you Char was seeing someone.”

“You should be sorry!” the old man said sternly. His smile never wavered. “What if I’m a grandpa and I don’t know about it? I understand Charlene not telling me, but you? Oh, Clark, come on!”

“Pa, it was her place to tell you.” Clark sat forward, leaning his elbows on the table’s edge. “I’ve been busy, too.”

“You never know if a relationship is working until you start talking about marriage, boy.” He held Char’s hand and Clark’s. Martha placed the last of the foodstuffs before the family. She sat down next to her son. “You two need to figure things out. You’re stuck with each other for life — you know you are. You’re going to have to trust each other. Now hush: let’s say grace.”

They all did as they were told. Johnathan prayed over their food, they ate, breakfast went by quickly. When they were cleaning up, Char’s phone went off.

“What’s that, sweetheart?” Ma asked.

Charlene read her screen. Her eyebrows drew together. “I’ll have to leave a day earlier than expected; there’s a change in my work schedule.” She frowned a little bit. “I’ll have to make a call.”

“Oh. That’s too bad. Don’t worry about it,” Martha said. She patted her back. “Do what you need to.”

“Oh, I will,” she smiled, but in reality, she wanted to scold someone. She knew exactly what happened.

Bruce changed her scheduling around without telling her.

°°°

After staying as long as she could — about a week — Char had to board a plane and find her way out of Smallville. Somehow, getting on the plane and sitting on it for five hours wasn’t the issue. She could afford to be patient when she knew she had a plane to catch. She had just enough experience to practically ignore the takeoff, the flight attendants, and the goodbyes.

That all went smoothly. It always did.

And then there was the airport after the flight.

Being at the airport was one of the worst experiences Charlene ever had. She hated air travel with every bone in her body, but there was no other way to get back to Metropolis: the trains didn’t go that far, the buses would have taken too long, and Charlene didn’t have enough money to rent a car. She felt safe flying when she had another person to count on; this time, she was alone. Standing in the middle of the bustling, glassy terminal made her heart pound. Was she supposed to call for a taxi? Walk home? She had driven to the airport with Clark. She had no ride.

Walking through gates and managing to find her luggage without difficulty, she passed every single crying child, scolding mother, complaining grandfather, and fussy TSA member. She had jet lag. She had a headache. She missed Bruce. She was a little bit irritated with him, too, but she could talk about it — calmly — at a later time.

Her eyes were clouding up with sleep. Her mind was wandering. She didn’t even know what time it was. She was trying her best to walk out of the terminal.

“Charlene,” a familiar voice called. She picked her head up, her heart swelling with gratitude. Dressed from head to toe in black, Bruce stood with his hands stuffed in his pockets. His feet were spread apart. He had that look about his face — the one he wore when he was amused but didn’t want you to know it. She all but sobbed as she ran to him.

“Oh, my goodness!” she cried, wrapping her arms around him. Bruce’s arms encompassed her. “You’re here! How?” She buried her face in his shoulder and let the hero keep her steady.

“Clark said you were leaving early,” Wayne laughed. He took her suitcase out of her hand, absentmindedly rubbing her back. Charlene thought she must have been dreaming. She nearly forgot about trying to ask if he rearranged her work plans, again. She opened her mouth, but Bruce was faster. “Before you ask, I didn’t mess with your schedule this time. I was working on a —”

“— project, yeah, yeah. It doesn’t mean I’m not going to ask the producer what happened,” Char sighed, taking in Bruce’s metallic scent. His shirt was scratchy, but soft from wear. She dug her fingers into it, closing her eyes and soaking in the warmth from her boyfriend. “You have no idea how much I love you.”

“I love you, too,” he murmured. He broke the hug. “Let’s get in the car. The boys are going to be worried sick. I can call the studio, tell them you’re under the weather if you don’t want to go to work.”

“Are you okay, Bruno?” Char asked, yawning. She covered her mouth, minding to use the other nickname rather than just calling him “Bats” in public. “You’re edging a ramble; that’s unlike you.”

“I’m fine. There’s just some things we need to talk about; Clark doesn’t like it, despite how it could benefit our life.”

“‘ Our life’?” she asked, voice slurring with the need for slumber. She took his hand. He held it back, but gently. He was being somber. Solemn. Serious. That usually only happened at home, behind closed doors. And behind another set of doors, he let himself truly smile. “I wasn’t aware you were thinking about a future so soon.”

“I am,” he said. His fingers tightened their grip on hers as they swung through the air. “I want to help you into all sides of my life, even for just a little bit. I heard perspective can help a marriage last longer.”

“Marriage?” Charlene laughed. She swung their hands. The corner of Bruce’s mouth twitched, again. She started grinning like a madman — no, like the Joker. “You intend to make me an honest woman?”

“In the end? Definitely.” Bruce walked her outside. It was raining. He opened an umbrella and handed it to her. Charlene took it in her hand and tried to hold it above Bruce’s head, but it didn’t work — he was too tall. He just shrugged at it, smiling at her softly. “Depending on when you’re ready, darling, I’ll propose.”

“‘Darling,’ now? My, my, my, aren’t we affectionate today, Mr. Wayne.” Charlene giggled and poked his arm. “Are you sure you’re okay? It’s not every day you’re calling me pet names and talking like that. In fact, I think the last time you said the words ‘I love you’ was April Thirtieth.”

“The thirtieth wasn’t that long ago,” he frowned. He walked her to one of his antique cars, opening the trunk and putting her suitcase in the back. She took down the umbrella and set it back there, too. “It’s only mid-June. It’s not like I never tell you.”

“Bruce, other couples say it daily,” Charlene smiled. The rain started pouring down harder. It was mussing Bruce’s neatly-combed hair and dripping down his nose. She could feel it soaking her back and coiling her locks. She was sure she looked just as messy as Bruce looked adorable. “I know you don’t need to say it for me to hear it, but it’s still nice.” She paused for a moment, playing with the locket. She knew that just this gift alone was worth a thousand “I love you”s. Then she added, “And rare. Clark thinks we haven’t said it at all.”

“Rare,” he repeated. He opened the car door for her. She slipped into the passenger’s side. “Nice to know. It’s not Clark’s business whether or not I tell you I love you.”

“So what if it’s rare?” she asked with a permanent smile. “It just makes it even better to hear.”

“Are you going to cry when I deliver my wedding vows?” he asked in deadpan. He buckled in, turning the engine. “I have about seven years to prepare them; I’ll make sure to make them as sensitive as possible. The boys can say a line each toward the end of the ceremony.”

“Are we going to have a Jewish wedding?” she asked. “I’ve never been to one.”

“No,” he answered. “Not entirely. My parents were Jewish, but I… I don’t know. I haven’t done anything in regards to faith in years. I think we should just have a small ceremony for the boys and Clark and his parents. The only people who matter. We can blend in some Jewish tradition.”

“I can understand that,” she said quietly. She set her hands in her lap. She could already imagine a ring around her finger. Would it be an older design? Would it be intimate? With meaning behind it? Would it be big? Simple? “I don’t want anything huge, but I don’t want to rush into this. We have forever and a half, Bats.”

“We have longer than that, angel.” He looked behind him and pulled out of the parking lot. “I brought the boys from Gotham. I hope that’s not a big deal.”

“Did you get a hotel room?” Char looked out the window, then watched the wiper blades scrape water off the windshield. They made their way onto the highway in no time at all. “Or are they hanging out in the apartment?”

“A hotel room. I didn’t want to go into the apartment without asking.” He flexed his fingers on the wheel. “Was that an invitation, Miss Park?”

“Mr. Wayne, I am a woman of class,” she teased. She sat up a little. “Of course, you and the boys can stay. We can all sleep in the living room. You, the big, bad billionaire, can lay on the carpet floor next to the common damsel.”

Bruce scoffed. “As if there’s anything common about the woman I’m going to marry. Not everyone can be trusted. Not everyone can handle this life.”

Char shrugged. “We didn’t meet like common people meet.”

“We certainly don’t love like normal people. Kent can’t seem to stop reminding either of us of that fact.” He sighed, cracking his neck. Char wondered how that phone call Clark had talked about a week ago went. “Is he in love with you? Is he worried? Whatever his issue is, I can’t figure it out. It won’t change the fact that you and I are romantically involved.”

“You have a taste for danger,” Charlene answered. She vaguely recalled hearing from Dick that Bruce used to have a relationship with Catwoman. Damian was the product of an affair with an evil mastermind’s daughter. Batman, for the majority of his life, had been married to the cowl. “That’s his issue. You have mass intellect and he has superpowers. He could catch me from the sky, but you can’t. I’m a casualty waiting to happen.” She laughed sadly. “In his mind, I’m not safe with the Batman.” Bruce exhaled slowly to show exactly how much he agreed with that idea.

She could tell it was more than he wanted to admit.

“That’s why I can’t propose yet.” Bruce kept his attention on the road. “I need to make sure that you know how to defend yourself. If something ever happened, you’d at least be able to throw a punch or two. When the need arose, we would be prepared to keep the family safe. Right now, you need constant surveillance; I know what that does to you.”

“Constant surveillance?” she questioned. “Why?” Her heart dropped several levels. Had she been right all along? Was she being duped or manipulated into giving Wayne easier access of keeping an eye on her?

Bruce took a while to answer, creating more and more fear in Char’s mind. Finally, he opened his mouth. “I want you to gather intelligence for the Justice League. Whenever you’re ready, you’ll train with the boys at Wayne Manor. Just say the word, baby.”

“Is… Is this the perspective?” she asked, wary and unsure. She felt her eyes burn and her throat tighten. She didn’t want to ask this, again, but she felt she didn’t have a choice. The last time she asked the question, Bruce had kissed her for the first time. It ended up just being a publicity stunt. “Are you sure you actually want to marry me? That this isn’t just to make sure I don’t accidentally tell the world Bruce Wayne is the Batman?”

Bruce’s knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. “Charlene, how many times do I have to explain myself? If I wanted to keep an eye on you, I wouldn’t be talking about making you my wife. I wouldn’t let you interact with my boys. I wouldn’t be setting up a whole room for you at Wayne Manor. I love you. I have no reason to be picking you up from the airport other than my own desire to make you happy.”

“I know,” she sniffed. “I’m sorry. You were just acting funny. I didn’t know that you actually wanted to stay with me for… for as long as we live.” Charlene took a deep breath to calm herself. Man, did she feel like an idiot. “Bruce, you said you didn’t want to be part of that kind of domesticity two years ago. When did you decide you wanted to marry me?”

“Char, I didn’t need to decide. I still don’t want the picket fence type of life.” Bruce turned to exit the highway. “Our relationship has changed over the last two years. I would be lying saying I didn’t rely on you whatsoever.”

She swallowed. “You need me?”

He didn’t say anything. Yes. His cheeks colored. She let out a breathy, disbelieving laugh.

“I need time to think this all over, Bruce!” she exclaimed, slapping her palm to her forehead. Her pulse accelerated. Her legs felt tingly. “Marry you someday…”

“You don’t feel the same?”

She watched as the city blended into the street instead of Bruce’s unchanging expressions. If she wasn’t careful, he would turn investigator on her. “I had no idea you were so sure about us. It isn’t that I don’t feel the same, baby, I just need time to process this.”

“I understand.” He hummed. “Don’t tell the boys, yet. They might get excited.”

Charlene dropped her hands in her lap. She would be getting stepsons. She would have a husband. She would be a freelance spy. “I’m getting excited. I’m nervous, scared, sad, happy. I don’t know what I’m feeling.”

Bruce pulled into a parking garage. He got out of the car and took her luggage out of the back. “Say you’re going to be sure before you tell me you’re ready to start training.”

Charlene got out of the car, too, taking Bruce by the hand once more. “I will.” She cupped his face. “I will, Bats. Now kiss me.”

°°°

Walking to the hotel room, using his stealthy steps across the hideous patterned carpet, Bruce found himself holding his breath. Dick, Jason, Tim, and Damian were going to blow this out of proportion, make Charlene uncomfortable. He knew he was letting his emotions get the better of him — but then again, how could they not? This was his whole family’s future at stake. This was an opening to expand the family. “Char.”

“Yeah?” she asked. She twisted her head to see him. “You okay?”

“Only tell them about the Justice League. Let’s ease into this.” He was practically pleading. He didn’t answer her question, but she nodded in understanding. Charlene took his hand and kissed the back of it, then dropped it.

“Yes, sir.” She gave him a winning smile. He managed not to sigh out the flood of fuzz that rushed in his soul. He was the Batman. He should be braver than to push Char away.

“Ready?” he asked, smiling gently.

“Ready.”

Wayne took her hand this time. He watched her, studied her. She had a lingering smile she was trying to wipe. She didn’t need to. Charlene was happy. When Char was happy, he was happy. Her hand shook in his; he was nervous, too. Committing to this would change so much. There would be no backing out. Even asking her to be on the same page could have scared her away.

He was quickly realizing he needed to trust Charlene. Whose life was going to be altered after all this? Whose life would never be the same once this process was over or ended? Not his. Not to the extent Charlene’s would be. She would be the first-time parent, not him. She would be the one who knew nothing about business or vigilante work, not him. She would be the one most affected.

She deserved so much from him. He thought he was asking for greater than she could handle; Char was there to prove him wrong again. Again, again, and again.

Bruce put on a big smile, opening the hotel room door. The boys all stood up to greet him, and all spoke over each other at the sight of Charlene: “You’re here!”; “How was the flight?”; “How long are you staying? Alfred’s—”; “We missed you!” They brought the woman into the residence with glee.

He couldn’t be more grateful to the boys. They always did their best to welcome Char and put a smile on her face. They loved her too much for their own good. She loved them, too. Bruce brought her into the room, setting her bags on the queen bed where Damian had left his shoes. The boys were swarming her, hugging her and asking question after question.

“Hey,” Bruce said. “Give her space; we have to talk about something important.”

“What is it, Bruce?” Dick asked.

“Is something wrong, Father?”

Bruce beckoned the kids to the floor where they could all sit. He took Charlene, pulling her next to him. He held her hand. “We’re thinking about making Char part of the Justice League’s informant group. That way, she can see the world from our perspective. We’re hoping…” He trailed off, uncertain of how to finish.

“We’re hoping this can further our relationship and give me a chance to spend more time with you,” Charlene filled in. She smiled, moving under Bruce’s arm. He held her tightly. “We’re not getting married, yet; just thinking about how to make it work.”

Jason was the first to speak up. “So… after Selina and Thalia — sorry, Damian — you’re finally going to settle down?” He grinned. “You’re going to marry Charlene?”

“When it’s the right time,” he said. “Don’t tell Superman.” He chuckled a little at his own joke. At least the boys approved. They deserved to know what was happening. Damian scooted over to sit closer to Charlene, who ruffled his hair.

“Are you going to stay at Wayne Manor?” Dick asked. He folded his hands in his lap. Out of all four of the boys, he copied his mannerisms the most. Secretive, stoic, at times, and would sometimes hum more than speak. The only difference between his mannerisms and the Batman’s was the smile that he allowed to grace his features.

Charlene shook her head. “No; not until we have everything sorted out. It’s probably unusually old school, but it’s what we want.” She smiled up at the Batman. He smiled down. Tim, quietly, went “Oooooh,” but that didn’t stop the small moment of perfection. As suspicious as it seemed, everything was perfect for a little while. A small pocket of happiness he had allowed himself.

Bruce Wayne wasn’t going to be so hard to relate to, anymore.

Damian took his chance to ask a question, practically jumping up and down with excitement. Tim pulled him down on his bottom, which made Dick and Jason laugh. He usually wasn’t so excited. Actually, none of the boys were. “Did you pick out a codename for her, Father?” Damian looked at Charlene. “What will we call her?”

“Nothing.” Bruce shook his head, feeling a bit dissatisfied with himself. This whole situation was unorthodox for him, but that was something he could live with. It wasn’t unlike him to embrace change, but it wasn’t like him either. He had no idea what nonsense the boys would bombard him with once Charlene was gone for the night. He could guess… and his guess told him it wasn’t anything he’d enjoy. “She doesn’t have a codename, yet. As soon as she’s comfortable, I want you boys to start training her to fight.”

“And then what?” Jason asked. He crossed his arms. He leaned forward, looking between the two of them. It was as if he was trying to figure out how soon the relationship would end. After all, the Batman was alone. Selina didn’t work out, Thalia didn’t work out, countless others didn’t even get a chance. Charlene’s odds were stacked against her.

Yet he loved her more than either of those women.

Bruce laced his fingers with Char’s habitually. The domestic affection had only happened behind closed doors, and any kisses or lingering hugs happened within closed doors behind closed doors. She looked up at him with slight surprise when their fingers slid together. “And then we’ll figure things out as we go along.”

Everyone made noises of excitement at that. The night went on in the hotel room, with giggling and laughter and games. Questions were passed back and forth. Food was ordered. Near midnight, Charlene had to go home. She had work the next day, and Wayne’s surprise had been laid in her home. Asking her to join the League hadn’t been the whole package; he and Clark both knew what was waiting for her there. He knew it was a rushed decision — one of his stupidest ideas by far.

Legally, as a billionaire, he could practically do anything for Char. As Batman, he would kill anyone for her — her and the family. She was family, now. He wasn’t going to push her away.

Taking Char home was one of the first times Bruce had felt this nervous in years. There weren’t enough roses or lockets or even words to express how much he cared about her other than that paperwork he had hidden away.

It wasn’t a proposal. She would only have to sign it if she was ready. The rest of the work to make it real would come in time.

“Are you okay?” Char asked as he drove. “Your fingers are turning white on the wheel, Bats.”

“Fine,” he answered with a clipped voice. “Just tired.”

“You never get tired,” she reminded him gently. He could feel her eyes on him but he stared only at the road. Metropolis was easier to drive through, but it only made the impending doom feel even worse. There was no possibility to stall. Not when he was certain.

“I’m fine, angel,” he insisted. They were quiet the rest of the ride, minus the exchange of a kiss and goodbyes when he dropped her off.

Now all he had to do was wait.

After all, he didn’t switch around her schedule for nothing.

°°°

After that worrying ride through the city, Charlene trudged through her door. She looked about the living room, noticing how something was different about her apartment. A few of the pillows had been moved — it was as if they’d been sat on. There was a letter and a gift bag on the table. She set her bag down on the floor. “What on Earth?” she muttered to herself.

Bruce’s metallic scent lingered in the air, but it could have just been from when she sat in his car. She walked past her old dog, rubbing his head and checking his bowl. The pet sitter had fed him, then… and he had been given a new collar. Hmm. That definitely wasn’t the pet sitter. She beckoned him over as she checked out the present on the table.

The letter was the first thing she opened. As Char sank into the couch, she folded it open and quickly read the words. It was a brief description from a lawyer about what… what…

“Legal marriage to Bruce Wayne would entail”?

Her heart stopped. She fished through the gift bag and found a marriage license in a different envelope. A pink glass rose. A small set of glass earrings and an article clipping of the night of the gala. If anyone ever accused Bats of being unromantic, they were seriously, seriously wrong. This wasn’t a proposal — she could see that. He wasn’t asking for this. He wasn’t telling her to try and find out. There was no trying! And along with all that silly stuff, there was a mask and a tag in his script that said, “Dark Angel – Can be changed”.

He just laid it all out for her, knowing this was their future.

With clammy hands and a voice that was barely working, she dialed Bats’ number. It chimed for a few rings, but he eventually picked up. The familiar “Hello?” followed by, “Char?” was so sweet to hear, to let her know it was real…

“I’m signing,” she said. “And I’m keeping the codename.”

#Batman x OC #Batman x reader #Bruce Wayne x OC #Bruce Wayne x reader #gaitwae writes

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whereflowersbloom · 4 years

Note

Do that one we talked about a few weeks ago where Damian wakes up in a different universe after the light swallows them in A.W. If you don't remember, message me. I don't want to give it away..😂

Damian woke up hastily in cold sweat, breath hitched, flushed with adrenaline from a bad dream he can barely remember. Damian immediately knew something was off, his instincts were telling him so, he tried to get over the abnormal feeling that hung over specifically the world. It was an odd feeling, something he wasn’t sure he could describe despite his efforts. In part it was a oppressive heaviness in his body, one he never experienced before. His movements felt just the slightest bit more lethargic, slower as if there was a tiredness about them his brain hadn’t processed. There was also this mysterious fogginess clouding his memories. As if there was something he should know but didn’t. And it was driving him mad trying to figure out what it was. There was still adrenaline running through him, building up tension in his muscles. What the hell happened to him? Did he act irresponsibly and get wounded during a mission? That was highly improbable. He inspected his body for a sign of any injury or lesion but he found nothing. Everything seemed to be in order and yet he felt something was missing, he forced his mind to look back on the last event his brain registered. Vague and wild recollections from a bloody and devastating battle flashed through his head. His teammates Jaime, Garfield, Donna, everyone else killed mercilessly. Body parts widely scattered all over the ground. Grotesque and decayed, charred and deformed corpses everywhere he looked. Nightwing. Richard sacrificed himself for him. His brother protected him to the last minute. There was a name on the tip of his tongue, the one who caused this horrifying catastrophe.

“Darkseid.” He gasped painfully for air, how long it took to calm his heart for it kept jumping up and speeding when he lost himself in the obscure and cruel memories of what he wished was a dream. A nightmare. It had to be a nightmare. What about Raven and his father? His head was throbbing, a pulsing sensation squeezing both sides of his head. A sudden wave of nause hit him. This was not the time to lose control. He had to remain calm and focus.

He sits up slowly, looking around, deciding to study his surroundings first. The lights are turned off but he can see amid the darkness of the doom. He's never really been the type to hang up personal photos, so no surprise there. Nice textured wallpaper on the walls and delicate expensive furniture from the 18th century. Exquisite renaissance paintings. This was his own bedroom in Wayne manor. He cursed in his mother tongue. Why in the seven hells he was in Gotham and not the Titans tower? What the fuck happened?

He made his way downstairs, heading towards the kitchen where he found a young man sitting in the kitchen table with a mug of black coffee between his hands. Damian didn’t recognize the young man, he calculated probably two or three years older than him, long locks of black hair covering part of his face. The outsider seemed too comfortable as if he belonged here somehow. There was something about him, Damian couldn’t identify what exactly, but he didn’t like this young man one bit. His eyes turned to Alfred who was standing nearby, getting a pan with freshly baked blueberry muffins out of the oven. Pennyworth places the muffins on the kitchen table exactly in the center and finally noticed his presence in the room.

“Good morning, Master Damian.” Alfred greeted him as he gave him a polite smile and moved instantly, preparing a bowl with oatmeal and juicy fruit for him. Alfred didn’t forget what he craved in the morning, even without him telling so. Damian gave him a small nod in acknowledgment. Everything appeared to be in order with Alfred at least. He was still wary of the stranger though.

The guest didn’t blink or react to his presence yet, completely engrossed on the tablet he was holding, sipping his black coffee, the plate with food in front of him untouched. “Pennyworth, would you mind telling me who’s this outsider invading the kitchen?” Damian asked sharply, he was not in the mood for pleasantries. He had numerous questions and he needed immediate answers.

“Well, good morning to you as well, Demon spawn.” Tim scoffed as he rolled his eyes and went back to his tablet, this caused Damian to glare daggers at him. Did he just call him demon spawn? He saw Pennyworth raise his grey eyebrow at him wondering if he was serious about the question or this was simply another ridiculous attempt to provoke Master Timothy. “Of course, it’s master Timothy.” Alfred replied as if that sentence logically explained the unwelcome company of this foul-mouthed intruder. He saw how Alfred changed Tim’s coffee with orange juice, before the man could react and take it.

This is a sneak peek 🙈🙈🙈🙈🔥🔥

@alerialblu

#damirae #demon birds #damian wayne #raven roth #bruce wayne #dick grayson #teen titans #sneak peek #robrae #alternative universe #tim drake #alfred pennyworth #batfamily #flashpoint

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perperam · 3 years

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What if six Batman characters have existed in any Marvel Universe all his lives and it's vice versa with six Captain America chars in any DC Universe? What if they ALWAYS (I repeat; ALWAYS) lived in each others' universes and it didn't happen because of a Crisis/Secret Wars event?

Also, what would have if their families (Bruce Wayne's parents for example) existed in each other universes too?

Note: The eighteen chars I'm mentioning here are...Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jim Gordon, Alfred Pennyworth, Joe Chill, Joker, Steve, Bucky, Josef Reinstein, Sgt. Duffy, Heinz Kruger and Red Skull.

And in case you might ask, no, this isn't a scenario where these characters will in a tournament match or whatever. Or a scenario where the chars are accidentally transported to each others' universe either. Let alone have anything to do with Steve Rogers being Batman in one universe and Bruce Wayne being Captain America in another. These are characters who have ALWAYS BEEN in each others' universes the entire time in this AU scenario.

okay so I can't tell if this is an actual genuine question or like a shitpost bot question but I don't know enough about marvel to really feel like I can answer this properly but my roommate read this and said they should have contracted turns like

bruce: "oh for fuck's sake steve, yall, it's ur turn for this alien shit we covered the city last week"

I’ll try to think about this a little more after I do some research tomorrow and actually can think proper thoughts, but until then I hope my roommate’s answer is sufficient kfhdkjfh

#dc #marvel #dcu #mryanswers

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dorrifuto · 3 months

Text

Vampire!Damian with his new Robin uniform

DC vs. Vampires has been in my head the past few days

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gothamincarnate · 4 years

Text

[ in order of most-least active ]

while these muses mostly exist in the Incarnate verse, there’s no real difference in chronology or main story arcs so don’t feel like you need to make a whole au to match. BUT if you wanted i’m more than happy to help you develop one :3c

BRUCE WAYNE/THE BAT

JASON TODD/ROBIN/REDBREAST

JEANNIE NAPIER/CHAR

JANICE NAPIER

THOMAS WAYNE

SHEILA HEYWOOD

ALFRED PENNYWORTH

#muse list.

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get-your-fics · 5 years

Text

Violent Delights - Chapter Six

The Path the Blade Follows

Summary: Bruce Wayne is addicted to a lot of things to distract from his dark urges, but his addiction to you might only increase them.

Pairing: dark!Bruce Wayne x reader

Series warnings: Violence, language, smut, rape/non-con, stalking, kidnapping, underage drinking, drug use, torture, abuse

CHAPTER FIVE

When I came to, I was laying on a hard, cold, stone slab. I sat up, my whole body aching. I slowly blinked, clearing my blurry vision to take in my surroundings. I was in a dark, damp network of underground caves lit up by candles lining the walls. Water ran down the side of wrought iron gates sealing off some of the archways and trickled to the ground.

“Bruce...”

My head snapped to identify the source of the voice. Ra’s al Ghul turned the corner and stood at the edge of a hallway. He stalked towards me with a curved dagger in his hand, the silver steel edge glinting in the dim light. I hopped off of the slab and readied myself to fight. “Where am I?”

“Beneath Blackgate Penitentiary. Alfred Pennyworth and Jim Gordon are upstairs.” He glanced at the ceiling for a second before focusing his attention back on me. “In the company, unbeknownst to them, of my men.”

I drew my thick brows together. “Let them go. They have nothing to do with this.”

“Still playing the white knight, Bruce?” He smirked at me like a crocodile barring its teeth before eating a meal.

My eyes widened as realization hit me. “You replaced the guards before I got here.”

“I’m sure your friends can fend for themselves.” His tone was patronizing.

“You applied for diplomatic immunity, knowing I’d hear about it and come for you.”

“I wanted the knife, but nor for the reason you think.” He looked down at the blade in his hand with admiration. “It’s been ages since I first held this dagger. It was given to me moments after I was bathed in the Lazarus Pit.” He turned away from me and held his hand out under a stream of water dripping from the ceiling. “Submerged in the waters, suspended between life and death.” He stared at the dirty water filling his palm, mesmerized. “I saw a vision of you, my heir.”

“You’re insane,” I spat. “I’m not your heir. I don’t even understand what that means.”

He faced me, and before I knew what was happening, he grabbed my clenched fist. “It means that you are the only one who can end my suffering.” He forced the handle of the blade into my hand. He stared at me with desperation in his eyes. “Please.”

I furrowed my thick brows. “You want me to kill you?”

He let go of my hands, leaving me to hold the blade. “Set me free.” I lowered my gaze to inspect the dagger in my grip. It felt heavy, like it was weighing me down and dragging me to the center of the Earth. “This may be hard for you to understand, but I have walked this Earth for centuries waiting for you, Bruce. Only you can kill me, and only with that dagger. That is my curse. That is the meaning of my vision.”

I lifted my head to glare at him. “I don’t believe you.”

He walked closer to me. “Believe me.”

“This is just another manipulation.” I clenched my jaw.

He drew his brows together, and my skin crawled under his intense gaze. He looked like a predator stalking its prey, and I wasn’t sure if he was about to devour me or not. “See. Look.”

He gestured down to a dip in the stone floor where a puddle of grimy water was gathering. On the surface, I could see his reflection, but it wasn't him. He still had all the same features, but ashy, gray skin was pulled taut over his bones. His face was creased with deep wrinkles and lined with purple veins. His hair stuck up in gray, wiry tufts on his head. His eyes were dull with deep, shadowed circles around the sockets. He looked like a ghastly wraith, but instead of being intimidated, I couldn’t feel anything but pity for him. He looked tired and sorrowful, like he just wanted to lie down, fall asleep, and never wake up.

“My true form,” he mused. “Every moment of my life is agony.” He looked back up at me. “End my suffering.”

I let out a shaky breath. “Whatever your curse is, you deserve it for what you’ve done,” I seethed through gritted teeth.

“You’re angry, Bruce. I understand.” His tone was almost placating. “But unless you strike me down with that blade, you will never be free.”

“No!” I cut him off, shaking my head. “I won’t.” I turned my back on him and walked away. An uncomfortable silence settled over the room, and I could feel the pressure mounting.

“Then allow me to tell you what will happen if you don’t kill me.” His voice sliced through the tension like the blade in my hand. “I will disappear and let you live your life. You will follow the path of light, grow into a fine man, become a husband, a father. There may be a day when you forget I ever existed.”

I felt a single tear leak out of the corner of my eye and roll down my cheek. It dripped off my chin and landed on the floor with a satisfying drop.

“But then, I will return.” His tone darkened and turned sinister. He crept closer to me, and I could hear the sound of his footsteps click against the floor. “And I will kill everyone you love. Just as you watched your parents die, just as you watched me slice your friend’s throat, I will slaughter your wife and children before your very eyes, and there will be nothing you can do about it,” he hissed directly into my ear.

Rage surged within me, and I spun around. I stabbed the blade firmly in his chest; the feeling as it sunk into his flesh was unforgettable. His eyes bulged, nearly popping out of his skull, and he let out an airy groan. “Die!” I growled and shoved the blade in deeper. His painful howls increased in volume and echoed off of the stone walls, piercing my ears.

I finally pulled the blade out. Its silver surface was stained with his dark, inky blood, but his shirt was spotless. He ripped open his shirt and revealed the concavity where I had stabbed him, but there was no blood. Instead, there was a fiery, burning ember exploding in the hole in his chest. His skin paled, and black liquid ran through his protruding veins, making them look like bolts of lightning. A wave of ash stemmed from the wound and ate up his flesh, singeing it until it resembled char.

He collapsed and leaned back against the stone slab in the middle. “Yes,” he sighed.

My whole body trembled as I watched his eyes sink into his sockets and glaze over with lifelessness. His skin shriveled until he was merely a sack of bones. He was completely unrecognizable from the man he had been a few moments before. He looked like he had been a dead, decaying corpse for centuries.

I heard footsteps behind me, and I whirled around to see Alfred and Jim Gordon standing in the archway, guns drawn. They lowered their guns when they saw me. Their gazes drifted down to Ra’s, and their eyes widened when they saw him, or what was left of him. My cheeks felt wet; I hadn’t even realized I had been crying. The blade slipped from my grip and fell to the ground with a reverberating clang.

I wonder what it would be like, if I hadn’t have killed him. I wonder what would’ve happened if I had met you and didn’t have blood staining my hands. Maybe I wouldn’t have hurt you; maybe he would’ve instead. Alfred always thought that the reason I turned to the partying and the drugs and the drinks and the girls was because I felt guilty for killing Ra’s, but that wasn’t true.

It was because I had enjoyed it.

“Bruce! Bruce, wake up!”

I jolted awake in my bed. My body was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, the white sheets and my mess of dark curls sticking to me. My chest heaved up and down at a rapid pace, and I turned my head to see Grace sitting up in bed next to me. She held the sheets close around her bare body.

“Are you all right?” She leaned forward and caressed my cheek. “You were screaming in your sleep. Did you have a nightmare?”

“I’m fine,” I wheezed, swatting her hand away. I was shaking, and I hugged my knees to my chest. “You’re still here.”

She furrowed her brow. “Yeah, of course.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

My breathing started to slow. “I don’t know. I thought you would be mad at me for last night or something,” I mumbled.

Her gaze lowered to the covers. “Oh, yeah. That.” She scratched her arm nervously. “Well, I know you’re going through a tough time right now. I want you to know I’m here for you.” She smiled and rested a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I ran my hands down my face. “God, I don’t want your pity.” I shrugged her hand off of me. “You’re not Mother Teresa, Grace. You’re just some horny chick who thinks she can chain me to her. You can’t help me, or fix me, or whatever the fuck you think you’re trying to do.”

Her expression contorted. “What?”

“I mean, how desperate can you be?” I laughed. “Did you really think I was gonna want to take you out to dinner and a movie just because I fucked you a few times?”

Her jaw hung so low, I thought it would hit the floor. “God, you are such an asshole, Bruce.” She narrowed her eyes at me. “You push away anyone who gives a single fuck about you.”

“Yeah, whatever. Just get the fuck out before I have to drag you out.” I gestured vaguely to the door before swinging my legs over the side of the bed away from her.

I held onto the edge of the bed, my shoulders square and my back tense. She didn’t say anything else, just gathered her clothes and cursed under her breath. I heard the door swing open and slam shut with a resounding bang. Then, I was all alone.

Now I was having night terrors even with someone else in bed with me. The darkness was growing stronger. None of my usual behaviors could quell this insatiable hunger inside of me anymore. I needed to do something, something to stop the consumption before it ate me alive and transformed me into a hollow shell of the person I once was.

I needed to make a sacrifice, and I knew just the perfect candidate.

I followed Brant Jones from his townhouse uptown all over Gotham City. Unlike you, he didn't do much. He went to a few lunches or to the mall here or there, but besides that, he mainly stayed at his home. He didn’t do anything interesting until one night, his town car pulled up in front of an old bar. I parked down the street in my classic, black Cadillac. In this instance, I didn’t think I could pay my chauffeur enough to keep his mouth shut.

I followed Brant into the bar, the hood of my leather jacket pulled up so it cast shadows over my face. However, it was so dark, it was hard to see anything anyway. The main staple was a giant, oak bar along one side of the room with a glittery neon sign above it. On the other wall were stuffy, tufted booths made out of red leather. The bar was packed. All of the stools were taken by people waiting to get their drinks, leaving everyone else to stand, and a large crowd occupied the booth in the back corner.

Brant headed straight for that booth, tugging on the lapels of his navy blazer and running a hand over his slicked back, brown hair. “Hey, guys!” He beamed, revealing two rows of bleached white teeth.

He was greeted with a series of “Hey, Brant”s in return. Several people in the group came over and hugged him. One of the stools opened up, and I immediately slid into it. I had a perfect view of everything that was going on at the booth, but it was hard to hear what they were saying over the chatter and the jazz music drifting out of the speakers.

“Happy birthday, man!” Brant shouted and wrapped his arms around a rather tall boy that I didn’t know. He patted him on the back, and when they pulled away, he produced a small box wrapped in paper out of his blazer. I assumed this was a birthday celebration of some kind.

The group sat down in the booth, and he took his place next to a girl I recognized as Emma Hsueh. She also used to attend Anders Prep with me, Tommy, and Grace. She and Brant smiled at each other before he slung an arm around her. It was done so casually, but I raised an eyebrow nonetheless.

They drank and talked for a while before they started opening presents. Brant got the birthday boy an expensive-looking Rolex, of course. Then, they drank and talked some more until the birthday boy footed the bill. I followed them as they spilled out of the booth and onto the sidewalk, mostly in pairs. I observed Brant as he walked out of the bar, his fingers covertly intertwined with Emma’s. Everyone departed from one other, each town car that pulled up to the curb a carbon copy of the other.

When no one was looking, Brant tugged on Emma’s hand and pulled her into a nearby alley. I chased after them and pressed myself against the brick wall of the bar. I leaned back and kicked one foot up on the wall so that if anyone walked by me, it wouldn’t look like I was eavesdropping on their conversation.

“Are you sure you can’t come over tonight?” I heard Emma ask in her whiny, high-pitched voice.

“No, I have something I gotta do,” came Brant’s reply. “But I’ll see you tomorrow, ‘kay, babe?”

“Okay.”

They went quiet, and I leaned in a little closer, my ears straining to hear what they were doing. Then, I heard it: the small, telltale sound of lips against lips.

He was cheating on you.

As if he wasn’t already bad enough, he had the audacity to cheat on you, and why? Because you had been a little busy lately? Because you couldn’t spend every waking second by his side since you were raising money for people in need? How selfish could he possibly be? I would never do something like that to you. Hell, I could hardly bring myself to touch Grace, and you weren’t even mine yet. You would be more than enough to satisfy me.

Emma walked out of the alley, and I lowered my head as she passed me. I pushed myself off of the wall and turned into the alley just as Brant was walking out. My chest bumped into his, and I stumbled back slightly. He lifted his head to make direct eye contact with me, his eyes widening.

“Brant?” I pulled my hood down and forced a smile on my face. “I thought that was you in there, but I didn’t want to interrupt whatever you guys were doing.”

“Oh, hey, Bruce.” He avoided my gaze. “Yeah, we were just celebrating a friend’s birthday.”

“Nice.” I nodded and shoved my hands in the pockets of my jacket. “What are you up to these days?”

“Nothing much.” He cleared his throat. “Bruce, I just want to clear the air. I know I was a total jerk to you the last time we spoke, and I’m not that person anymore. So, I just want to say I’m sorry. No hard feelings?”

Not the same person? Right, ‘cause you weren’t a total jerk for cheating on your girlfriend just now with someone completely inferior. “Of course. No hard feelings.” The frozen smile on my face didn’t reach my eyes.

His smile was genuine. “Great.” He looked over my shoulder. “Well, it’s getting late. I should probably go.”

He tried to sidestep me, but I blocked his path. “Why not stay a little while? We can catch up.” I tilted my head to the side. “We can talk about how you’re cheating on (Y/N) (Y/L/N) with Emma Hsueh.”

His eyes widened to the size of saucers. “Cheating on (Y/N)?” He shook his head, a slight laugh escaping his lips. “Bruce, it’s not what you think.”

“Oh, save it.” I moved forward, forcing him to back up further into the alley. “I was watching you two in there, being all lovey dovey under everyone’s noses. You thought no one would see you, but I saw you. I saw everything.”

“You were watching me?” He furrowed his brows. “Have you been stalking me?”

“Don’t try to turn this on me.” I jabbed a finger into his chest. “You’re the one cheating on your girlfriend when not too long ago you told her you love her.” My whole body was shaking. Adrenaline pumped through my veins, and my heart was beating so hard in my chest, I felt like it was going to burst. “You don’t love her like I do, and you’re never going to love her. Never again.” “Bruce, what... what are you doing?” he stammered. “You’re scaring me.” His pupils were blown out with fear, his irises mere rims around them. I smiled, for real this time. “Good.”

I took the switch knife out of my pocket and flicked it open. Before he could react, I clamped a gloved hand over his mouth and sunk it into his gut. He screamed into my hand, and I pulled the knife out only to shove it back in. I gritted my teeth as I stabbed him a few more times. I saw red as I plunged the blade into him, relishing in the noise the knife made as it sliced through his flesh.

I finally pulled it out, and vibrant, red blood dripped off of the edge and dotted the concrete ground. I looked down at his stomach; the fabric of his shirt was completely soaked in dark blood. I removed my hand from his mouth. His lips parted, but he was in so much pain that no sound came out. His knees buckled, and he crumpled to the ground in a pool of his own blood. His skin paled, and I watched the life fade from his eyes as red liquid bubbled from his lips. I would’ve spat on his corpse if it didn’t mean the cops could tie me to the crime.

I flipped the blade back in and tucked it into my pocket. I bent down and took his wallet out of his blazer. I would toss it in a dumpster a couple of blocks away. I didn’t bother to move the body; I just left it there. I pulled my hood back up and walked out of the alley. Someone would probably discover it in the morning, and by then, it would be too late to connect me to anything.

My only regret is that I didn’t made him suffer longer.

CHAPTER SEVEN

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