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empress-simps · 8 months ago

Note

hi po, pleaseeee do a harry x filipina!reader fic bc i am so deprived of writing like that

Hi darling! Thank you for your request🥰I’ve wanted to write something about a reader being filipina but I haven’t really got anything in mind yet. I made this more of like snippets/head canon type? I just think it’ll really highlight the filipina! Reader better. I hope you don’t mind, Enjoy! (It’s a bit crack-ish hihi)

Harry Potter with a Filipina! Reader

“My gosh, ang lamig dito.” (it’s so cold here)

You shivered, walking towards the great hall with your fellow Filipino students, staring at the interior and overall admiring the place. It was completely different from the Philippine Wizarding School, from the uniforms, infrastructure, ambience, and down to the weather. The uniform you had did little to protect you from the harsh air of the Highlands of Scotland.

You were sent by your school from the Philippines to Hogwarts to be a part of an exchange student program for a year. Hogwarts also sent selected students to the Philippine Wizarding School to learn different techniques in spell casting, potion making, and how the different the countries are in terms of culture.

Scanning the great hall, you saw a bunch of students with curious glances, you felt yourself get a bit self-conscious. “Beh, look!” Your friend whispered to your ear, tugging your uniform before pointing in a certain direction with her lips discreetly.

“Ay shet, ang gwapo.” (Oh shit, he’s handsome)

You blushed as your eyes wandered in the Gryffindor table, looking at an oblivious Harry who was talking to Ron and Hermione. Glaring at your friend playfully, you pinched her side, making her wince. “Aray!” (Ouch!)

Hermione was sent to be your guide in your first day and luck seemed to be on your side as Harry tagged along with her to help

“Hello, my name is Hermione! Professor Mcgonagall assigned me to tour you around Hogwarts.” She smiles, holding out her hand. You took it and shakes her hand. “Nice to meet you, Hermione. I’m Y/n.”

“I hope you don’t mind, but my friend was insisting to come along with me.” She had a knowing smile on her face as she points to Harry beside her. You felt your cheeks heat up, it was the guy earlier. “Ah it’s no problem.” You smiled at him.

“I’m Harry.” He held out his hand, you took it, beaming at him. “Hi Harry, I’m Y/n. Nice to meet you.”

Harry wouldn’t admit it, but Ron and Hermione know he developed a small crush on you as time went by.

It took Harry several months (much to Hermione and Ron’s dismay) to ask you out on a date.

“Y/n! Wait!” Harry ran, as he tried to catch up with you as your friend chats with you, walking to the great hall to grab lunch. Both of you turned, “Uy, Harry!” You smiled as your friend shot you a teasing smile.

“Would you like to go to Hogsmeade with me this weekend?” Excuse me? Did you hear that right? “Like, as a date?” The words fell out of your lips before you can even stop it, making your friend snort. “Ang landi, ha.”

Harry blushed, scratching the back of his neck as he looked away. “Y-yeah…”

“Of course, I’d love to.”

Harry was the one who confessed he likes you first. Of course you were happy but if he wants to be with you, he has to do it the Filipino way.

After a month of dates, he decided to confess his feelings to you.

“Y/n, gusto kita.” He blurts out on a random study date you guys are having. Your eyes widened as you blushed. Harry, speaking tagalog? Since when?

“H-how…?”

“You could say that I’ve been secretly practicing…” He chuckles nervously, your heart filled with warmth.

“Gusto rin kita, Harry.” She grins, seeing his eyes light up. It was definitely worth it talking to other Filipino students to practice his pronunciation when he saw the look on your face.

“But you need to court me first. It’s a Filipino thing.” You giggled, seeing confusion wash over his face.

When you go back to Philippines for a vacation, best believe he will tag along with you.

Your parents love him, and he quickly became part of the family.

“Aba, so handsome naman! Come inside, anak!” Your mom ushered him inside your house as your dad carried both of your luggage. Shaking your head, you laughed at Harry’s reaction.

You mostly spent your vacation touring with him around your province, taking him to beaches, making him ride a jeep, trycicle, and playing with your little cousins.

Your uncles also made him sing on the karaoke, and he was shocked when all your family are great singers. (Harry wouldn’t like to sing in front of your family again thank you very much)

Your family will dote on him, making him try various filipino foods and making him tons of what he liked.

“Harry, anak! Come here, try this! It’s called chicken adobo.” Your mom beckons him over in the kitchen, wanting him to try what she cooked. Since Harry isn’t used to the hot climate of the Philippines, you can always see him sporting a white sando and shorts, a handheld mini electric fan always in his hand, his hair a bit messy, and cheeks quite rosy due to the heat.

Safe to say adobo, sinigang, and lumpia quickly became his favorites. He will beg you to make them when you’re back in Hogwarts, since you decided to transfer. They also managed to convince him to try balut and dinuguan (although that will be the first and last)

You made him try some Filipino snacks too like Piattos, Clover, Pancit Canton (his favorite), Chicharron, as well as kikiam, fish ball, and tokneneng. Harry bought a bunch of snacks for your friends to try when you get back to Hogwarts.

Blushes when you call him nicknames like gwapo/pogi/mahal

“Pssst! Pogi!” You whisper, trying to catch his attention during a class, Harry blushed as he turns to you. “Ano nanaman?” (What is it again?) He rolls his eyes playfully, trying not to show you the effect you had on him.

“What’s the answer for number 5?”

“Amortentia Potion, may kiss ako maya ha?” He grins cheekily. (I get a kiss later, okay?)

“Sige na nga.” (Fine)

Both of you were hit in the head by Professor Snape.

He learns Filipino just for you; but most of his knowledge are just from hearing you swear.

“Mahal, why do you always say Put-“

“Harry, no-“

Will be absolutely floored when you hand Malfoy his ass back to him.

“Dami mong alam, Malfoy!” (You know a lot, Malfoy)” You scoffed, Draco was being a git to Harry again. Draco raised a brow in surprise.

“Huh?”

“Hatdog.” (Hot Dog (filipino inside joke ig))

He frowns, face turning red. “You making fun of me, L/n? Speaking gibberish again, I bet.” He tries to make fun of you, awaiting your reaction.

“Tanga tanga ka kasi kaya ‘di mo alam.” (You’re dumb that’s why you don’t know (it))

Draco was about to hex you, but you were faster.

Ron gawked as you punched Draco, other Filipinos who transferred hyping you up. “Eyyyy! Y/n lang malakas!”

"Merlin, I'm so glad she's in our side." Ron blanched,Harry visibly winced as you landed a solid punch. You scoffed, seeing him and his goons run away before turning to others.

“Why do you even tolerate his poor excuse of bullying?” She frowns, looking at Harry.

“You guys won’t survive Philippine schools.” “Just what exactly happens when there’s a fight in your school?”

“You don’t wanna know.”

#harry potter headcanon #harry potter #harry potter x reader #harry potter x y/n #harry potter x filipina reader #hermione granger #ron weasley #draco malfoy

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neutron-stars-collision · 1 year ago

Text

Waiting for the Night

Bruce Wayne x F!Reader

Chapter 20 - In the glow of the moon

Chapter 19; Masterlist Summary: Some conversations cannot be avoided. Especially when it is Bruce, who becomes impatient... Warnings: Swearing; angst. Too much talking. Author's Notes: Alas, we've made it. This is where the story ends *sniffles*. While I've got a short epilogue in mind, it's going to be more of a post scriptum, so I'm treating this as the conclusion to the journey. And what a journey it had been! 🥺 It only took me a year and a half to finish the series, but I'm so glad I did. Those idiots did not make it easy, but I'll sure miss them. This chapter is a long overdue punchline some of you had been waiting for. I hope it meets your expectations. Thank you for reading, waiting and supporting me in the very rocky process. You all made it much easier to convince my brain it was worth continuing 💕 And thank you, Shet, for dealing with my whining, doubts and endless drama - always grateful for you! Hope you all enjoy and let me know what you think? Tag list: @thecraziestcrayon, @kookiewastolen, @imimsy, @tuskens-mando, @sugarcoated-lame, @blue-aconite, @hypnoash, @rabbitdictionary, @nicklet94, @mcrmarvelloki, @shimmeringgrim, @ttae-yong, @freyadruid, @siriuslydestiny, @ms-dont-care, @raphaelaisabella, @itsmytimetoodream, @brightjimini, @castellandiangelo, @grunge-n-roses5 (let me know if you wanted to be removed/added).

(gif credit: @1038276637)

In the morning, you dared believe the universe must have a soft spot for you within its core. As soon as your eyes opened, your gaze noted two things. One, Bruce was gone. Two, there was a note with his handwriting on your bedside table.

Without letting your mind run away with the first fact, undoubtedly working itself into a spiral like no other you rolled over to pick up the page. The contents were simple: “Sorry I’m gone. The hospital called to say Alfred had been signed out, so I went to pick him up. See you soon.”

The spark of relief drowned out everything else as you dropped the paper onto the covers and smiled at the ceiling. Everything was still fucked. But this was something. Something that could take your mind off the reality. It was easy to admit that one thought. You missed Alfred. Missed his clever blue-grey eyes that saw through your bullshit. Maybe it was what you needed… Maybe.

The thought was a motivator to drag you out of bed and into the closet, absentmindedly searching for anything you could wear. The first proper wake-up of the morning came when you entered the ensuite and found yourself facing the mirror. Finding mussed hair and a red bruise on your neck. A few more below, scattered like flares across your body. Drawing attention to what happened. Making it impossible for you to deny it, even before yourself. A wave of shame rolled in your stomach, erasing the budding hunger. You turned your head the other way and never looked back until you were ready to leave the bathroom.

It was cold enough for a turtleneck, anyway.

The distraction kicked in as soon as you made your way downstairs. A chorus of voices could be heard coming from the kitchen. A sound you had not heard in the tower since the explosion. A quiet sigh of relief was all the noise you made as you headed into the room. Eager to see what was going on. Having reached the doorway, you peered inside. Bruce was the first one you saw, leaning against the kitchen counter with a timid yet bright smile. He seemed happy. Lighter than when you had first met him.

Another dangerous thought you did not want to entertain. Your gaze slipped over Bruce to settle on Alfred. He was leaning heavily on his cane, but no bandages were in sight anymore. Only a fading yellowish bruise and darker circles underneath his eyes. Dory was talking with him animatedly, her hands gesticulating broadly. A grin broke out on your face as you stepped through the threshold, immediately drawing attention to your arrival. All three pairs of eyes landed on you. Without meaning to, you met Bruce’s gaze first. The look in his eyes shifted, but his face was still open. As if he was happy to see you. Even after the previous night. You never had the time to pull that revelation apart.

“Glad to see you join us, darling” Alfred crossed the remaining space towards you with a bright smile.

Affection filled the caverns of your heart, making it impossible to get rid of that one feeling. The one that reminded you that you had not felt this welcomed anywhere in a very long time. That this, the three of them, almost felt like the home you had lost twenty years ago. You swallowed past the lump in your throat to reply, a cheeky smile masking the emotions tearing through your chest:

“Pardon me, I didn’t know we’ll be having a kitchen party” an answering scoff from Bruce was enough of a validation for the weak joke, “It’s good to see you back, Alfred” you met the butler’s gaze with a fond look of your own, not hiding just how much you had meant it.

You knew he understood, instantly adjusting his stance to open his arms and invite you in for a hug with a quiet croon:

“Oh, c’mere,” you did not need to be asked twice, returning the embrace with care, mindful of his lingering frailty.

But Alfred’s hug was everything but frail, instantly making you sink into the comforting touch you did not know you had missed. After a beat, aware of the company and the prolonged silence, you pulled back, squeezing his arms one last time. Over Pennyworth’s shoulder, you caught Bruce’s gaze again. The softness in his eyes was replaced with something more tender. Almost as if seeing you close to Alfred meant much more to him than he could say. You sent him a small smile as the butler spoke again:

“I see my boy at least had the decency to invite you to stay for longer” the older man threw a pointed look over his shoulder at Bruce before setting his piercing gaze back on you.

You did wonder whether the blush on your cheeks was as telling as you worried it might be. Because there was no escape from it.

“Of course, I-” Bruce’s offended rebuttal was never meant to be heard.

Only because you feared what he might say and whether you could mitigate the effects without the scene dissolving into chaos. You threw Bruce an apologetic smile and interrupted him with faux chirpiness:

“He did. At least until everything settles down in the city,” the apologetic note was not easily eradicated from your voice.

Because no matter what, you still felt like perhaps you were a nuisance to them. Like maybe you should have disappeared a long time ago and never bothered them again. But then Bruce was the one to ask… And the previous night, he seemed happy with you staying… You barely resisted shaking your head against the barrage of thoughts as Alfred remarked:

“Well, we’re certainly not short on space” he glanced at Dory as if awaiting her approval.

You followed his gaze only to see the older woman smile at you warmly. Giving her blessing with your favourite question of the morning:

“Coffee?” she raised the mug to accentuate the gesture.

“From you? Always” there was no need to think as you flashed her your brightest grin and joined the woman by the counter.

Perhaps it was alright for you to stay. Just a little longer.

***

The illusion of peace lasted approximately 32 hours and 27 minutes. It shattered in the afternoon of the second day of Alfred’s return as Dory left the dining room table, leaving you alone with the older man. As if he had been waiting for the occasion to arise, Pennyworth instantly settled his heavy gaze on your face. You got as far as awkwardly clearing your throat before he launched the first question:

“How are you doing?” you knew the nonchalance in his tone was only a means of keeping you calm.

And making you stay at the table, despite the alarm bells in your head urging you to run away. Because hell knew Alfred was damn good at seeing through your bullshit. Unfortunately.

“I’m good,” you pasted what you hoped was a convincing smile.

Hoping it would be enough to deter him. Foolishly.

Alfred leaned forward, putting more weight onto his forearms as he levelled you with another long look:

“Are you?” your heart stumbled in your chest as if begging to say: No, I’m not; he paused, seemingly to find the right words before driving another striking blow, “Because it took me a little over a day to see that things are not exactly easy between you” you could see the tactful turn.

The exact moment when Alfred noticed he needed to be gentle with you. When he saw your fragility and discovered the cause without you needing to say it aloud. That need to run and hide only grew stronger.

“Well… we get on just fine” you shrugged, aware that it was a futile attempt on your side.

It wasn’t a lie. Even after that night, things were fine. As in, Bruce talked to you, still shared his work updates, and checked in on you throughout the day. But he kept his distance. And you tried your best not to dwell on the fact fearing the heartbreak that would follow if you did.

“I know that you do,” compassion in Alfred’s eyes told you he noticed it too, “But I also know Bruce. And I can see that he’s desperately trying to fix something, but he doesn’t know where to start” the hint of hurt in his face was enough to crack your heart.

It was one thing to know you had been hurting Bruce. Another to hear it from someone else. Someone who knew him more than you. A wave of shame threatened to drown you as you gasped quietly and trained your gaze on the table. A lone tear slipped from the corner of your eye and dropped onto the cloth. There would be no more pretending.

“What do you want me to say?” the hysterical note crept into your voice as you heard yourself spill confessions you never dared put into words, “I’m scared, Alfred. Always had been. Because there are feelings that I can’t get rid of no matter what I do” more tears rolled down your cheeks as the desperation you had tried stifling reared its head “I don’t want to hurt him, but…” you trailed off, your voice breaking under the weight of emotions.

But that was it. The truth was spoken for the first time and somehow more terrifying. You knew how it sounded. How utterly pathetic it was to be afraid of the thing many were willing to die for. But you could not help it.

“You’re also hurting yourself, though” Alfred’s gentle statement was enough to make you look up.

You fixed your red-rimmed eyes on his face, resisting the sudden urge to scoff. He was right, but that did not change anything. After twenty years of hurting, what was some more? An eternity? Easy. Much easier than whatever was going on right now.

“That’s inevitable” you could only shrug, staring at him blankly.

Because that’s just the thing. It’s inevitable. There is no outcome where you could have this and walk away unscathed. No such variant of the reality.

From the disbelief on Alfred’s face, you knew he disagreed.

“What if it doesn’t have to be like that?” you opened your mouth to protest, but he did not let you speak just yet, “What if you could have everything you wanted and be happy?” the conviction in his eyes was something you wished you could share.

But you couldn’t. It sounded like a fable, a tale too good to be true. It sounded like your childhood before.

“I don’t think that’s possible” you levelled him with a resigned look and brushed the drying tears from your cheeks.

Suddenly you wanted nothing more than to burrow underneath the covers and disappear from the world until the morning. Only Alfred had one more thing to say…

“I beg to differ” with his tone urging you to listen, you fell quiet as he continued, “I can’t tell you what to do or think, but… You make him happy” his gaze softened as your heart panged, barely able to sit idly for much longer, “And I know that’s mutual” though there was no need, you nodded weakly, confirming the correct assumption “Love is terrifying, but it’s also worth the pain” unable to withstand the vulnerable moment, you closed your eyes, hiding the pain he could find there; he hit the metaphorical bullseye “Don’t let the fear take it away from you” as Alfred finished the speech you let out a long exhale.

As if sensing you were barely holding on, he stood up from the table and left the dining room. But not without reaching out to squeeze your shoulder first. Only once you were alone did you let the tears flow freely.

You desperately wanted him to be right.

***

Only two days later, things came to a head with the most unexpected beginning. Although it was late, you were still busy with work, reading up on different witness accounts of the aftermath of the flooding. While you were still officially off work for another week, you wanted to make sure you had something to write about as soon as you could. And as much as you wanted to, Riddler’s case was off-limits. The decision was difficult to accept, but it was a no-brainer. You could not write about events that hit so close to home and expect it to be unbiased. And any good at all.

So, with a heavy heart, you began a quest to find something new. To your utmost surprise – Bruce offered to help. And help he did, sharing various stories he has heard during his patrols, dropping hints towards the whispers passed around in the dark. You were more grateful than you knew how to express.

Glancing at the clock in the upper corner of the laptop screen, you groaned at the late hour. Perhaps it was time to finish for the night… Perhaps you could- You never got to end the thought as sudden feedback sound rang out in the study. Its whine made you startle, head snapping up in rapt attention at whatever would follow. That was familiar. A memory from what felt like ages ago. It took you another moment to catch up and recognise the song. The subtle strumming was almost indistinguishable. And then…

You got up before you knew what you were doing. Like a siren call leading sailors to their demise, the increasing volume of the music dragged you down the stairs. Once you got closer, you could hear him sing. Quietly, as if he never wanted anyone to have heard him, but still. His low, gravelly voice was enough to increase the cadence of your heartbeat and make you pick up the pace.

‘You're just like an angel

Your skin makes me cry

You float like a feather

In a beautiful world’

You knew the lyrics well enough to feel the familiar tension fill your chest when you reached the study and held your breath upon the sight.

‘I wish I was special

You're so fuckin' special’

Bruce had his back to you, the broad plane of his shoulders covered with a washed-out black t-shirt. Body hunched over the guitar. Without seeing his face, you knew that his eyes were closed. As the volume grew, his strumming got angrier. Dexterous fingers hit each note as they were supposed to. The pain in his voice perfected the picture and made you tighten your grip on the railing. It was terrifying to think about the song choice and what it meant. Whether it meant anything at all.

The longer you stayed, frozen by the sight, the more you knew you should have never given in to the pull. Because now you could not walk away. Not without talking to Bruce. Even if only just about the music. The longing got almost unbearable.

The guitar’s tone slowed; the riff returned to its gentle opening. Bringing the number to a close. Bruce’s voice turned smooth, rolling over your torn heart like a soothing balm. But only just so. Before you realised it, a solitary tear had rolled down your cheek. You whispered the closing lyrics alongside him:

‘What the hell am I doin' here?

I don't belong here

I don't belong here’

Bruce finished the song with a long exhale. For a moment, you contemplated running back up the stairs like you had never been there. But you could not move. Your mouth opened on its own accord:

“You’ve got a beautiful voice” you winced as Bruce flinched, his body tensing as he turned to face you with a shock evident on his face; still, you trudged on and added, “But that was a rather gloomy choice, don’t you think?” an unconvincing smile graced your face.

Because you knew Bruce would see beneath the mask. He would notice the drying tear on your cheek and the pain in your eyes. That one look would be enough for him to tear you apart.

“It felt accurate” Bruce shrugged, his façade drawn up and ready to hide all hints of emotion.

But you could see him look at you, gaze searching and assessing. Noticing everything there was to see. Like he always did. Unable to withstand eye contact much longer, you let your gaze roam as well. Slipping over his forearms and hands, still carefully holding the instrument. As if he expected you to leave so he could continue. But it was not that easy.

“If you’re a creep, then I’m a weirdo” you gathered enough courage to look back up at him, finding Bruce still gazing back; it was enough of an encouragement to make you drop the nonchalance, a veiled confession ready on your tongue “Kindred freaks and all,”

For the first time since he looked at you, you saw Bruce’s mask slip. A flash of surprise passed through his blue eyes and, then, something more tender. The aching chasm in your chest grew wider as you stepped down from the landing and took a step closer to him. The movement woke him up. Bruce took off the guitar strap from around his neck and placed the instrument back on the stand. Silence echoed in the vast room.

“I didn’t think you’d hear me play” when he raised his head again, part of that wall hiding him from you was gone.

In its place, you could see wary curiosity. As if Bruce did not expect to see you tonight or have this conversation. As if you caught him by surprise. For some reason, the idea settled with heavy guilt in your stomach. Because maybe you were trespassing, bothering him with your presence when he would rather be alone. You swallowed past the sudden lump in your throat and whispered:

“I’m sorry” your body had half made up its mind to turn around on your hell and march up the stairs.

Like you should have done when he finished the song. A goodbye was ready on your lips before Bruce spoke, making you freeze:

“Did you mean it?” the cautious tone arrested your attention.

As did the fleeting hope in his eyes. Gone so fast you assumed you had imagined it. Your heart skipped a beat as you understood what Bruce was asking. There was only one thing it could be. As if eager to spite you, your mind readily offered the memory. A sentence blurted out in a moment of passion. Your undoing, as it seemed. Heat filled your cheeks as you felt yourself shake. Panic took over; its job was simple – you couldn’t admit it. Not yet. Ideally never. So, you did what you do best.

“Mean what?” a confused smile was ready on your lips, masking the descending terror with a weak attempt at deflection, “The line just now? I-”

You should have known better. Bruce interrupted your pathetic one-woman play with a simple injection:

“You know what I mean” frustration rolled off him in waves, making him clench his hands into tight fists as Bruce stared at you with growing desperation.

Urging you to drop the act. But it was too late. The cold panic had settled, freezing you on the hardwood floors. Freezing your mind on that one thought – you couldn’t tell him. He can’t know.

“Bruce, I’ve no-” you tried again, without the foreign smile and bullshit nonchalance.

In your head, a pleading chorus was rising in volume. Drop it. Please drop it. But Bruce did not want to listen. He took a step closer, briefly reaching out his hand before letting fall back down. As if he wanted to touch you but soon realised that would not do.

“Please, just- Don’t lie to me” his voice broke on the last word, pain squeezing your heart like a vice; it only got worse when Bruce added, “I don’t think I can do this anymore” he glanced at you almost passively.

Almost as if he had not just crushed your heart in the palm of his hand with that one sentence. Cold fear rose in your throat as you took a step forward, voice wavering as you asked the only question you could:

“Do what?” even though you knew.

You could feel it in your bones. Bruce was done with this. With you. You could even guess why. And if that was it, the end, then you could not blame him, only yourself. A new wave of tears rose in your eyes as you waited for Bruce to cut the cord and end your suffering.

“This,” he vaguely waved his hand at the space between you before turning to pace the room, restless energy permeating every cell of his body, “It hurts too much to pretend. And- I mean, it’s pretty obvious. You must know by now” what? The question painted itself in the crease between your eyebrows as Bruce glanced at you with passion in his gaze, begging you to understand, “It’s not like I’m good at hiding it anyway” the following scoff was self-directed, as if Bruce was angry with his actions, or lack of them, as well.

But none of that explained what he meant. The bewilderment was evident on your face. You could tell Bruce saw it because he let out a long frustrated sigh. He stopped pacing, eyes trained on the floor as if taking part in a heated debate you were no part of. You reminded yourself to breathe, still frozen in your spot with no pointers towards where it was going. What was going to happen next. You opened and closed your mouth in a question that never quite came and went back to staring helplessly at Bruce. Fully aware of the pained look in your eyes and the shaking in your hands.

Later, you could pinpoint the moment he snapped. When the silence became too much to bear, and Bruce rushed in to fill it with words. More words than you had ever heard him say, unprompted. He walked back towards you, eyes wide and awake despite the late hour. But nothing you could see in his face warned you of what was coming:

“I know I’m new to this whole thing, but… I think I’m in love with you” oh. Oh. The breath hitched in your chest. The sincerity of his confession was the reason why you swayed on your feet, only just managing to grasp the railing before you fell at his feet – literary and figuratively; before you could process what Bruce had said and what it meant, he trudged on, seemingly unable to stop now that he began talking “Hell, I know I am, because nothing has ever torn me apart and put me back together all at once. No one else, but you” remembering to breathe, Bruce took a greedy inhale as his eyes met yours; the blue of his irises was set ablaze with that emotion you could never quite decipher. Until now, “I’m tired of pretending this is fine when it’s anything but. Nights like that last one are the worst because, for a moment, I get to feel what we could have, but then you- You leave, and it hurts twice as much because I know what I’m missing. What I’ll probably never have unless it’s with you” tears rolled down your cheeks as you stared, feeling the fear and love wage war in your heart. It was almost impossible to understand what was going on. And why the pain in his eyes only seemed to grow with each confession, the words dropping heavily onto the space between you, staining the floorboards with blood and despair. Yet still, Bruce’s next words slashed your heart anew, “And sometimes, I think… I think that maybe you’re the same” he looked at you again, the unasked question evident on his face.

A question you could not answer. The fear had won, claiming reign over your head and heart as you stared back. Still too frozen to move. Still unable to understand what had just happened. Bruce loved you. He was in love with you. He reciprocated, even though he did not know it. Fuck. All at once, you wanted to howl - be it from joy or pain, you could not decide. What now?

Your thoughts rushed a hundred miles per hour, spiralling and panicking. Worrying about every single what-if you could think of. All your mouth could form was a plea:

“Bruce, please- Don’t-” you did not even know what you were begging for.

Mercy, mostly. But with every second passing, you began to understand there was no way out of this. For better or for worse.

As if reading your feverish thoughts, Bruce closed the gap between you and reached out a careful hand, letting his fingers skim down the length of your forearm. Immediately, he had drawn attention to the chill you could feel settling in your bones as goosebumps followed his tentative touch. The sole-minded focus was still in his eyes:

“I swear I’ll leave you alone, detach myself from whatever is going on between us, if you’ll tell me I’m wrong” softening his voice a notch, Bruce searched your face, looking for the answers himself, “Tell me you don’t think of me like that and I’ll let it go. I promise” his hand clasped around yours, squeezing your palm as a reassurance that he meant it “Just tell me- Tell me you don’t love me” there, simple.

Or not so simple at all. A shudder went through your body as Bruce repeated the cursed word. Now it was entirely in your hands. The weight was resting on your shoulders, waiting for you to choose. For a second, you considered taking the way out that was still there. Faint and going against every promise you had made to yourself, but it still existed. You could deny everything, tell him he had it all wrong, lie and flee the scene with only the price of Bruce’s wounded heart on your conscience. But you couldn’t. Could not make yourself consider it beyond the basic set of assumptions and potentials.

Instead, you could only offer him an incomprehensible stutter, a collection of sounds paired with the colour draining from your face:

“I can’t- I-” the desire to run was still there, growing stronger with each second Bruce had spent staring at you.

He must have read it in your eyes for the moment you turned on your heel, body poised to run up the stairs, his arms were around you in a second. Caging you with your back pressed to his chest. Your shocked gasp was the only sound you could make.

“Don’t run away from me now,” Bruce’s plea was whispered right into your ear, making you shiver, “Please” only once you had the time to breathe, you noticed how lose his hold was; it would not take much to free yourself, should you want to “I’ve got you” the reassurance got through the white noise in your ears, making you relax.

Even if just by a fraction. You could feel the rise and fall of his breath at your back, the wisps of air across the back of your neck and cheek. One of his hands traced small circles on your arm, slowing your heart rate to a manageable pace. That was it. You couldn’t run from it anymore. You took a deep breath before you spoke:

“I’m so scared,” the admission was easy enough to utter.

A fragment of truth you owed Bruce. The reason for everything, as he would come to understand very soon. His embrace tightened slightly as he pressed a fleeting kiss to the crown of your head. It was almost enough to quieten the panic.

“I know, my love. Trust me. I know” the gratitude at his understanding was quickly overshadowed by the nickname he used.

The heart stuttered in your chest, unable to process it. My love. Two words that had never been aimed at you; have never related to you. A term of endearment you had come to envy in the quiet of your heart, yearning for something you never expected to have. But here it was, within your reach. If only you were brave enough to take it.

You closed your eyes, willing the courage to fill your veins as you pressed your back to Bruce’s chest. He wouldn’t hurt you. The statement filled your head like a mantra as you slowly forced more words out:

“You see me. The real me and it’s scary because what if you come to hate me? I don’t think I could survive that” it all came out in a rush of breath, leaving you gasping.

But it was out there. The truth for Bruce to hear and take in. The bravery was draining the energy from your body as you waited for a reply, a comment – anything at all. Anything to show you he understood.

He did not disappoint, offering you another gentle squeeze before speaking:

“I could never hate you” the certainty in Bruce’s voice was what you later considered as the thing that tipped the scales.

Because, for once, you pushed against the denial and believed him. After all, Bruce was the one with more to lose. The first to reach out. To come clean before you. Goddamn it, if he was brave enough, maybe you could be too… Maybe.

Cold shivers ran through your body as you tried to give voice to the words that had been choking you for days. If not weeks. You never thought to keep track and were too busy keeping them in. Despite everything. Perhaps there was no better time than now.

You squeezed Bruce’s hand to assure him you were not running away and turned in the embrace. It was better that way. Proper. You met his boundless gaze, now filled only with hope and the feeling you had recognised as the love he spoke of. It was enough. With a shaking voice, you released the confession from the prison you had made for it:

“Christ, I- I- I love you” the words came out wavered, and your breath stuttered with each syllable, but the light in his eyes was a reason to go on, “So fucking much it kills me” now that you started, the admissions did not seem to stop, slipping through your lips in a steady stream, slowly gaining speed “I’ve no idea when it happened, only that now you’re all I can think about. Every day, I go crazy because of you. Because I want you so much, I don’t know what to do with all those feelings. Sometimes it feels as though they’re going to tear my heart apart” running out of steam, you swallowed hard against the sudden dryness in your throat; it felt like a fraction of the weight had been lifted, now drowning in the blue gaze that did not stray away from your face. There was one last thing to add, a conclusion stating the obvious “But I’m still afraid,” the cursed punchline you did not seem able to shake off.

Only now, once the words were out, you allowed yourself to look back at Bruce. His shy smile acted like a magnet, drawing out your helpless twist of mouth. Your eyes followed the line of his nose (slightly crooked to the right) up to his eyes. Instantly drowning within the depths of blue irises filled with affection. Almost as if what you revealed did not change anything for him. As if, somehow, it would be alright. He would try rather than run away from you and your complex feelings no one seemed to fully comprehend. Not even you yourself. Too lost in his eyes, you only noticed he had reached up to touch you when you felt the gentle thumb brushing over the apple of your cheek. Caressing your skin and quelling the worries.

“Of what?” Bruce’s simple question acted like the needed push in the right direction.

A reason to put into words and label what you never dwelled on. But now, you had no choice but to piece it apart. Even if only because Bruce deserved it from you. He earned an attempt at trying from you. Because, when faced with the reality that he felt the same, you knew you could not deny it anymore. It was terrifying. And oh, so hopeful. You let the feelings in his eyes anchor you in the moment as you spoke:

“That you’re going to leave. Or something takes you away from me” you could see the recognition pass through his face, making the addition nearly redundant “I don’t have a great track record with love” still, the sad scoff could not be kept in.

There was something freeing in seeing the knowing look on Bruce’s face. In knowing that he understood the feeling, perhaps better than anyone else ever could. That, no matter what happened next, you were placing your heart in the palm of someone who gets it. That you had fallen for that same boy you felt a kinship with days after your childhood ended. It was almost poetic.

“I don’t plan on leaving” when Bruce gave voice to the affirmation, you wanted to believe him.

Because he said it before. Every time you let your insecurities win. You clenched your teeth against the denial bubbling beneath the surface and asked a question:

“Why?” hoping he would know what you meant.

It was the only way you knew of asking him why you were the one to make him care. Why you? Bruce only smiled in response, leaning in to kiss your forehead before effortlessly meeting your gaze and baring his heart. Again.

“Because you’re incredible, beautiful, smart, and you see me. You see Bruce Wayne where everybody else sees a symbol, an idea of who I am” the sincerity of his words made your heart seem too big for your chest, each beat threatening to be the one that would make it implode, “Only you see me as I am” as did the gratitude and love in his gaze.

Showing you that the feeling was mutual. You saw Bruce just as he saw you. Like no one else did. The discovery was enough to make you sure – it was worth it.

Aware of the likely sparks in your eyes and the foolishly lovesick look on your face, you cleared your throat and whispered a question:

“Can I kiss you?” you did not know why it felt necessary to ask when you never did before.

When it was probably a given, considering everything he just said. The only thing you were sure of was that you had to let him know. Had to show how much it meant to hear him say it.

Bruce’s fond smile was an answer enough, but he still brushed away your concerns.

“You don’t have to ask” leaning in, he nudged your nose with his and waited for your decisive move.

After all, it was you who had asked. Getting onto your tiptoes, you returned the playful nudge and placed your hands on his shoulders. From then on, everything was a reflex and acting on well-practised instincts. Your eyes closed as you leaned in, slotting your lips over his in a tender kiss. Bruce responded immediately, tightening his hold over your waist and opening his mouth underneath your tentative tongue. The kiss quickly turned heated, drawing out a muffled gasp from your throat and a half-stifled whine from his. Your fingers tangled in the hair on the nape of his neck as you gently sank your teeth into his bottom lip. Enough so to make Bruce groan and pull you closer.

That long-buried, sentimental part of your brain could tell this kiss tasted different. More carefree, unrestrained. Nothing stopped you from tracing the confessions on his skin as your tongue whispered words only Bruce could hear. You did not think anyone ever kissed you quite like that. Like it was the only thing he wanted to do until the end of time. Like the time spent caressing your lips and body was his holy ritual and never a waste of time. Like it mattered enough to be something Bruce devoted his attention to. Until you broke the contact to catch a breath, you were only his, and he was yours. Then, as your eyes met again, wearing matching infatuated looks, the kiss became a promise of more to come. You noted his blushing cheeks and offered a remark:

“I like what you called me, by the way” from the way Bruce’s eyes lit up instantly, you knew it was no slip of the tongue.

Even more so, it was a reason for your heart to beat faster. He meant it.

“My love?” his gaze traced the movement of your tongue, licking your drying lips.

And collecting the remains of the taste of his kiss. A pleasant shiver ran through your body as Bruce repeated the endearment. You could get used to it.

“Yeah, that’s new” you nodded, not even trying to school your features and erase the hope blooming there.

Bruce smiled, drawing out a gasp from your lips as his fingers crept beneath your shirt, lightly touching the skin on your waist. It almost distracted you from his next words.

“It can stay if you want,” without needing Bruce to elaborate, you knew what it meant; the feeling only grew stronger as he added, “If you’ll stay,” a meaningful pause signing off the conditional.

If. You still had a choice. At least, Bruce seemed to think so. What he did not know was that you had already decided. Or that your heart has chosen for you. There was no alternative there. But the slightest bit of uncertainty in his eyes told you he needed an answer:

“I’ll try to” the honest reply was a perfect opening for another question, one that you had been holding back for a while, “Are you mine?”

It was the final assurance you needed from Bruce if only to convince your head it was safe to give him your heart, body, and soul. For as long as he was willing to have them. For as long as he would have you.

Bruce used his unoccupied hand to squeeze your palm as he lowered his head to catch your eye. You had no doubt he caught the nerves lurking there; impossible to be exiled entirely. Unknowingly, you held your breath, waiting for his answer as if the world depended on it.

“If you’re mine,” Bruce’s reply was simple, bringing out your chuckle at the banter you had fallen into.

The joy was reciprocated, too, if the creases at the corners of his eyes were anything to go by. Not for the first time since you had met, you had been struck by a thought, a recognition that he was beautiful. The sharp features and striking eyes always pulled you in and made it impossible to look away. To stray your eyes from his. To find anyone else worth looking at. At this moment, in the dark gothic study, lit up only by the fireplace and the lamp, you knew it was always a lost cause. You had lost a long time ago.

Instead of replying, you kissed him quickly, relishing in the sharp gasp you got in return. When you parted, an answer was easy to conjure:

“I’m pretty sure you’re the only one willing to put up with this” upon Bruce’s questioning look, you motioned at the meagre space between you, highlighting the truth he might have missed.

That there was no competition there. Only Bruce was willing to endure you for this long and in this way. He was the only one wanting your love and loving you back. You were not quite ready to piece apart why (or how) that could be.

“I’ve always been told I’m relentless” the cheeky uptick of Bruce’s mouth was a hypnotizing sight.

You did not miss the telling glimmer in his eye or the smooth move which resulted in your body being pulled closer to his. Almost flush against his chest. It was impossible to deny your brain’s desire to offer you a recap of every moment you had shared which had begun in that way. And to stifle the shiver and the knowledge that, if the universe were gracious, you would have many more coming. The reminder was enough to make you smile and return the playful smirk:

“Good for me” struck with sudden weariness and feeling the rapidly dropping adrenaline, you tugged Bruce’s hand and wordlessly led him towards the sofa; only once you had fallen onto the cushions with a sigh and curled up next to him, you asked the question “What happens now?”

You knew Bruce would get what you meant. He always did.

You felt him shift, one arm coming up to rest around your shoulders, drawing you closer. The other hand was placed on your knee, providing gentle warmth and helping you stay present with him. It was almost too easy to let go and fall back on his constant support to keep you grounded. The doubts were still there, rising and falling like the natural ebb and flow of the tide, lapping at the edges of your conscience. You suspected they would probably always be there, somewhere. Ready to take over at the tiniest chance of something going wrong. The best you could do was hope that would never happen.

As if sensing your mental chatter getting louder, Bruce leaned in to leave a trail of kisses on the shell of your ear and nuzzled your temple. The resulting sigh was effortless on your part. As always.

“We try not to fuck it up” he had his answer ready, eyes trained on you and waiting for whatever might come up.

You had to admit it sounded simple. Almost doable. But…

“And if we do?” you turned to catch his eyes with what you knew to be a wild gaze.

You needed Bruce to say it. To promise he would fight for whatever you were to become. It had to work. Please. You already knew you would be willing to sacrifice a lot for this fragile thing between you. It was already a fact.

A fact Bruce could undoubtedly see in your gaze, for the confidence bled into his voice as he replied:

“Then we’ll try harder” he grabbed your hand, which restlessly picked at the loose thread on the hem of your shirt and squeezed it.

On a reflex, you threaded your fingers through his and pressed your palms together. You had no choice but to trust him. To do the unimaginable and place your heart in his hands, surrendering control in the process. You swallowed past the fear in your throat and pressed your mouth to the corner of his lips. It felt like an apt conclusion to the conversation long overdue.

A little later, once another kiss had ended, and a new one had not yet begun, you raised your head from its comfortable placement on Bruce’s shoulder and fixed your gaze on the black and white guitar resting on its stand. An in-direct reason you had the conversation in the first place. You briefly contemplated sending a thank-you letter to the manufacturer but were struck with a better idea.

“Bruce?” taking pleasure in how his name rolled off your tongue, you marvelled at the rare peacefulness of the moment.

There was nowhere else to be, nothing else to do. Nothing, but feeling the low rumble of his voice as Bruce hummed.

“Mm?” he kept tracing letters onto the skin of your arm, leaving you to guess their meaning on your own.

Sometimes you were willing to bet he was repeating the confessions he just spoke of. The thought drew an involuntary smile onto your face.

“Play me something” you met his gaze with that same affectionate look in your eyes.

There was no need to specify the request - you knew Bruce would choose well. He only grinned at you in response and disentangled from your embrace to stand up and pick up the instrument. You watched his forearms flex, tendons dancing beneath the pale skin as Bruce placed the strap around his neck and bowed over the guitar. His eyes closed in concentration, but he was not tense. It was a far cry from how you found him over an hour before.

With a breath trapped in your chest, you awaited the first notes. When he began the rhythmic strumming, a fond chuckle escaped your lips. You had to admit Bruce was nothing, if not predictable. Humming the chorus alongside him, you met his questioning gaze. You smiled, mouthing the words that were no longer forbidden. Love you. Sweetheart.

“Something in the way, huh?” the laugh spilling through the gaps between the vowels.

“What? You did not specify” teasing edge you would have never even imagined becoming so accustomed to.

“I knew I didn’t have to,” and then, just to see him roll his eyes with that enamoured exasperation “Babe,”

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