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nocturnal.

pairing: bruce wayne x f!reader (or afab!reader)

summary: bruce wayne is a broken and bruised man. you’re the sweet healing that he needs. 

warning: minors dni! pwp, D/s dynamics, bondage, biting kink (kinda), masochism, whipping, oral (f!recieving and m!recieving), fingering, handjob, bruce wayne is a sad little man and i could fix him

word count: 3.4k 

a/n: huge shoutout to @sleepycapn​ for beta reading! this was a lot of fun to write, i hope y’all enjoy <33 and as always i’d love to hear your thoughts!!

There was something not quite right about Bruce Wayne. He was made of loss, his soul heavy and sullied by whatever secrets he carried.

Keep reading

love me by the light.

part one | masterlist

premise: bruce comes back into your life, pulling back the veil of those darkened parts of him; finally letting you in.

pairing: bruce wayne x (f)reader

word count: 12.6k

warnings: smut (unprotected sex, rough sex, f receiving oral, pain kink, scratching), a lot of time skips/jumps, death of a parent(s), declarations of love-ish, jealousy, slight batman spoilers, toxic relationships, angst, blood and violence mentions. 18+ ONLY MINORS DNI.

etc: did i mean for this to be that long? absolutely not, but it got away from me lmao. i hope the wait was worth the pay out, especially since it took me weeks to write this. writing soft bruce is hard for me so this is the closest we gone get!

i do not give anyone permission to translate or repost my work, please be respectful — if you enjoyed please comment or reblog!

It had been weeks since Bruce, or his alter ego, had darkened your doorway or saturated your bed sheets. Weeks of you trying not to wonder where he was, weeks of you trying to convince yourself that it was for the best, that those words spoken, those breaths shared and moans mixed, wounds reopened and pain shared; was a goodbye. It was the last time either of you were going to wallow in that shared unspoken pain—on Bruce's part—and try to come up with every excuse, every touch, every argument to not just let it go, to not face facts that the two of you were no good together, Bruce was no good for you.

Not your psyche, or the money you were spending on laundry; but most importantly your heart; that annoying little organ keeping you alive, keeping the blood pumping in your veins, those same tendons that Bruce has run his lips across. That same blood that doesn't mind being mixed into something shared and deranged with his, or those he’s beat down.

But no matter what reasoning, no matter what sound logic and sound mind of factual grounds as to why Bruce was no good for you, the two of you even worse together; your heart couldn’t seem to get the memo. Could not grasp on to the shed tears and broken shards of its melted shards back together over and over, that all of that meant that the two of you should stay away from each other.

And just like your heart was doing with all rationality; you ignored it. You were pushing the memories of Bruce in your bed, between your legs, and pressed to your body away with anything that worked. Once one good memory popped up you reminded yourself of another, a nasty argument, or by the fact that Bruce essentially knew nothing about you and you him. In which your heart would excuse that the both of you knew enough; tragic pasts, a weird addiction to pain (yours more emotional than his), parentless, searching for the wrong things in ways that would never fully be right, never fully making you feel absolutely whole because you’ve been stuck in the same mindset for far too long that in reality you didn't really remember what you were searching for, only that you kept looking even when you were blinded by something toxic and unsustainable than the reason why you started said thing from the beginning.

Your heart had painted a picture of ‘he knew how to kiss you in that way that it took your breath away, he knew that you despise your job, he knew that you didn’t want children, he knew that you spent extra time in the shower even when your day wasn’t entirely bad (the hot water relaxing you more than any other remedy could). He knew you picked out all of the healthy ingredients in your food when you ordered take out (knows because he busted through your door one night while said take out dish was in your hand being devoured and he insisted you finish eating first, since you were sure to lose your appetite once the two of you got started). He knew how to touch your body in ways that left your body feeling as if it had been in a sauna, knew how to completely mold his mouth against you in a way that felt illegal. His hips and cock knowing just the right way to thrust and move in and out of you, always leaving you breathless and clinging to him. And most of all, the thing you wished he didn't know, that you both could forget: you loved him.

So why should you give that up? Why should the fights outweigh that love? Those facts, those knowings? And the answer was at the tip of your brain painted in bold red letters: because Bruce wouldn’t let you see him. It was the answer to—most—everything, an answer that was more obvious than the sky painted blue. Bruce had let you see the bare minimum of him, had told you the basics that you could read in a damn paper, article, crazed fan post. And when you begged to know more you got silence or dismissal. You got another fight. You got more feelings hurt than hopefulness. You got nothing.

But then you remembered—your heart never letting you forget—you knew he was Batman. And no one knew that. He had taken off his cowl and had let you see his face, bruised, bloody, and painted black. He had trusted you with a needle to his skin. Had trusted you enough to come back again and again. To share a bed with him. To touch. To kiss. To fuck. He let you do that not only to Bruce Wayne, but to The Batman. It wasn't a small gesture. It wasn’t some run of the mill thing. Bruce was not the kind of man to just hand out chances, instances, information like that. He barely left his tower as his true self. In some ways he was more Batman than he was Bruce. As if this altered ego had overtaken him to the point where Bruce Wayne was a secondary character in his own life.

And that counted for something, right? Did that outweigh everything else? Did that paint away the bad and cover it in a different kind of sight, a different kind of love that was more sacred than your average one? Was Bruce showing you his true self, The Batman, the same as him sharing the darkest parts of his mind? His feelings? Was that what—who—Batman was? And if so, was that not a form of love in a way? A form of devotion in the only demeneted tragic way Bruce knew how to give, to show, to devote to you unspokenly.

Each night those very thoughts would cross your mind and you locked your doors tighter. Had closed your curtains. Had avoided any and all headlines with his name plastered on the front. You didn't linger at night, you went to bed timely. You kept busy. Kept locked away. From him and the chance that he might come back—that you wanted him to come back.

Which is also why you started dating. Or trying to at least.

You had been on a handful of casual dates that didn't end in anything other than you grimacing half of the night and them leaving you with the bill. There had been no sparks of romance and no goodnight kisses, or walking you to your door and asking to come in for a night cap. It had been going miserably and yet you had kept trying. Had kept seeking out something through people who were not him. Who could never come close to plaguing your mind as much as he did.

But there was one guy. One who was less of a nuisance than the others, one who actually paid for the meal the four times you had gone out. Had walked you to your doorstep and had hugged you—something that made your skin crawl. He was the only one you had seen on multiple occasions. Had given a chance to, even if it did take some convincing of yourself that he wasn't that bad of a guy. And he really wasn't. He had a decent job, was polite enough, cute enough (not letting yourself linger on the fact that his hair was the same length as Bruce’s and they kind of had the same eye color, and if you squinted the jawline might match up).

He would be a perfect match for you to get over Bruce, you were sure of it, betted on it, were only seeing him for it. But all your convincing and his nice smile did little to stop your mind from wandering to the man you really wished was sat across from you. Who stood at your doorstep. Who wrapped their arms around you; there was no spark, no delicious sting from impending hurt, that pain, that need to yell and scream because you loved this person so much that it was killing you, they were killing you. Tearing your heart into nasty shards and putting them back together with their touch, their kiss.

No, there was none of that and you knew there never would be. And it was truly fucked for both parties involved. But you couldn't find yourself worrying about the others feelings. Maybe you would grow to—would grow to care and something would blossom between the two of you. Something non-tragic wrapped in thorns and bloody knuckles. Something easy, non-toxic.

But was that what you truly wanted?

For all your convincing as to why Bruce was bad and that you were glad he was gone, your body and mind had not stopped calling you a hypocrite.

And when the two of you step out of the small diner, when his clammy palms grab your hand and lace your fingers together—the repulsion in your body starting from low in your belly—and just as he does it, just as his smile spreads and he’s staring at you with fondness; your eyes are pointed to the sky at the symbol plastered in the night fog that to most is a warning, a death sentence. But to you has your heart aching in your chest and wanting to follow it through the streets, buildings, towers, until maybe, hopefully, you find him and it’s his hand that slides home to your body.

As the two of you walk to your apartment, as the other carries the conversation, as your eyes seem to hover and seek out every dark corner, every alley painted black, every booted foot hitting the ground; it’s the thought of him possibly watching you, seeing you with this other man, the thought of jealousy and strain panging his heart, the lack of watch on the nightly creeps that could be terrorizing the city that are less important than you. Than him keeping a watch on you because he misses you. Because the two of you are fucking stubborn and this love is a sespool of depravity and hurt, but also undeniable lust and understanding. That's what has you smiling the whole way home. Not the others’ jokes or uninteresting conversation. It's Bruce.

It’s always Bruce.

It's crazy to think time goes by slower when your heart is aching. Like the world knows that your chest is bruised and tattered from the sting of your heart longing for something, something it can’t have, can’t touch, can’t possess. The world slowing down the hands of time just to prolong suffering. It was hard to say if that was a good or bad thing. If the longer your heart aches the easier it would be to let go of the reason causing the pain; your body rearranging its DNA to make even the slightest thought of the source of the pain kick your flight instinct up. Or did that prolonged ache make you long for that salve that sugar coated the pain, that hid itself away until the toxic cycle continued. You had always looked at addiction and love as two sides of the same coin. Two sides that caused people to either lose themselves or become friends with a tolerable pain if only for a little something in return; devotion, lust, euphoric highs. Both sides providing that painful ache in your chest when you go without it.

You didn't know if it was the latter when it came to your love for Bruce. It had been almost two months now and that ache was still embedded in your bones. Your revelations as to why this distance was good, why moving on to something more stable was better, had soon died off after the man you had been casually seeing tried to warm the same side of the bed Bruce usually did. You knew it the minute his lips pressed to yours—his clammy fingers trailing along your backside—that no matter how nice of a guy he was, or how many dates you tried to make work; he wasn’t Bruce.

And as pathetic as it was to let yourself give up on trying to stop feeling for the no-good-billionaire you decided to let it run its course through you. Like most addicts did. You had to let the memories and traces of him—that seemed to be more than just embedded on your sheets and furniture, the feeling running blood deep—course through you until there was nothing left. No traces of him ever being there; except your taped together heart.

Sometimes you caught yourself wondering if he was doing the same. If the bags under his eyes had turned more sickly black. If he let his punches go just a little bit harder, deadlier, all so he could be distracted enough to not think of you. To let his knuckles crack open from jaw bones and teeth if it meant the course of you running from his body.

It was wishful thinking on your part, pathetic thinking.

Even when seeing Bruce you expect nothing from him because you knew you'd never get anything other than the bare minimum. So making a fairytale out of him now was only fueling your heart with sickness. The only thing you felt most confident about was that you were never going to see Bruce Wayne—or the Batman—again.

You don’t expect, a week later, to feel the other side of your bed dip. Jolsting you in your sleep to awareness, your body frozen as the covers behind you are lifted and moved, pillows being rearranged, and then there's arms being wrapped around you—and you know it’s him. Knew it was him the minute you felt the bed dip. The smell of oil and something musky assaulting your lungs being the giver; Bruce. You anticipate the dreadful feeling of anger and hurt to bubble up inside your chest. To start a fire in your belly and rage all the way through you until your entire body is ablaze from all the screaming and angry tears you want to let out.

But the rage doesn't come. There's no fire in your belly. No deep pain in your gut that's telling you to kick him out, to not rid yourself of the progress you’ve made in getting over him—the progress that was barely there to begin with. The only thing coursing through your body right now is shuddered breaths. Your heart bruising your ribcage from how fast it's beating, and the deep flutter in your belly making you almost shake; angry tears turning into relief that he’s here. That he came back to you, that no matter how hard he tried he couldn't stay away, couldn't stop thinking of you.

And when you turn in his arms the blue of his eyes seem to stand out more than ever. The black paint around his lids setting the backdrop to accentuate that staying away was as agonizing for you as it was for him. The street lights peaking through your window illuminating his face in a beautiful glow that makes you feel like a fucking idiot for ever letting him go like that, for starting fights, for caring about anything else other than him being here; looking griefstickenly beautiful. All of your sensibility from the month earlier burned to ash from those addictive feelings of devoted love you have for this man. Much like Bruce has, he’s burnt them down. He’s avenged your heart into something that aches only from—and for—him; good, bad, painfully so. There was no more making sense of it, you didn't need to. He was here, and it didn't matter for what reason or for how long. That pain of those questions and answers could come another day, another night.

It was no longer the ladder for you. You knew that this man was your addiction. The love and pain you had and suffered through just to feel his warmth beside you was worth the toxicity that ran between the two of you like a rotten fruit; still beautiful on the outside but decaying on the inside, tragic, but not a waste. it could still be held and enjoyed on the surface. And that counted for something. For everything.

Neither of you acknowledge the time spent apart, or if he’s only come here because he’s hurt. There's no time for that, no thought, when the hesitation to press your lips together is a losing game. The passion and heat from the kiss so intensely between the two of you that your mind skips all thoughts except him, except pulling him on top of you and bruising the others lips to make up for the time spent away.

It doesn't take much maneuvering before your clothes are off, the press of his naked chest against yours burning right through you. The feel of his hands running along every inch of your body as if to remind himself how you feel, how you moan into his mouth when his thumb rubs along your nipple. Or how you love it when his cock runs through your folds, spreading your wetness, his tip continuously assaulting your clit to the point your legs start shaking. That burn of lust and a need that makes you want to scream; fuck you missed him. Need him.

Bruce’s mouth travels along your neck, your chest, your breasts, leaving dark smudges in his wake; highlighting the deep bite and wet marks from his tongue and teeth. The coolness from where his mouth once was devouring your body in that perfect way he does, making you shiver. Your eyes watching as he makes his descent down your abdomen. And if it wasn't for the desperate pulse and ache you feel between your legs to have his cock inside of you, that painfully beautiful stretch missed more than you’d realized; you would let him continue that descent.

“Bruce,” you're breathless and trying to pull him up by his shoulders, trying to relay the message of what you want by grinding your hips up into him. You didn't care about prep, didn't care about being ready for him. It was the kind of pain you loved from him, not being completely ready for him, for his cock to stretch you. You needed it right now—as if it would make the pain spent away that much more worth it, more addicting.

His lips kiss above your belly button, his eyes looking up into yours and they're just as needy as yours; his dark makeup smeared half away down his cheek making him look even more desperate. “Please,” his voice is just below a whisper, the heat of his breath hitting your skin. “I’ve missed you.” And if you were already breathless, this was the punch to your heart that knocked the rest of the breath out of your lungs. A white heat of something that wasn't lust washing over you, and you know the tears that burn your eyes are not from the frustrations of it either; it's something so sweet, too sweet, that it makes your mind even more hazy. Makes you want to shed those tears, makes you want to switch your positions and show your love for the Prince of Gotham with your mouth and tongue until your throat burns and is filled with cum.

Bruce doesn’t wait for more of a confirmation before he’s pressing a kiss to the top of your mound, his arms positioning themselves behind your thighs so he’s completely bracketed between your legs. His eyes look back up to yours as he runs the flat of his tongue over your wet folds, a small gasp falling from your lips that quickly turns into a hitched moan when the tip of his tongue snakes out from between his lips to swirl around the surface of your clit. His mouth and tongue lick and suck over your folds, inside of you, refusing to touch your clit directly until your whining and gripping his hair, the huff of pain from your fingers making a moan vibrate against you when he finally wrap his lips around the throbbing bundle of nerves. The way you arch your back and shake around him from the pleasure of the warmth of his mouth on your most sensitive part, devouring you, savoring you, making that burning heat tingle through your legs and settle in your lower belly, to the point you want to scream.

You know you've missed his cock more, but the way his mouth feels on your cunt is just as addicting. It was never in question whether or not Bruce was good with his mouth—he was and then some. He’s eating you out like it’s the first time and he’s taking his time to savor every taste, every moan, every movement of your hips when he does that thing with his tongue that always makes you say his name; he has you spewing words and praising him like he’s your God. And if the moans against your swollen cunt tell you anything it’s that he loves it just as much—if not more—as you. As if it’s just another way for him to see your devotion to him, to give yourself over to him, to let him continue to completely consume you. Maybe that's why he keeps coming back, maybe that's really where his love lies; being addicted to the way you love him, the way you let him completely plague your mind, body and soul, with his mouth and his cock.

Whatever it is you know you’ll never give it up again.

Never want to feel anyone other than him between your legs eating your pussy like this, sucking on your folds and clit, two of his fingers fucking into you and hitting that spongy part of your cunt that has you seeing stars and squeezing your thighs around him as that euphoric high crashes through you so roughly. Your entire body shaking as you scream out. As you cum against his tongue and fingers.

And Bruce doesn’t stop. He keeps going until you’ve cum again, your hips stuttering and body twitching from the sensitivity of your clit. Your body already feeling limp and fucked out—and yet his tongue keeps going, his fingers still fuck into you, your walls even more sensitve as they spasm around him. “Bruce, I need-”

“Just one more, please.”

There were few opportunities in your line of work that you could deny, whether from uncomfortability, or the payout for the piece. And when it came to good pieces that didn't include The Batman, or some dirty politician getting taken down, there wasn't much that really captured the gossiping eyes of the people in Gotham. Misery and crime really did sell, a picture of someone corrupt dead and plastered across the paper was more likely to sell than the reasons why you shouldn't ingest this or buy that. It wasn't too shocking to you though, having written many pieces that fell flat and barely gave you the money to make rent, you had learned long ago that the more blood that a paper helped continue to spill, shed, martyr, the more money, the more engagement.

And at the end of the day you needed to survive, needed the money to continue to keep a roof over your head no matter how dingy that roof was. And after staring blood in the eyes, cuts, gashes, wounds that never healed right; stains under your nails that seem to never come out no matter how much you scrub, no thanks to Gotham’s headliner. There were little to less stories that made you too uncomfortable to write, to cover, to make money off of someone's death using adverbs to paint them as the sad little victim when really Gotham was a better place without them.

When you delve into the dark parts of your past you think there are the stepping stones to how you got here. To make you conditioned to not bat an eye at looking the evil dead in the eye and writing about them. To hiding Bruce’s secret, stitching him up, to kissing his wounds and the one to reopen them.

Which is why when your boss suggested that you write a piece on Oswald Cobblepot’s infamous club the Iceberg Lounge, you didn't think much of it. No sirens or red flags went off in your mind, not even the worry of being surrounded by dropheads, or the gangster himself. The only thing that had flashed through your mind was the pay out, the check that was surely to be big from such a piece on the man sometimes referred to as The Penguin and his place of lounging.

Your boss guaranteeing you it was a sure thing, that Oswald knew him by name and to simply say it at the door and it would get you in without trife. It was a sure thing and that there was no need to pay any mind to the various rumors of the man being as bad as some people had said. Within that same reassuring breath he had suggested you wear something nicer than your everyday work attire.

“Don't be afraid to show some skin, might make the interview go…better.” He had given you a wink and his smirk went to the pit of your stomach. Your boss wasn’t a creep, shockingly. And so the only thing about the exchange that had set your nervous alight was his suggestion to wear something skimpy, that the sluttier you looked the more The Penguin would possibly be more persuaded to spill all. But men were men were they not? Some better than others, some more simple than the rest that gave their secrets away by a flash of a nice smile or the dip of a woman's cleavage.

And as you stood and stared at yourself through the mirror, your reflection was almost laughable at how hard you were trying; money could truly be a big motivator, and motivated you were. If the sequin dress that barely reached mid thigh, and the large cut out at the chest, didn't say just how much of a motivator it was for you. Maybe it was stupid for you to be dressed as such, it might send the wrong idea, an invitation to some dimwitted men. Having never met the infamous crime boss before you wouldn't exactly say where he fell on the spectrum of man. But rumors flew around Gotham like a plague and talks of girls receiving black eyes and bruises all over their bodies, and the deaths that mysteriously always went cold when someone’s carcass was found on the property did not fall on deaf ears.

You had swallowed down your nerves with a few shots of liquor, had read and reread every question you had written down to ask, had triple checked with your boss that he actually knew you were coming and your boss wasn’t just hoping your promiscuous look would be the only thing that would actually be landing you the interview. You didn't know if you were up for having to work with your vagina rather than your brain tonight.

The only thing your vagina got you into was messes, example; Bruce Wayne.

Someone who you don’t expect to see when you exit your bathroom, or a version of him. His body adorned in his armor. You hadn't expected him tonight, hadn't thought you'd see him for at least a couple days since he had stained your bed dusty black just last night. He usually gave it a few days, usually let the missing and longing sink in before he came back to you.

But since the two of you had made up—or done your version of making up; not talking about the matter anymore than shared I miss you’s mixed with moans, bites, and scratches, the only communicating Bruce knew how to do—he had found his way to your bed more often than not. Had even let himself stay until the early morning just as the sun was peeking over the city. There were still blood stained nails and wounds needing fixing. But mixed with antiseptic had been the looks of longings and forgiveness shared. Your heart still ached more times than not and you knew it couldn't be that far off that a fight was soon to break out again. That he would leave you for a month again, or the two of you would fuck for a week straight, letting everything else say your apologies than actually muttering them yourselves.

Your mind always reminding you that it can't be nice forever. That's not how you and Bruce were. That's not the type of relationship you had; a nice one, a one filled with love affirmations and calming touches and ease. Your love was more demented, it had bite marks, blood, cruel words turned into whimpering pleas of devotion. You two were not meant for some classic romance. And you don’t think your heart could bear it if it were any other way, it growing to used to pain and calling it love. Needing it to survive in an already cruel world.

A world Bruce unintentionally made even crueler.

“I didn't expect you tonight,” you walk to your table, rifling through your essentials for the night. “Are you okay? Unless you’re bleeding out you might have to take a bandaid and call it good.” You joke, turning to flash him a smile but it falls once you see his pensive look. Or as much as you could tell, his mask is really doing its job to hide everything about him from the world.

“Are you going out with that guy, again?” The edge in his voice surprises, makes a half smile creep on your lips you try to cover up; so he was watching you, had seen the many dates you went on to try and wash him from your system. The knowledge makes something in your stomach flutter, that edge in his voice the only thing that you are sure he would show of jealousy, or worry.

Or so you thought, until your next sentence of “no, actually I have an interview with Oswald Coppletop,” you smirk. “The Penguin, someone I’m sure The Batman knows well.” Your tone is teasing and it lands flat when the furnace of rage seems to start in the tick of his jaw and spread throughout the rest of him like a house fire.

“Your what?” His voice booms, hits your ears like a loud freight train making you jump in your spot. Your nerves now showing themselves—and you might of that you would have gotten used to his loud voice, his yelling, his anger. But this seems different, the heat in his eyes not his usual fire aimed at you.

“My boss got me an exclusive interview with him,” you fiddle with your purse. “Apparently he knows him, so I’m headed to the Iceberg Lounge.” You try to make a show of running your hand along your outfit to show it off, with as much of a smile as you can muster with all of his negative energy being thrown at you. Of course he was going to ruin this for you. Going to rain down on the piece of work that could not only provide you with a couple months rent, but also land you more serious stories. Something you don’t think he truly understood, having come from money after all. Being a hermit in your tower for two years making him forget that people actually had to make a living and not just sneak off at night and pummel someone.

But maybe that wasn't it. Maybe he did understand, maybe you should of given him the benefit of the doubt, not let him drag the mood down into the trenches where he seemed to love to hangout.

“If you need me to help you tonight I can when I get back.” Because why else would he be so upset right now? You weren't always going to be on call when, or if, he needed you. “I’d say you could join me but we both know your bat isn’t welcomed in most places, and I don’t feel like supporting another black eye.”

“That's not why-” he shouts, snarls, stops himself to let out something as close to a growl of frustration. “It’s dangerous, he’s dangerous.”

“He’s not going to-”

“Because your boss knows him?” He scoffs a little, “he’s done worse to the people he knows than strangers on the street. You don’t know what you’re walking into.”

“Well, I didn't know what I was walking into when I followed you, and look how good that turned out.” You give him a mocking smile, the innuendo diverting to many different directions that makes him give you a searing look. Your insides twisting at which direction could be the one adding fuel to his fire of rage; that the two of you ended up fucking, or that you ended up with more than a black eye in the long run, a darkened heart that both bled and beated for him. Jealousy or remorse. Both sat in the pit of your stomach like a brick.

“You’re putting yourself in danger.”

You can't help the laugh that you let out, because was he serious? “You put yourself in danger every night, Bruce. And the minute I bring it up or even remotely hint to you not doing that, it’s like taking a bone away from a ravenous dog. But let me guess, that's different right?”

“It is!”

“Why? Because I don’t have a suit of armor to hide who I really am? Because I can’t take a punch? A knife?” You roll your eyes, “well news flash, you can barely take it. Should we go over the reason why you end up here every night? Because we both know it couldn't be just for my great company or companionship.” You shake your head, curse under your breath at the rage you now felt radiating through your veins thanks to him and his audacity.

It wasn't different. You had wasted your breath many times, pleads and begs of asking him to get his drug of vengeance somewhere else. To use his name and status instead of his fists and body riddled with scars, that would surely only get worse. He couldn't do this forever and it would surely kill him. And his anger and protested yells in your fight had taught you to keep your mouth shut. To not bat an eye anymore at the wounds that you had to fix, at the ache in your heart to see him not care for his own well being.

And you were sure this argument was going to end the same as the last one; guess you should redownload the dating app. Maybe you’d fuck Oswald out of spite. It wasn't that hard to close your eyes when a man who was less than attractive was behind you, and the only thing you wanted was that ten minute pleasure from his cock.

Your chest pang at the thought. Because you knew you wouldn't, and even if you would, the only thing you'd see if you tried, or closed your eyes, would be Bruce.

Fuck him.

“I don’t have time for this.” You give him a scowl and head for the front door. Your hand grabbing the doorknob the same time his gloved one grips your wrist in a death grip. Your scowl only deepens when you turn to look at him, as you try to free yourself from his hold—something pathetically useless with his strength.

“It’s not safe, not like this.”

“Like what, Bruce?” You huff, continuing your protests to have him let you go. Your wrist now burning from your attempts more than his actual grip on you. “Don’t ruin this for me! Not all of us can be born with a silver spoon in our mouths!”

“I’m saving you!”

“I’m not in danger!”

“That doesn’t mean you wouldn’t be. Men like him are not the kind of men who would take a slam piece with a smile.”

“I’m not writing a slam piece, Bruce.”

“Even worse. Men like him don’t deserve praise, especially when he wouldn't bat an eye to wrap your dead corpse in that same paper from you printing one word wrong to make him look like a villain.”

His words stop you, make your blood run cold. Make those nerves turn into something with more edge that pricks and pokes holes in your optimistic outlook—your motivation for cash. And you don't know if your heart is beating so hard from anger, fear, or the fact that Bruce could be right. His points, frustratingly, laced with some possible truth to them. People have died at the Iceberg Lounge for less, you were sure.

“It’s not fair of me to ask you not to do this, I know.” Bruce’s voice slips from that anger and frustration, and back to his whisper; deep and pointed, calmer. “I’m just asking you to trust me on this. If there was a chance that…something…anything, could–would, happen to you-” he swallows, looks down for a second like he can’t look at you when he says the words, if he says the words—as if he himself isn't sure what words he wants to get out because this was new, all of it; the crumb of care he was showing you right now, the hint of more feelings than indifference, anger, and lust mixing in the air between the two of you right now. “Just don’t go.” Your stomach sinks, your heart following it into that bottomless pit of ache from him not being able to say those words that were on the tip of his tongue. Words that would do more than cut deep, would put a label on whatever this was between the two of you; something dangerous.

“Bruce..”

“I’ll let you do a story on me.” He huffs frustrated, “Bruce Wayne. Just stay.”

Stay.

He was asking you to stay instead of it being the other way around.

“Why do you care so much,” you can't help the bluntness dredging up, as if your heart can't wrap itself around this close-to-softness, to something other than pain and cuts from knives being shown from the man in front of you. Your gut instinct impulsing you to not trust it, to not let this man sink any further into the open parts of your heart that have the potential of being more than jagged. “Like I said before, I’m not even your girlfriend, just someone you-”

“No.” He says clipped, and it makes your gut instinct shine out, smirk, a sickly saddening feeling spread through you in an ‘I told you so.’ And you go to pull yourself from him again, but instead he’s pulling you closer, your forearms pressed to the hard armor covering his chest. His gaze burning into yours, “You’re more than that, and we both know it.” The tears that burn behind your eyes make you feel pathetic, make you want to fight to get away from him again. But you’re ensnared in his gaze, held by the light in the darkness around his eyes, his words that make those flutters come back. “You stepped into my world once before, I don’t want you to have to be subjected to it again. It’s worse enough I allow you to see the aftermath of it.”

And it’s the first time Bruce has ever, truly, outwardly expressed the shared knowledge that the two of you know; this nurse and patient relationship was fucked and no one should have to put a needle through his skin then beg him to stop so you would never have to again, to ask for more, to devote yourself to a person stuck in a bleak and black world of darkness hooked on the drug of venegance and justice. But the both of you knew you’d never turn it away. Shy away from the darkness of the blood and gashes. And maybe that was a problem in and of itself, that you had grown numb to it, something someone probably shouldn't do. Even if that numbness hadn't started with Bruce, it grew, festered, led to fights, anger, dangerous feelings mixed in that turned into love. At least for you.

You’re more than that.

His words. Proclamation. Spoken out to you. Not to the ether, not hidden in touches and orgasms. You were more than a girlfriend to Bruce.

But was it love? Could someone like him even love after seeing so much darkness. You had. Had seen the depths of darkness and still loved, still felt for him, and knew would continue to. Knew it deep down to your merrow. Bruce didn’t want you a part of that darkness but you had already stained your skin for him, and if that doesn’t give the true meaning of the darkness of love and devotion you don't know what does. What could.

“I will let you see the other half of me. But not this part. Stay.”

And how could you not?

When you return to work the following day your boss is less than pleased, looks more squirrley than normal. Talking about how you could have tarnished his name, his word, his honor, as if this interview was something that the both of you would highly regret in more ways than a simple ‘missed chance’. Him seeming more worried about his own fate than yours, something you try not to dwell on or let his words defer you into fear when they usually held no backing to begin with. While your boss may have been a good one, you wouldn't doubt he was on someone's payroll and that was the only way he could keep this place running, and you had no desire to delve into his life—especially when he couldn't care that much about yours.

But as soon as the words “I got an exclusive interview with Bruce Wayne” slip from your mouth his tone–and demeanor—shifts completely into something ecstatic. His words now turned into compliments and waving off the missed interview to one of the girls who work in the office, saying you were more suitable for this type of work anyway—whatever that had meant, you tried not to look too much into. Since the night Bruce had brought up the offer, promised, you had felt those annoying little flutters the closer the day came. The more you thought of that night, his burning touch to keep you safe, the pleading in his eyes that couldn't be engulfed by the fire of rage inside of them.

Not to mention the infamous Prince of Gotham barely showed his face let alone had ever let anyone interview him. So this was a big career opportunity for you, Bruce having promised to make up the difference for whatever your interview with Oz was going to pay off. But deep down you knew it wasn't the sentiments of your career gaining traction or even the money; he was finally letting you in. Even if it had a ‘strictly business’ bow wrapped around it. And maybe he was just grinning and bearing it so you wouldn't be caught up in the other half of his world anymore than you already were, maybe this was truly just about the safety of you. Him continuing to hide that darkness, even if you’ve seen the brunt aftermath of it. It didn't stop the flutters or the tightening in your chest as you type up your questions for him, as you let that silly school girl joy seep further into the cracks of your molten heart. Let yourself ignore the looming ‘things can only be good for so long between you two, before the worst comes back’ in the back of your head.

When the day finally comes you had expected him to show up late at night in your balcony door way, had counted on it actually. Him clad in his batsuit, hopefully minus the blood and woundage. But when you hear a knock on your door, opening it to see him, Bruce in the flesh, no armor in sight; you're shocked into silence. Your eyes taking him in for all his glory; this being the first time you had seen him in actual clothes, his clothes, his billionaire clothes, long jacket, dark shirt and pants. His hair not wet from sweat or a shower, his eye sockets unpainted. This was the real Bruce, or the one he let the public see. Something in the back of your mind telling you the Bruce who was usually dressed down and bruised in your bed was the real him. The Prince of Gotham was more myth than man.

And you’re even more shocked into silence when Bruce tells you that he wants to do the interview at his tower. The manor that hangs high above Gotham like a watchful eye, waiting, seething. Like a looming threat in the sky no one quite knows.

You don’t know what you expect when you walk through his doors, don’t know why you’d think his money would show in the form of fancy statues, paintings, expensive furniture, decorated in the ways his parents might have liked. But once you step through the threshold, let your eyes take it all in, the architecture that superasses the look of the outside; you know that this is completely Bruce. The dark vintage look, the gothic curve of the molding, ceiling, the furniture, the slight draft. The only thing that seems the most non-Bruce thing being the immense light that the many windows bring in. But then you even question that once you look out from the largest one that seems to show the city in its entirety, being able to gaze down at those below him, those who probably look up to his tower with a sneer of envy, despisement, maybe even fear.

You had never really had a second thought of Bruce himself before meeting his counterpart, had never blinked twice when people would bring him up in passing, in the papers. Ironically he was more myth than man to some—more than people really knew.

Bruce watches you as you look around, like a kid in a candy shop you are sure. And you think you see the corner of his mouth quirk up when you ask him about some of the pieces displayed throughout the place as he leads you through his vast estate. You had every right to feel self conscious about your shit apartment the first time he followed you home, you now realize.

After you’ve finished the interview, Bruce answering more than half of them—more than you expected him to actually answer, hence why you wrote out at least three pages full of them just in case he wanted to skip most of them. His face was stone, stoic, held together as he answered. Some answers more dry than others, sometimes he would let the air between the two of you sit, a tensed silence spreading as he stared at you, his thoughts louder than anything—and yet you couldn't hear them, couldn't read them as much as you wanted to—when you asked him certain intrusive questions, when you spoke of his parents, of his personal life; other than what you knew obviously. The look on his face one of debation you soon realize, debating on how deep he wanted to have you delve into his world, into this new part of him that wasn't just going to be news to the people of Gotham, but to you as well. You were learning parts of him that you now realize you should already know based on whatever it was between the two of you.

Facts that someone usually found out along the way when you have been fucking someone—stitching someones skin—for as long as you had. You tried not to think too much about it, tried to ignore those weird pricks of bitterness and melancholy that picked at your stomach the more you realized that Bruce was a mystery to you; if it wasn't darkness, blood, or wrapped in flesh, bone, and moans you didn't really know him.

Batman. That's who you knew. But much like your earlier thoughts, Bruce was more the Batman than he was really himself. Was more the true himself in bed with you than through the recording of his poised voice answering questions. So these silly feelings shouldn’t be picking at you.

But once the interview is over and the two of you sit across from each other in silence, the reality of how weird this all really is makes you laugh softly.

“What?”

“This,” you wave your hand around, the room you were currently in, the chair you were currently sitting in costing more than any salary you knew you’d ever make to live, let alone live in. “It’s kind of..”

“Weird.” Bruce finishes for you.

“Yes,” you smile and your stomach clenches when he returns it. It actually reaching his eyes. “I’m sure you never thought you’d have a journalist in your house, let alone your nurse and sometimes bedmate.” You tease.

His chuckle is soft as he shakes his head, “no, can’t say I ever really thought of it.”

The silence returns but this time it’s more comfortable, your eyes continuing their gazing throughout the room. Each time you find something new, something you didn't see before, some new weird object, or piece of furniture. You wonder if Bruce had decorated the place himself, you can't see it being one of his main priorities in life; a beautiful home.

Which makes you wonder, “where do you do all your vengeance stuff?” You turn back to him, see the amusement on his face falter just a bit, “the infamous Batman does have a lair does he not?”

And have one he did.

You hadn’t expected anything more than maybe a desk, his bike, and whatever else supplies it took to be Batman. But when you step from the elevator, your ears ringing with the sounds of flapping wings and screeches, the scent of motor oil and cleaning product, the source of the cold draft making goosebumps scatter across your flesh; it was not as you pictured it all.

It had been less spacious but at the same time vast, more cave-like. Your eyes going every which way as you watched the nighttime creatures flap around, Bruce showing indifference on his face, as usual. You couldn’t imagine getting anything done with those things around, but maybe that was just another peek into who Bruce was; he felt more comfortable around these creatures than he did people. Related to them in more ways than one, you were sure. So you hesitated to let your mind outwardly judge him for it, to paint this space something else other than what it was used for, what Bruce himself seemed to use it for, need it for; everyone had their own sanctuaries, safe havens, where they could take off the mask of the day and just be. This space was that for him, and by the look of slight unease on his features as you looked around, touched this, glanced at that, stared a little too long at his computer screens that display a gruesome scene, Bruce quickly turning off the monitors, worry is in his eyes; he had never brought anyone here before, let them into this crevice of his being.

Your heart ached at that knowledge.

Your fingers run along the hunk of metal on wheels that seems to take up most of the space, the dents and bullet holes indicating all you need to know of what it’s used for, or when he drives it. Impressive nonetheless.

“I bet this gets all the girls, huh?” You turn and shoot him a teasing look, your chest leaping when he gives that soft chuckle for the second time today. Hell must've froze over.

He doesn’t respond, only makes his way over to you. Watches you, takes you in fully like he can’t really believe you are here and that he’s shown you all that he has. You feel his fingertips graze against yours, feel his heat as he closes the distance between the two of you, slowly, cautiously. The tension in the air drifting to something else, back to what the two of you are used to. And when his lips press to yours, your back flush against the hunk of metal, his hands splayed across your hips; your insides are burning with feelings that are much different than you usually feel when his lips are to yours, or his hands on you.

It doesn’t take much scattering around your brain to pinpoint that it could be a dozen different feelings, but you settle on gratefulness. It had been a spoken—screamed—sentiment that you wanted, needed, more from him. Needed for him to let you in and actually see him for more than just what he was showing, letting you peek at a safe distance. The bloody gauze of wounds and torn hearts trailing the way to how the two of you finally ended up here. At this moment. With Bruce actually giving you those things—some of those things, the interview being the real only reason you were here, how you learned what his favorite color was, nothing else, you had to remind yourself.

A reminder that sizzled and threatened to burn out the deeper the kiss got. The more you felt the cold of the metal, felt his hands run up your sides, his cologne engulfing all of your senses, the creaks and cracks and drafts of the manor; you were here and Bruce was trying. You couldn’t ask for more right now, nor did you want to. Poking holes into the reality of everything could come later. Right now you were here and his fingers were dangerously close to slipping past the top of your jeans, the heat of his mouth hazing your brain. Morphing your thoughts to only Bruce Bruce Bruce. Feeling him, tasting him, letting him grip you from the inside out until you were nothing but a mess for him.

His lips pull away from yours, the look in his eyes that dark wanting you know so well. He parts his lips like he might say something but the words never come, just hot puffs of air from heavy breath.

And before you can think twice about ruining the moment, to just go back to kissing and his fingers resting on the button of your jeans; you’re already throbbing for him. Your heart speaks before your mind can, “Thank you.” His brow quirks a little, but he says nothing. “I know how hard this is for you, to bring me here, to let me see all of this.”

You’ve screamed at this man, yelled, declared your love, your hate, devotion. Moaned his name, begged to taste yourself on his tongue, and yet your voice is more shaky than it’s ever been. Almost timid. Cautious with your words, hoping, praying that what you say doesn’t make him turn in on himself again. To swiftly drag you away and back to your shitty apartment and only seeing him bloodied, once again. Returning to old habits and notions.

“I wish I knew how hard, the depth of it all.” You admit, not hesitating to add that you are grateful for what he has shown you, for his unspoken vulnerability. “You can trust me, Bruce. I have blood on my hands too, thanks to the Batman.” You joke softly. Your arms wrapping around his neck, forehead pressed to his. You see him close his eyes, take in a few long breaths.

His mouth opens to say something but then the elevator is moving, indicating another person coming down. Bruce pulls away from you, that rigidness back in his shoulders as his attention is turned to the graying man who steps from the elevators open doors.

Alfred.

“Ah, I believe we have yet to be introduced.” The older man smiles, holds out a hand for you as Bruce steals your voice away and does the introductions for the two of you; flashing Alfred a look that makes you bite back a smile—was he nervous? “It’s nice to finally meet you. I wondered when I would be so fortunate to meet the person who’s stitching is almost as good as mine.” He playfully jabs and it makes the two of you laugh. Bruce looking more brooding than ever as he watches the interaction, a strand of hair falling just across his eye, your fingers twitching at the urge to move it out of his face; flashes of times when you’d moved his hair from his eyes in more intimate settings scattering your brain. And you didn't know how much he had told Alfred about your relationship—whatever it was.

The two of you slip into casual conversation, Bruce contributing with a few soft grunts and pointed comments here and there but otherwise still silently watching on. You feel his eyes linger on your face, the movement of your lips as you talk. Feel the heat of his gaze making your stomach queasy with nerves and flutters—that you don’t trust yourself to steal a glance over at him. Afraid that whatever look was currently on your face would have you stuttering or worse.

“You should stay for dinner,” Alfred smiles. “Bruce barely eats as is and this will be a good excuse for him to actually join me at the table for once–not to mention get more nourishment than a few berries.” He’s giving a pointed look at the other, you see Bruce swallow down a grimace—does he not want you to stay? Or did he just not like Alfred’s caring, almost fatherly, sentiments. You didn't know as much and you figured, for the sake of not ruining the good day Bruce and you were having from stepping on his toes unintentionally; maybe dinner would be taking it too far, maybe he wasn't ready for that yet, you planned on saying no.

But then Bruce is mumbling, “Stay”, that word seeming to be your kryptonite when it comes to this man. The one word that could ruin you and put you back together.

And so you accept.

The dinner goes just as you suspected it to; Bruce only adding to the conversation here and there, him picking at the food on his plate, much like a child would. But by the look of joy on Alfred’s face it's probably more than he’s eaten in a while. Alfred shares stories of Bruce’s youth when his parents were alive, after they passed, Bruce looking elsewhere and adding nothing to this part of the conversation; you see him tightly grip his fork when one sweet story is told about him and his father—and you know, everyone knows, the tragedy that Bruce must of felt and gone through upon losing his parents. But seeing his body go rigid from the conversation and his neutral demeanor turn dark, you understand just a little bit more why he would never give up his alter ego, stop living his double life. You can see that pain, and why the Batman is the salve for it.

When the conversation deverts to you—unfortunately—you answer Alfred’s questions with a smile, “I think what drove me to be a journalist was my mother,” you explain. “I remember her reading to me, not just storybooks before bed, but even the morning paper sometimes,” you laugh, “which surely did not have things a young child should be hearing. But that’s something I always loved most about my mother, she never sugarcoated anything. Never kept me from the real world, the cruelty of it, the darkness of it all. She always captured the importance of the story when she read it back to me, making sure I knew how important it was for people to know the true colors of others. How one false statement could turn someone into a god or a decibel, when they were actually really the devil.”

You don't realize how lost in your thoughts you are, and the words spilling from your mouth like word vomit until you look over to Bruce and his expression is unreadable, but makes your stomach tense with something. You quickly grab the wine beside your plate taking a long sip, swallowing down those feelings.

“Is your mother still in your life?” Alfred asks, gently, politely.

“No,” you frown, your voice going just above a whisper. You never really talked about the tragedy of your mother. Choosing to dismiss it all together to save yourself the headache—and therapy bill. A method that's worked for you thus far. “She died when I was around thirteen. My father, he uh…cared more about his next drink and putting hands on my mother, than all else. And one night he hit her a little too hard and that was all it took.” You take another sip of your wine to distract yourself from looking at both of their surprises eyes, and devastatingly pitying faces. It never bothered you to speak about your mother and her passing anymore, or your shit father. The only thing that seemed to bother you from speaking of it was how everyone reacted. Like they were now putting the pieces together in their head as to why you did this, said that, acted the way you did and it all made sense. And you hated that. Thought it was pathetic to label someone with that type of judgment for their past.

But had that not been what you had done countless times with Bruce?

Your stomach sinks at the thought. By the way his eyes shift away from yours when you finally look over at him.

“I’m so very sorry to hear that, dear.” Alfred gives you a soft smile, and like he understands completely, he changes the subject promptly to better topics.

“I didn’t know about your parents.” Bruce is looking down as he walks beside you to the front door. The evening coming to an end, the time you spent in his space, the only calm in his life—that you know he barely allows himself to stop and enjoy. The feeling in your stomach is bittersweet.

“How could you,” you laugh softly. “We only talk about you and your counter-bat.” You give him a teasing smile but there's a slight wounded look on his face from your joke—that maybe came off more as a dig.“I guess I’m like you in that aspect, if no one asks I dont have to tell. I have my mother to thank for my ability to keep secrets. It's one of my best attributes, I think you would agree.” You give him a small reassuring smile, which he returns. The corner of his mouth pulling up in a lopsided grin. You think you’ve lost count how many times you've seen that smile today, can't wrap your head around this alternate reality you've stepped into. But know you don't want to leave it. Not yet. Not ever.

A silence falls over the two of you, Bruce looking at you with that same expression you can't quite decipher; it still leaves your chest with an ache and stomach in shambles nonetheless. The sun has set by now making the light from the moon cast an eerie glow around the manor, the gothic features and architecture washed in a nightly glow more suited for them, more ominous.

“I should go, it’s late.” The two of you had planned to leave and head back to your place as it is, this little tryst in the hall halting your actions mere feet from the door before you passed the threshold of the manor, of this side of Bruce you craved to burrow yourself in, to stay. But deep in your gut it was telling you that this moment of calm between the two of you was impossible to stay unscathed. There would always be knives, scratches, and blood when it came to the two of you. Darkness and apprehension. Terror and fear of ones heart and ones darkened outer edges that would bring on more fights, more wanting, more misunderstandings. You didn't think, even after everything, that this new ground between the two of you could make anything better, easier. Because you knew Bruce, knew how he liked to close in on himself once he showed you his sides, let you in only to shut you out when things got too dark.

And it made your chest sting, ache, crack. You had been engulfed in another part of him, peered into his head, his home, his darkened heart and you didn't want out. Nails and torn skin were only to come when he dragged you out of it.

You turn from him, take a step to head for the door, but then his wrist is wrapping around yours to stop you from moving, keeping you still in time. “Stay.” Your heart lurches in your chest. Bruce pulls you back to him, so your fronts are pressed close together. His palm going to the side of your neck, his thumb pushing your chin up to you’re looking up at him, into his murky blue eyes. “Stay.”

You've been a fool many times, with many things, but right now, this moment, was not one of them. How could you deny this? Deny him? How could you ever leave this manor feeling whole if you didn’t stay, do what your heart desires, what your insides flutter and soar over. Of course you’d stay, you’d always stay for him. Every part of him.

And when his lips touch yours and the two of you don't pull away until you are inside of his room; Bruce helping you slip out of your clothes, pressing a kiss to your collarbone, the top of your breasts, your abdomen, your hips, as he does. Until you are completely naked in front of him and he pulls you to the bed, where he crawls on top of you, lets his heat sink into every pour on your skin, continuing his singeing of every nerve of your body, every opening, until he’s blocked it, consumed it with just him.

His hips move languid and slow between your legs, his cock drags and fills you with a new notion, a new feeling, a new promise. His praises landing on your lips and swallowed down by your devotion, your love. This type of fucking is soft, intimate, its an act of lust so filled with other feelings that it hurts, but mends within the same thrust. Within the same kiss, suck, bite. It fills you and takes away, it promises more but still adds that fear of going away forever.

You’re not used to it, so much so that you feel in agony, feel like a fucked out mess more than you do when Bruce takes you roughly, unrelenting. It makes your stomach churn and bubble with things that won't last, that need it to last. It's more painful than his teeth sinking into your skin; and yet you want to feel it over and over again.

When you wake it's in the middle of the night, the cool air of the room nipping your back as you lay half across Bruce’s chest. You're surprised to see him sleeping, smile at how calm he actually looks. The deep sighs and intakes of breath as he actually lets himself get rest. You can't recall a time ever seeing him sleep, let alone spending a full night with him. It warms your heart in the same way it burns it.

You brush the strands of hair that have fallen across his eyes, let your fingertips linger against his skin for a beat, a second, let the beauty of this man make your chest heave and long for him. Deepen that love for him, that want.

You try to fall back asleep but can't seem to silence your thoughts, your mind asking a million questions you do not have the answers to, and may never have the answers to. Deciding that slipping out of bed to distract yourself is your best bet, grabbing Bruce’s black t-shirt to cover you as you quietly leave his room and explore around the manor.

Once you get far enough you curse yourself for not putting on pants, or at least the clothes you came in. What if Alfred didn't sleep, much like Bruce; Imagine the awkwardness that would ensue if he happened upon you only wearing a shirt and underwear. You turn to tip toe back to the room, but then distraction takes over and you find yourself stopping at a door on the way; opened enough to showcase the massive collection of shelves filled with books, and when you push the door open wider you can see the somewhat set up of an office—mostly books, a small library more like it.

You find yourself gravitating into the room, running your finger along the shelves and book spines. Smile at all the classics that seem to be taking up the majority of them, wonder if Bruce has read them all, or if all of these belonged to his parents, or maybe even Alfred. Grabbing one of the books, you lean yourself against a shelf and flip through it mindlessly. Let your eyes scan over a paragraph here and there. Your mind drifting to a place of solemn calm that you don’t hear, or see, the figure at the doorway. Not until it’s said something and you’re jumping out of your skin.

“Looking for family secrets?”

Bruce’s voice is filled with sleep, deep and rough. There's still exhaustion in his eyes, the dark circles around them still apparent. A small smile creeps up onto his lips that eventually turns into a laugh that the two of you share as you try to catch your breath from being spooked.

“Have you read all of these?” You ask, turning the book over in your hands before you turn to place it back in its rightful place. Your eyes skating over the rest on the shelf.

“Yes,” he answers softly. “Most of them.”

Your eyes continue to scan the shelves, pulling out a few to gaze at their covers before pushing them back in place. Bruce is silent behind you, his footsteps light as you hear him make his way into the room; don’t know he is right behind you until you feel the heat of his chest radiating off of his body and onto your back. His fingers run up and down your arms making you shiver slightly, making reality come back to you. Making you want to speak words of sentiment and questioning, when you know deep down you won’t get the answers you seek. You’ll only ruin this moment, this time spent with him in this house; burning it to ash like every other sweet moment between the two of you ends up.

But you can’t help yourself. Can’t hold your tongue any longer. The feelings bubbling up inside of you from everything that happened earlier tonight.

“What are we doing here, Bruce?” Your voice is soft, gentle.

You expect to feel him go rigid against you as his fingers stop, as he grips your arms with a light hold. Instead you feel the press of his forehead against the back of your head, feel his deep breaths fan across your skin. There’s a slight shake to his voice when he finally speaks, “I’m trying. I don’t know how to offer more—what you need.” He sighs, “but I’m trying.”

Flutters, lurches, concaving. It’s all you feel your insides doing, leaving you barely breathing. Shaking. When you turn, let your eyes meet his and see the desperate look of understanding, hope, need, desire, your response dies on your lips. It swallowed down shakily, dismissed entirely. You don’t think there is truly anything you could say right now, could bring to the surface that would make this moment anymore ardent than it already is.

He’s trying. It’s all you wanted all along, all of this. For the both of you. Even if no matter how hard the two of you try it will be covered in blood and scars at the end of the day. It’s yours. You’re together. For worse or for substandard; Bruce was all that you wanted.

You press your lips to his, passion quickly turning into greed; teeth and tongue mixed. Hands removing clothes, Bruce’s palms on the backs of your thighs as he lifts you up, your back pressed against one of the shelves.

His mouth is hot and unrelenting, bruising your lips with how rough he kisses you, how deeply passionate it conveys. Those ever known unspoken words continue to write themselves in these kisses you share together.

You can feel the heat of his cock against your thigh, the warmth of it burning an unfathomable desire through your skin and to your core. That’s growing slicker and slicker by the minute, with every grip of his fingers, every bite of your lips, neck, ear. Every touch of his tongue. The two of you having had each other mere hours ago, but needing more. Craving more, like your last meal, last breath, your body getting carried away to the guillotine; imprinting the need and desire to feel him, to be completely consumed by him no better than a beautiful death, a death worth succumbing to.

“I want you,” his voice is merely a whisper against your lips, his hair falling in his face, chest heavy.

You swallow down the emotions that are begging to be released; tears, screams, love notions. Your palms move his hair from his eyes so you can see him, so you can press your hands to his cheeks, “I’m yours.” You whisper before pressing your lips back to his.

One of his hands moves from your thigh to guide his cock to your entrance, and when he thrusts in it’s hard and makes your back slam against the shelf behind you. Makes you moan loudly against his mouth, his own groan coming out like rough gravel against your tongue. Cutting you deep and beautifully. And then his hand is back on your other thigh gripping, keeping you in place as he fucks into you hard and fast.

The two of you completely ensnared in each other, completely taken and consumed by what this is now, what it’s grown to be.

Your nails dig into Bruce’s back the harder he fucks you, your walls clenching around him, sore and swollen. His breath is hot against your neck, his pants and groans deep and animalistically fueled with pleasure and lust.

You don’t pay much mind to how bruised you’re sure your back is getting from how hard he is fucking you, or the books that have fallen from the shelves around the two of you. Or how much noise you are making—not caring if you were to wake anyone. No, all that matters is right here, right now, how good Bruce’s cock feels, how sharp and deep his thrusts are. How you’re sure you’re leaving deep welted scratches on his back, how the pain mixes with pleasure, with your love; how you never want it to end.

Bruce Wayne and cunnilingis or somnophilia pls

set the night on fire

ೃ⁀➷ bruce wayne x afab reader

ೃ⁀➷ word count 358

ೃ⁀➷ a/n: this is just a short drabble! hope you enjoy!

ೃ⁀➷ warnings: somno, cunnilingus

ೃ⁀➷ please reblog & leave a comment with your thoughts 🫶🏻

╰➤ linktree ╰➤ pinterest╰➤ requests open check rules

there was nothing as delicious as the taste of your pussy.

it was still dark when bruce roused from his sleep. he stared at the outline of your curves. your breaths were deep, chest rising and falling softly. the bed sheets curled around your naked frame.

bruce leaned his face into your neck, taking a deep breath, relishing your scent.

he did not want to wake you up, but he just wanted a taste, just a small taste. he knelt at the foot of the huge bed, in front of your feet.

the fingers of each hand curled around each of your ankles, slowly opening your legs.

bruce crawled into your space, leaning his head on your inner thighs, his eyes honed into your glistening pussy. he swiped a finger through your cunt, sliding your folds open. collecting your juices. he brought the finger to his lips and closed his eyes in bliss.

yea, just one taste was not going to be enough.

he placed his head closer, his nose breathing in your delicious fragrance. it was instinctual, he licked a stripe up your cunt, his destination? your clit. he scraped it softly with his top teeth. your hips spasmed and you murmured something in your sleep but did not wake. he swirled his tongue on your throbbing clit, but he wanted more. he went lower, sliding his tongue inside you, lapping at every little drop of you he could reach. he felt your gummy walls clench around him, a strangled moan left your lips before his mouth was flooded with your cum, he licked and sucked every last drop, and did not stop. your hips jerking with sensitivity.

he let out a guttural moan when he felt your nails scrape his skull, he looked up at you through his lashes,

your back was arched in pleasure, thighs clenched around his head.

“bruce~” you whined.

“you taste so good baby, i can’t help myself, i don’t have the resolve to wait until you wake.”

“well, i’m up mr. wayne, how about you go back to what you were doing huh? bruce?”

he was more than happy to oblige

Bruce Wayne and cunnilingis or somnophilia pls

set the night on fire

ೃ⁀➷ bruce wayne x afab reader

ೃ⁀➷ word count 358

ೃ⁀➷ a/n: this is just a short drabble! hope you enjoy!

ೃ⁀➷ warnings: somno, cunnilingus

ೃ⁀➷ please reblog & leave a comment with your thoughts 🫶🏻

╰➤ linktree ╰➤ pinterest╰➤ requests open check rules

there was nothing as delicious as the taste of your pussy.

it was still dark when bruce roused from his sleep. he stared at the outline of your curves. your breaths were deep, chest rising and falling softly. the bed sheets curled around your naked frame.

bruce leaned his face into your neck, taking a deep breath, relishing your scent.

he did not want to wake you up, but he just wanted a taste, just a small taste. he knelt at the foot of the huge bed, in front of your feet.

the fingers of each hand curled around each of your ankles, slowly opening your legs.

bruce crawled into your space, leaning his head on your inner thighs, his eyes honed into your glistening pussy. he swiped a finger through your cunt, sliding your folds open. collecting your juices. he brought the finger to his lips and closed his eyes in bliss.

yea, just one taste was not going to be enough.

he placed his head closer, his nose breathing in your delicious fragrance. it was instinctual, he licked a stripe up your cunt, his destination? your clit. he scraped it softly with his top teeth. your hips spasmed and you murmured something in your sleep but did not wake. he swirled his tongue on your throbbing clit, but he wanted more. he went lower, sliding his tongue inside you, lapping at every little drop of you he could reach. he felt your gummy walls clench around him, a strangled moan left your lips before his mouth was flooded with your cum, he licked and sucked every last drop, and did not stop. your hips jerking with sensitivity.

he let out a guttural moan when he felt your nails scrape his skull, he looked up at you through his lashes,

your back was arched in pleasure, thighs clenched around his head.

“bruce~” you whined.

“you taste so good baby, i can’t help myself, i don’t have the resolve to wait until you wake.”

“well, i’m up mr. wayne, how about you go back to what you were doing huh? bruce?”

he was more than happy to oblige

Fateful Beginnings

XXXI. “deflection”

parts: previous / next

plot: Bruce takes care of you.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, drugging, concussion

words: 4.8k

a/n: the title… did we really expect anything more from Bruce? 💀

“…Bruce Wayne?”

You sought to cover up your heaving chest, to close your wide eyes, to look any nanogram less suspicious than you did, but you needed to think. But you didn’t have time to think. Her eyes took an occasional pit stop on yours, otherwise they watched Bruce slowly go back to picking up the broken glass. There was no other way around it. You didn’t have a pretty way to say it, so you just did. “Yeah.” You gulped. “My phone, it, called him.”

The drum of pain in your head took a backseat to the adrenaline coursing through you. How disorienting is it for her to find out right now? Even with the drugs in her system, even after being pummeled into the concrete, you knew by the glint in her eye that she was drawing a list of ten thousand different questions to throw at you the second you were alone. You wondered how much the drugs lowered her inhibitions, and if she would risk asking you right then. How long have you guys been fucking, and how long were you gonna wait to tell me?

Bruce stood up, having successfully wiped enough of the biggest shards to direct his attention to the situation at hand. He smiled at her, only a bit. “Hi. You’re Y/N’s friend, correct?”

He wasn’t making this go down easy. He could’ve come in swinging with an explanation of why he’d dropped in, and would’ve made it look seamless. Why wasn’t he leveraging his charisma? Making things more and more suspicious, a grave you’d have to fight to dig out of?

She responded, without any body language indicating she was about to introduce herself. Still as a statue, like a deer in headlights. “Yeah. Margaret. Marie.” She waited a moment, then turned and stumbled back to your room with urgency. You carefully stepped around the glass and ignored Bruce’s hushed calls after you.

You shut the door, hoping the adrenaline would see you through the end of this conversation without passing out from pain. Quick steps caught up to you when you sat beside her; you desired nothing greater than to fall back on your pillow and sleep the night out of memory. Seemed like Bruce would never let you hear the end of it if you did. Something, something needed to monitor something, something concussion.

Surprisingly, she was angry yet restrained. You might’ve been in awe of it if she didn’t assume straightaway that you’d had less than pure intentions with the man. “When were you going to tell me?” Mar’s voice was still hazy, slurry, but her mission wasn’t. “Keeping the fucking boyfriend,” she paused, looking like she might throw up from the drug. “Of all boyfriends,” Sigh. “A s-secret.”

You started to disagree with her but she was forthright. “Too fucked to talk.” She shot you a glare and stood, walking slowly to the bathroom. You followed her, a silent agreement between the both of you to make sure the other was okay. She moved to the shower right after, and you felt a pull toward the kitchen to let Bruce know everything was all good—but you didn’t. You waited with her, got out a clean towel, and only left for a few seconds to grab her clothes once the water turned off and she was on the slip-resistant mat.

Once she was safely tucked into bed, you wandered back out to Bruce, who was sitting sunk into the couch cushions; he perked when you walked out, scooting to the edge of the couch. As far as asking about how the conversation went, it eluded him; it felt too self-indulgent for the circumstance. He did another glance at the whole of you before meeting your tired gaze. You noted the broom sitting rested against the counter.

You gestured back to your room. “She’s going to sleep.”

“You can’t check on her like that.” He saw the way you leaned against the fridge to steady yourself, and the fluttering of your eyelids every time you took a step or said a single syllable. “I’m staying.”

“No.” Shaking your head was a mistake; the room began to wiggle, and he stood abruptly before you held out a hand to keep him from walking over.

“And she can’t check on you.” His tone was firmly in hardheaded territory, ratcheting up a notch every time you refused to heed it. If you were any less encumbered by pain you would’ve told him off for being so autocratic. In lieu of an argument, you slowly balanced one foot in front of the other to sit on the far side of the couch. You pressed your head gently against the back cushion and wheezed–stomach sleeping tonight, I guess.

Like a goddamn seismometer, Bruce attuned to your every twitch and wince with precision. “I’ll run to get some meds.” He walked to the door and looked back, noticing you peer at him through sleepy, sore eyes. He’d have to hurry. In anticipation of your protest, he left speedily.

Relax… You shut your eyes and tried to make the room spin a bit less. With Bruce no longer polluting the environment, you were able to take some deep breaths that made you realize your stomach was cramping. You managed to get to the kitchen and grab a few slices of bread off the back of a loaf, and nibbled at them while you sat.

“Hey.” You awoke to a gentle tap on your shoulder. Bruce was standing with a plastic bag in one hand, a glass of water in the other. It freaked you out how quiet he could be. A just-opened bottle of Tylenol sat on the floor below him, the top punctured in the shape of his thumb. You slowly pushed up, the world even more bleary now that you’d gotten a nap in, and he handed you a branded pill. As you swallowed it he squatted and dug out an instant cold pack, rattling it and squeezing it before walking to the kitchen to grab a rag.

“Your head felt hot earlier. Might have a bump.” He handed over the cloth-wrapped cold pack and you settled it against your pulsing, aching scalp. After a minute it began to soothe the throb. You muttered a thanks and rested your eyes. On the precipice of dreamland, he startled you awake.

“Is there anyone you want to call?” He was at the kitchen counter removing the rest of the items from the baggie. You didn’t strain your vision to see what he got. “Someone has to check on you every two hours.” He turned and tucked something into the fridge, and moved the broom back to the closet. Seeing him navigate your apartment so seamlessly was disorienting.

You’d begun forming a sarcastic response before remembering you’d told him not to stay. The evening was shifting in and out of focus; you thought he was being too anal, but… ugh. He was right. Two people in different states of fucked up, the most conscious one with a head injury. It wasn’t overbearing, but he made it seem so.

For a split second you considered calling Rai; Mar and him had met briefly last year, twice or thrice while you were getting late-night snacks together after your edibles had kicked in, or coming home from a night out–but you didn’t want to bother him. It didn’t bother you to inconvenience Bruce.

The fridge light illuminated the back of his hand and you saw the thick scabs; he’d acted so normal tonight you’d forgotten all about it. Lost in your own attack. It would be nice to keep an eye on him, figuratively, as you were certain you were about to pass the hell out. You’d know his whereabouts. Be able to know if he freaked out. You wondered what Mar would think about having a strange man, a fucking celebrity she’d only seen in the news, wandering around alone while she slept vulnerably in the other room. It didn’t sit right. You needed to stay up.

You fought the sleep that tore at your eyelids and noticed him opening a Red Bull. You gestured to it and his brow furrowed. He held it up as if to ask, ‘this?’ and shook his head. “Caffeine isn’t good after a head injury. You need to rest.”

Your voice was muted, your body hurtling towards sleep. “She doesn’t know you.” The cold pack was helping quite a bit; that, or he got rapid-acting pain meds. Bruce looked down, seemingly in thoughtful consideration.

He knew what you weren’t saying. Only a willful idiot would argue about the implications of a man patrolling an apartment late at night; especially given the circumstances. He’d helped enough roofied women to know how wobbly they were; he’d overheard enough at the station (and personally stopped more than a handful) about how the men in Gotham orchestrated their assaults and scrambled the minds of their victims so they couldn’t properly testify. He remembered how still you’d gone after graduation. How you refused to be alone with him. Then, after the interview: how you’d lingered on every piece of his outfit and glanced to the corner of the alleyway to look for a street name.

“I don’t have anyone to call.” It was said sheepishly. Pathetically. At least, that’s how it sounded in your head. He mused a moment more and asked for your phone. “I can set it up to record video in the kitchen. You can turn it off when you wake up.” He walked over and held out his hand for it. “Whatever makes you comfortable.”

If he weren’t Batman that would’ve raised your suspicions. If you hadn’t already spent multiple nights alone in his house without problems when he hated you, you might have hesitated more than you did. As it stood, you forced yourself to trust your body, trust what you knew of his record, and let yourself fucking rest.

He turned on the sound before hitting record, showing you he was pressing it and placing it against a cup on the stove. Luckily you still had your charger on the counter, which he plugged in, then sat at the table. Your eyes were heavy. You gave in.

“Hey.” You opened your eyes to see Bruce standing next to you, holding up four fingers. The black around his eyes confused you until you blinked a few. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

You murmured a response. “Four.”

“What’s your name?”

“Y/N.”

“Okay.” He turned, and your eyes closed to the sight of his jacket.

“What year is it?”

You opened your eyes again. The room was a bit brighter now. “Uh, 2024.”

“What’s my name?”

“Bruce.”

“Good.”

You fell asleep again to the sight of his back, and the dense woven fabric of his jacket.

“Where are you right now?”

God, you were positively exhausted, and irritated as hell. “Couch.”

“Whose couch?”

“Mine.”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

He held up a peace sign. “Two.”

He peered closer. “Let me see your eyes.” He grabbed his phone and shined the flashlight at your face, and you yelped. He startled. “Sorry.” He leaned closer and searched your irises, telling you to follow along with the light. You felt the soft breeze of his exhale on the tip of your nose. Satisfied, he turned it off and pulled back. You blinked as tears sprung to wet your eyelids. “How’s the ice treating you?”

You felt the mushy warmth of the ice pack, and slowly reached around to pull it out from under you. The rag was soaked with condensation, and you handed it off to him. “Fine.” You mustered the strength to roll over and quickly sank back into sleep.

“How many–”

You gasped and sat up, his perfect reflexes snapping to attention, narrowly missing his outstretched hand from whacking your forehead on the upswing. “Ow!” Your hand flew up to your temple and he reached below him for the glass of water and meds. “It’s time for another dose.”

You swallowed and gulped, and glared at him as you answered his finger questions. “Seven.” God! Your body was lit up with rage at having been interrupted; it was hard to shake, rattling around in your bones. SLEEP!

You felt a gentle tap, and when you opened your eyes next, your head wasn’t in excruciating misery. The room was brighter, even as the curtains had been closed, and you smelled burning. Mar grinned at you. “Whew, thought you might be comatose.” She popped the rest of her toast in her mouth. “You should probably wake up, it’s like three.”

Bruce rose from where he was at the table. Mar leaned in and whispered to you, and you strained to hear her. “He wanted to stay until you woke up. In case he needed to drive you to the hospital. Said after drugging and shit you can’t drive for like, a day.” She grinned to herself and held out her hand for you to take, her voice going back to normal speaking volume. “C’mon, I managed to make some pancakes with your empty-ass pantry.”

Why is she so casual about this? About being drugged? About being here? About him? “I uh,” You cleared your throat, your body existing in a strange liminal space between last night and healed. “I need help picking an outfit,”

She guided you to your room and you avoided looking at Bruce, now acutely aware that he’d spent the entire night basically staring at you sleep while you were covered in dirt and sweat. She shut the door and you plopped on the bed. She went to your dresser like you had actually meant it, not that you needed a moment alone. “Mar.”

“Hmm?” She spun around and looked at you for a second, her mouth curling into a smirk. “You little witch.”

“What?”

“I can see it.” She nodded to herself, sucking on her teeth to a smack at the end of it. Her hands gestured from you to the door and back, the mischievous smile crinkling her eyes. “You and him, him and you.”

God, when did she get so happy? You hadn’t known she’d be acting like it was her birthday the second she perceived you betrothed. “Are you good? Your body? Head?”

She continued on like you hadn’t spoken. Her singsongy tone and energetic posture answered for you, you figured. She paced the room with nearly a skip in her step. “Were you with him that one time, before Mora’s? Oh, I knew it!” She snapped her fingers and gasped excitedly. “Ooh, scandalous.” A lightbulb had gone off, apparently. She walked closer to you with her eyes wide, her mouth parted. “Sleeping with your client, I see.” She winked at you and gasped again. “That’s crazy. Ahh!!” She squealed and you shushed her, your ears going red. “Stop.”

“I can see why you wanted to keep it a secret.” She was practically hyperverbal, and you couldn’t see a way in that wasn’t physically closing her lips between your fingers. “People would assume you only got it because you fucked him. Which isn’t true, obviously. You can be a bomb journalist and still let yourself have fun.” She winked at you again and you wanted to vomit. “You trained him well, I gotta give you kudos. He wasn’t giving anything away.”

Your stomach did somersaults at the thought of her drilling him about whether or not you two were together. The knots were painful, not fun. “Mar.” You tried to borrow Bruce’s tone from the night before. It didn’t make a dent.

Her thoughts were getting away from her, all tumbling out together. “That makes sense, with that, yeah! And then… yup. And the staying in Gotham! Wow. Was that the night he officially asked you out? Did you give him an ultimatum? I feel like he’d be hard to pin down otherwise. God, fucking BRUCE WAYNE are you fucking serious!” She doubled over, giggling. Your chest panged not exactly as it had when you’d met your friends for coffee, but it was similar enough to sting.

“We’re not together.”

“Uh huh.” She winked again, waltzing back to the dresser. “Why else would he stay here all night worried about you? Comfortable enough for you to accept him staying over… yeah, yeah.”

“We are not together.”

“You have sweats, shorts, or leggings. What do you want?” She thumbed through your middle drawer.

“Look at me.”

She grabbed a pair of sweats and tossed them to your left on the bed. You glared at her. “I promise you, we are not, will not, will never be together.” You said it as loud as you could without risking him hearing. You didn’t want him knowing you talked about him. That you were still having to talk about this. That everyone in your life had been hounding him about your ‘relationship’, making it seem like whenever he left the room you couldn’t stop gushing. Now you were on damage control.

Mar took her phone out of her pocket and rolled her eyes. “Ugh. Gianna is gonna pick me up.”

“Why ‘ugh’?”

She held up a black screen. “Phone’s dead. We’re gonna get some coffee and head back to her place.” She sipped on some water you hadn’t realized was sitting on your dresser. “Wanna come?”

Thursday. “No, sorry. I have work tonight.”

“You’re still going?”

“The candidates will probably be there. Can’t miss it.”

KNOCK KNOCK. Mar set down her glass and nodded to you, scooping up her clothes from the night before. “Thank you, for everything. Text me later. After you and Mr. Wayne get some alone time.” She winked again like she was doing you a favor, like she hadn’t heard anything you’d said, and walked out to the front door. She hesitated before opening it and turned to him. She said something you couldn’t hear and then pointed to your bedroom.

Bruce walked into your room with his eyes down and walked toward the far wall. Then you watched Mar open the door and leave, half of Gianna’s face in view before they left in a flurry of laughter.

You were the first to glance up, you thought, but he was already looking at you. He nodded. “How’s your head?” His voice had more roughness than even the weekend had given him, and you could only imagine it was from both having to stay up all night and the next day, and probably talk more than he ever had before. Mar was nothing if not an extrovert.

You carefully shifted in bed and cleared your throat. “Good. I mean. Hurts. But fine. Better.” You looked down again, his unwavering gaze settling onto you like a weighted blanket that was too heavy. “Thanks, again. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Said in the same no-nonsense tone. Like you were trying to say the Earth was flat. Like you were looking at a dog and calling it a cat, and he didn’t have time for tussling about it. He walked briskly past you and back to the kitchen, and you felt beckoned, with no signal from him to follow. You followed on his heels again, feeling a subtle role reversal. Now that your head was a manageable throb, you had all hands on deck to hyperanalyze his mental state.

Except, walking into the kitchen felt like being naked. He was putting breakfast away, placing the remnants onto a plate you assumed was for you. You noticed your phone sitting on the counter and reached for it; it was hot, and when you ended the recording you weren’t sure it would save a fourteen hour video. But it did. What fucking secrets did this hold?

Rip the bandaid off. “I see you met my friend.” Weird! Reroute! “She said you talked.” You instantly regretted opening the can of worms, not wanting to know, not wanting to discuss it…

He nodded as he rinsed off the pan. “She’s nice.” He pondered a second, as if deciding whether or not to share more. You bit your cheek. “Protective.”

You hoped he wasn’t aware of how red your cheeks were. She was gonna get a mass of texts later. Breathe. She was fucking drugged, maybe she didn’t even mean to be like that. The warm brick in your hands held the scripture, and you couldn’t stop the curiosity bubbling to hear what his take was before watching it back. “How so?”

Poking the bear was fun as ever, because he abruptly stopped cleaning and gave you a sideways look. He shrugged, then the absolute faintest of grins tugged the corner of his mouth. “Said she’d fuck me up.”

It was funny. He’d been the one to save you both from getting fucked up, and here your friend had come at four in the morning with her pitchfork.

The next part blurted out of you like an exorcism. You couldn’t bear the thought of him thinking he filled your thoughts when he was away, that you giggled into corners, whispering in the ear of whoever was nearby about your wildest dreams and fantasies. “I don’t talk about you, by the way.”

He looked at you, expression unreadable. He was quiet for too long, his hands slowing as he continued his wash and rinse. Buying time. As he clinked the last plate onto the rack, he sighed. You thought he might say something, but he didn’t. Now you felt embarrassed. “How are you doing?”

His face squished together, weirded out. “Me?”

Did you even have to say it? You let the silence sit, and he picked it up after a few orienting blinks. His intonation was more melancholic. “Fine.”

“Had any med side-effects?”

“Aren’t you the one who got assaulted last night?”

“I’m just asking.”

He shut off the water and dried his hands on the kitchen towel. A single patter registered as your gaze tore away from its fibers. It was still bizarre to have him be here. Touching normal things. Brought right back to the Bruce you conceptualized prior to the attempt. Was that version of him gone now? An event like that had to be perspective-shifting, right? A life ready to end, could’ve ended, but here he remained. Or were you entirely off-base?

“Thought we were past that.”

“What?” Your thoughts were a maze. He rolled the top of the flour down and clipped it. He peered at you suspiciously, his movements a bit jerky. “Pity.”

“I didn’t realize it was pitying to ask about medication.”

He changed the subject entirely. “Got in contact with Gordon. Guy’s in custody.”

“Who is he?” You grabbed the plate and started chewing on some toast. You were getting tired of only eating bread.

“Lee Miller. Former graduate student at GU.”

“Former?”

“After last night.”

Damn. A perp getting actual consequences? Per usual, he stared at you, confused. Your reactions were always unexpected.

“You look shocked.”

“Thought he’d get a slap on the wrist.”

“At minimum it’s assault. Likely a felony.”

He had so much to learn. “Maybe I should write about it.” You set down the stale bread and started on the pancakes. They were cold and chewy. “Horrible Man Faces Consequence for Horrible Actions”.

Bruce sneered. He again looked like he would respond, but didn’t. The next minute passed by in brittle silence. He finished putting everything away in the pantry, cupboards, fridge. You felt strapped to the floor, your heels nailed in one place. When he stood and didn’t do anything, lingering, a brutal emotional flashback gripped you. You swallowed back tears. Tucked your thumb into your palm to grip it. You could barely breathe. You asked again, imploring honesty. “How are you?”

The air between the two of you was tight. The longer he didn’t answer the more anxiety boiled up into your throat and flushed your cheeks. You started to sweat, your forearms flushing cool, a flash of prickling heat. You couldn’t feel your hands. It took every crumb of strength to stay standing, let alone to keep looking at him. He broke the contact. His chest caved in a little too far.

“Tell me.” It was coming out rougher, firmer, but you couldn’t redirect it. Another minute of silence.

You couldn’t understand nor handle him not answering. The hair on the back of your neck stood up. You gasped at the front of your speech. “I’m not letting you leave until you tell me. Unless you’re honest. You have to tell me the truth. All of it. You have to.” An embarrassing whine curled the end, and you sat in it without apology. Is he really making me beg?

The truth was, he wanted to run out the second you asked. He wanted to run far, far away, and never see you again. He wanted to run away from himself, and you weren’t letting him. You wanted him to sit inside of it. Talk about it. Feel it. He was doing everything in his power not to. He’d been worried about you last night, but that wasn’t the full extent of why he’d stayed. Staying gave him a task. A time-consuming, monotonous one, but those were hours he didn’t have to answer to himself.

It was strange to see someone suffering because he wasn’t burdening them. Like the earth’s tilt was all backwards, all wrong. He felt himself constructing a wall in real time, brick by painstaking brick. It scared him. How hard it was. With Alfred it went up like a revolving door; a natural baseline to slink back to. It wasn’t like that right now. It wasn’t like that with you. All he had were words you saw transparently.

Admitting it felt like clawing his own skin off. His face drew sour. “Bad.” He was only peeking into the shoebox, not upending it. He wasn’t doing that for anyone. Didn’t matter how much you pleaded. Alfred had eventually learned it was a futile effort, and you would too. However, as the witness… he had to give you something. And he had. Bad.

“How’s your safety?”

He laughed. It ulcerated your gut. “I’m serious.”

He walked around the kitchen island—you lunged across it when you thought he was headed to the door, and he shot a look at you as you missed his elbow. He continued to the couch, each step of his sending a shockwave through your body until you knew for sure he wasn’t heading out. You received it as a subtle power play. You wanted to scream.

He knelt to grab your discarded glass, taking his sweet time walking back to the sink. Caught between a rock and a hard place, you were gutted by equal urges to curse him out and soothe him. The gentle, caretaking Bruce had evaporated. He was guarded. Purposely shutting you out. Trying to make yourself sound firm only made you more feeble. I WANT to know fought with I NEED to know which fought with pleasejustfuckingtellmegoddammit.

“You said it yourself: I don’t want your pity. Any of it.” Biting. Callous. Without a care in the world for how you would receive it. Your ears got hot.

“I’m checking on your safety.”

“Don’t want it.” Maybe if he made himself clear enough, you’d know to step back. If he let you in now, you’d think you could get in again, and that was a habit he wanted to break before it started.

Your scoff couldn’t be contained. “I—”

It alarmed you the speed at which he pivoted from the sink to bore his eyes into you. Fucking Batman again. His tone was resentful, undercutting his word choice. “You helped me. Thank you. Leave it at that.”

He wasn’t being considerate. He didn’t have to be, but he wasn’t, and that hurt you more than you were willing to admit. It all suddenly felt profoundly silly. You’d expected his coldness to vanish. Maybe some sort of bullshit camaraderie borne of tragedy. But as he scooped up his face covering and flipped up his hood, you couldn’t help but feel this was the last time he’d ever be in your apartment. The last time he’d ever discuss the attempt. A severing.

You didn’t chase him to the door as he’d expected. You weren’t giving him any fuel to move his hand to the doorknob. Fuck. The room’s silence left a chasm wide enough for him to feel like an asshole. The greater half of his conscience yelled at him to be better.

He left anyway.

Fateful Beginnings

XXXV. “bittersuite domesticity”

parts: previous / next

plot: you and Bruce bond, a task more pleasant than either of you anticipated.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, substance use, fluffy fluff 😏

words: 8.1k

a/n: i think y’all are gonna like this chapter 😇 yes the title is a play on words... iykyk (🎵)

Suddenly, idling at Rai’s had much higher stakes.

You tried to relax and peruse the back aisles, but more customers arrived. You got in line behind the older lady while Rai attended to his kind community member duty of speaking with her like an old friend. Elderly residents nearby weren’t able to get out much, and he picked up a lot of the slack. Except right now, that duty had you frustrated and overwhelmed in waiting, the grumble in your stomach starting to have a bite. At this point it had to have been fifteen minutes, meaning Bruce would be up in your apartment in fifteen… fuck.

You did a last circle around the store, eyes flitting between snacks, slushies, candies… You kept looking back trying to catch his eye, hoping he might get the hint and step aside for a second to help you. It wasn’t working, and your leg was beginning to sore. Glancing at her cart, they still had a bag or two to fill. Shit.

You grabbed a few extra candies and got in line behind her, resigning to stay put and let fate take over. Upon hearing the rustling of your items, she looked over her shoulder and grinned at you. “Skittles! Oh, I love those little things. Have you tried the sour ones? I keep them stocked for my grandson. Speaking of…” She held up a hand to Rai and wandered back to the candy aisle. Fate!

“Can you check me out really quick?” You showed your few items, and he nodded. “In a hurry, huh?”

“Yeah. Would you be able to grab me some uh,” You peered through the glass and saw the tabbouleh was out, and you chose the item falling into vision next. “Chicken tenders. Can I have half a pound?”

“Sure.” He bagged it, glancing as he closed the bag to see the woman arriving back. He handed it over and winked at you. “You can come back sometime this week and pay.”

”Really? I can—”

“Here you go.” The lady placed a few bags of sour skittles on the counter with a smirk. You nodded to Rai who nodded back, and after a quick thanks, hurried back up to your apartment. He’d be there in seven minutes. He seemed like the person who was usually early.

By the time you made it back to your apartment, it was the time of his arrival. You hoped he was caught up in traffic or something (not likely…) and tossed the food on the counter, the legs of the dining table scraping against the floor in the most grating fashion as you pulled it in front of the couch. Midway through unplugging the television in your room and prepping to carry it out, you heard a knock at the door. You hoisted the TV into your arms and staggered through the door to place it on the table, where it looked unseemly. On your way to let him in, you noticed you didn’t have an outlet nearby. Ugh.

Bruce had given himself a pep-talk on the drive, coaching himself on what to say to you. He knew he wanted to apologize, that much was extremely clear. He went back and forth on telling you the pity thing, because the revelation was genuinely so simple, but endowed crucial context…

It was starting to sprinkle; end of August meant Fall was practically a week away, which was a slippery slope to the highest crime events of the year. Going into 2024, he didn’t think he’d have to worry about an election for at least another year or two, and he wrestled back fears of another Election Night 2022 debacle.

Soon he’d be able to get back out there; usually this time of night he’d be headed down to the basement after a quick meal with Alfred. Drawing up some plans for the evening (that were usually disposed of due to unforeseen circumstances) before suiting up. He expected his body to feel more antsy to get back to it, or feel considerably slower, neither of which he did. His wounds were healing, his left leg still ached but nothing he couldn’t drag his mind away from. Tonight felt quiet. Nights like these invariably left him suspicious.

He waited a few minutes in his car, parking in the same alley he’d dropped you off in. His palms were starting to perspire, knowing he was going to answer to you in whichever way you held him. As much as he desired to spend the whole night stalling, that was his problem. He’d been avoiding you earlier, avoiding being cared about, and avoiding being caring. While he didn’t much care about the implications of isolation and avoidance as far as he was concerned, he didn’t like you being in the blast radius. If the hugs had told him anything, it was that you were already hurting more than enough. He was done putting you in jail for the crime of caring.

You deserved a proper apology, and that was what he’d give you.

Walking toward your apartment while the nightcrawlers were just getting started made him uneasy. Every man he passed on the sidewalk that looked down at his phone had him biting his cheek, gripping the fabric of his jacket pocket, enraged. Which of these pathetic freaks wrote about you?

As he reached your unit, the rage was dimming. When you opened the door, he noticed you looked tired, but not exhausted–that was good. You stepped aside for him to walk in, and he shed his top layers, fighting against his manufacturing to make sure the apology actually got past his lips.

Bruce was in a black outfit, with his usual thick jacket and hoodie pairing. Your body had an immediate response to his presence after the argument, reflexively turning away from him and stiffening. Locking the door behind him felt superfluous in his presence, but you did it anyway.

He removed his jacket and hoodie as he walked the expanse of your floor, draping them over the back of a chair. Your eyes searched his body for evidence of injury or duress, and for about the millionth time since you’d been around him or Alfred, you wished they didn’t read body language like the written word. His tone was soft, apprehensive. “I thought you might want some company.”

Thought I might want some company? You narrowed your eyes and crossed your arms. “So you’re not in crisis?”

“You thought I was in crisis?”

You looked to the ground. “We argued again, so.”

He didn’t appreciate being perceived to the point of recognizing character changes, like how strange it was for him to request a movie night. He rarely asked it of his parents as a kid, their busy schedule leaving the invitation up to them on the rare occasion it ever came. Alfred was always the one to initiate after their deaths, but he’d stopped asking after the twentieth time Bruce had isolated to his bedroom instead.

Thinking back to how busy his mother had been, a thought struck him: were all the ‘vacations’ she went on actually her being admitted to Arkham? Had they hid it that well? Something must have flit across him then, because your eyes were darting across the plane of his face with increasing confusion.

He shook his head while he recovered words. Even thinking about the photos of his mother Riddler had posted didn’t render him as discomposed as this morning, when simply being around you felt like a knife lifting his nailbeds. Alfred had made some unfortunate points that painted you in a much better light. “I’m not in crisis. I wanted to apologize for how I acted earlier. I was avoiding you.”

You didn’t know why you got anxious when he said that, but you did. He put his hands in his pocket and struggled to make more than intermittent eye contact. He heaved a large sigh, which made you especially attuned to what he might say. Swore you could feel the hairs of your inner ear buzzing with anticipation.

“I appreciate you opening up to me.”

Hearing words like apologize and appreciate felt foreign from Bruce. You’d heard variations of them before, yet it remained uncanny. Like his mouth wasn’t used to forming the words. They didn’t seem to roll off his tongue.

“But…?” You braced yourself for him to assert that the two of you couldn’t speak anymore. That a boundary had been crossed. That he appreciated you opening up, but he didn’t want that to happen anymore. That he was glad to have helped you, but he didn’t want to make it a habit.

His brow cocked. “What do you mean?”

Your tone was petulant, brittle. “You appreciate my opening up, but ‘we don’t have to do this anymore’. Or maybe you’d rather ‘I don’t want it’?”

An extended silence, leaving a lot of room for your mind to fill the blank. Some time for your eyes to roam about his outfit, his hair, his face. The wear evident in his shirt, seeing some of his skin peeking through. A hole at the bottom of his left pocket. How he double-knotted his Converse.

When he spoke next, it was through closed eyes. “I’m not good at this. I’m not used to any of it.”

The hugs? The conversation? Being cared about? The whole city cared about him. The whole internet. In some ways, the whole world. “Used to what?”

“The only care people have shown me is through pity.”

You felt one of your defenses shatter, your shoulders becoming a bit lighter. “About your parents?”

He nodded, becoming sheepish. He detested being this open, it drained him, but he wanted to return the favor of your earlier vulnerability. “Yeah. Everyone still looks at me like I’m that kid. No one saw me, they saw what happened to me.” And you saw me hung unsaid, on the edge of his teeth. “You checking on me and opening up felt like pity. Everything does.”

It felt fucking weird to use his words like this. His voice was going dry from talking so much, even though he really hadn’t talked much at all. Maybe it was the things he wasn’t saying. He wanted to look over at you, but the adrenaline coursing through his veins at feeling exposed was excruciating. If he looked at you right now before you spoke, he’d fill in the blanks. The valley between his share and your response felt painfully raw.

You said what you thought, your mind thunking the pieces into place plainly and neatly. “That makes sense. I never thought about that.” It wasn’t the most flowery response, but you noticed his shoulders stop tensing. “I’m sorry if I played into that.” You sighed, feeling like you should’ve put the pieces together sooner yourself, without him having to hand it to you on a platter. Hmm. Why might someone who endured a national tragedy as a child be annoyed with people’s concern?

The sound of a knock at the door startled you. You and Bruce exchanged a look, and you backed off while he walked to the peephole. It was then that you realized you hadn’t checked it before opening it earlier, assuming it was him. You couldn’t forget again.

His hair rustled against his forehead as he turned around. “It’s Gordon. Probably here for your statement.”

“You can hide in my room.”

He walked into it and shut the door seconds before you opened to two officers, only one of whom you’d seen before.

“Is this the residence of Y/N Y/L/N?”

You nodded. “Yeah, that’s me.”

Detective Gordon, as you could see via his badge, stepped in alongside a mustached officer. Martinez was his name tag. “We’re here to collect your statement on the assault that occurred 28th of August, on the corner of Bushnel and Tally. I’d ask if now is a good time, but we’re already late to collect, our apologies.”

You invited them in and tried to play off that they had nowhere to sit. “I’m waiting on some new furniture,”

Det. Gordon shook his head, taking out a notepad. “All good, ma’am. We should be no longer than a few minutes.”

And a long few minutes it had been. They asked only the most basic of questions, such as where he kicked you, any words he said, any threats he made, and if you were aware of any prior history between you and the assailant. Martinez held up a camera, asking if there were any visible injuries. You held out your hands initially, seeing the scabs on top of the knuckles, but you’d forgotten if they’d come more from trying to stop Bruce than the man himself. You stuck to showing them the bruise on your thigh, which you hadn’t had the chance to look at. Deep red, purple and gravelly, looking like you’d been skidding against the sidewalk. You figured falling out of his vehicle didn’t help.

Surprisingly, they knew about that too. You figured a certain vigilante had been the informant.

“Let me summarize to make sure we’re on the same page.” Det. Gordon flipped a few pages back, adjusting his glasses. Martinez was looking at the ground in front of him, his hand situated on his hip. He seemed to only be here for backup, maybe they had to come to these things in pairs. “Wednesday evening, you received a call from…” His voice dulled as he recited the events in perfect detail, each additional sentence drilling into you how intense the past two days had been. After what felt like a lifetime, he finished. “Is that correct?”

You nodded, your throat closing. Bruce had really saved you twice in forty-eight hours. Probably an attempt to cope, you thought about how Walter never had to worry about anything like this.

“I need verbal confirmation, ma’am.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Det. Gordon sighed, scribbling something else. “Looks like we’ll need to pay Mr. Wayne a visit.” Martinez perked at the statement, and you suppressed the ghost of a laugh. If only he knew Bruce was in the next room.

Det. Gordon closed his notebook, tucking the pen into the spiral. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Y/L/N. We’ll get back to you sometime in the next week with further details. Sorry that happened to you.”

“Yeah, sorry that happened.” Officer Martinez tipped his hat at you in apology, following behind Det. Gordon, gently shutting the door. Not three seconds later did Bruce step out of your bedroom, face contorted in serious consideration.

“It never takes them that long to get a statement. Something big must have happened.” You could see in his eyes he was thumbing through all sorts of information in the back of his head. You giggled, a sound Bruce didn’t find completely unusual (everyone had different reactions to traumatic events, after all), but the sound itself embedded in his chest. You laughed again, and it pushed deeper. “What?”

“You just look so serious.” Another laugh slipped out, which snowballed into a laughing fit. Bruce wondered if you might start crying again, like you had the last time you laughed in front of him like this, but you didn’t, doubling over in bursts of giggles. His body was a disorienting blend of feelings in response.

When you opened your eyes after gathering yourself, your vision was hazy, your head a bit dizzy. Your chest felt light, and your eyes caught on the tenders sitting to your right on the countertop, your stomach grumbling. You fished one out of the bag, your eyes rolling back at its decadence. God, so fucking good!

Oh, fuck. You’d taken an edible an hour ago. You didn’t think you’d taken that much.

Bruce side-eyed you, having averted his eyes after feeling his stomach jump at the rolling of yours— suspicious of how quickly your face had fallen and how fast you moved from task to task. “Are you o—”

“I took an edible. Right before you called, I forgot.” You cracked a laugh at the absurdity of it all, unable to contain the humor bubbling inside, but quieted yourself by focusing on eating the food. Your stomach was like an empty pit. You finished eating your singular chicken tender without further accidental innuendo, and became worrying, serious. Your shoulders deflated. “I’m sorry. If you don’t want to be around someone high, I know you don’t do substances, it’s probably weird,”

He interrupted with something he hoped might break you out of your slumped state, because he didn’t feel weird. “I actually took some of the edible you gave me back in spring.” As expected, your face lit up… with confusion, and awe.

“You said you never do them.”

“It was an interesting night.” You didn’t need to know that was precisely when he’d decided his persona, developing it while his brain was slow and the world was blurred. You sat in thought for a moment.

“But that doesn’t mean you’re okay with being around someone who is.”

“I’m more concerned if you are comfortable with it.” He’d noticed the TV wasn’t plugged in, but before moseying over to try and find a plug, he wanted your answer.

You shrugged. “I mean, yeah. We’re just watching a movie or whatever.” You messed around in the bag some more, procuring a bag of Skittles. He hadn’t had one of those since he was a kid.

Even lacking sobriety, your perception skills remained intact. You held the bag out to him. “Have some.”

He took the bag and opened it, pouring a few into his palm. You dug around some more, the sound of thin rustling plastic filling the silence, and pulled a pouch of Sour Patch Kids. He didn’t know if he’d ever tried those.

You opened the bag and each ate some handfuls of the respective candies in silence, your face puckering a bit at the sour sting. Bruce noticed a small bottle of rosé in the corner by the bread cabinet, unopened. It was far from the best idea on a night like this, both inebriated, a day after a man had threatened to have you killed, but he gestured to it regardless. “Mind if I have some?”

“Don’t just have some because I’m high, dude.” You popped another candy in your mouth. Bruce shrugged and walked toward it. You shook your head, but with his back turned he couldn’t tell, forcing you to voice your concerns. “Seriously.” Your tone fell from its casual cadence to a darker tone, firmer. “You said you never do it,”

“I’ve had alcohol before, I’ll manage.” As he approached the bottle, he hadn’t quite known what had possessed him, but as his ears attuned to the rustle of the plastic and his eyes acclimated to the physical space, he realized he felt more free. If he drank at home, he’d either have to be alone in his room or in the kitchen with Alfred. He could never at a social event, because he didn’t attend them to be social, he attended them to analyze. Letting anything lower his inhibitions around the likes of Convoy and Gavenstein wasn’t an option. However, now it felt fun. He grabbed the neck of the bottle, and you spoke with a start.

“Wait, your meds. Can you drink on them? Will it make your symptoms worse?”

Bruce recalled a ‘use caution when consuming alcohol’ warning on the outside of the bottle. It didn’t say no… “Should be fine, won’t have too much.”

“Bruce.”

He glanced over his shoulder at you, your face knit with worry; it ruffled him, but he blocked his thoughts before they became too rigid. This isn’t pity, this is concern. Concern was borne of care. You cared. Instead of turning away, he’d care back. He hummed on ideas for a shake. “Would it make you feel better if I called Crane?”

You nodded, bewildered that his tone bore no sarcasm or annoyance. He took out his phone, and you counted the subtle rings barely heard on the other end. Dr. Crane picked up after two. You couldn’t hear his voice, too muffled, but you could hear Bruce’s.

“It’s Bruce, yeah. I had a question about my medication.”

You watched as he pressed the phone to his ear, how he slowly meandered around the kitchen, looking at his shoes as he spoke. Warmth flooded you seeing him seem perfectly fine. This was the first time neither of you had been in crisis since. All you were going to do was watch a movie. No trying to stop him from hurting himself, no worrying about where he was, or what he was doing, none of him saving you.

Bruce hung up, thwarting your daydream. “Should be fine. Are you fine with it?”

You met his steady, bright blue eyes and felt a jolt in your chest, like falling down the stairs in a dream. You looked down at the bag from Rai’s, the red THANK YOU in copied prose crinkling about. “Yeah.” You shoved the feeling away, cracking a joke instead. “If you’re fine with not having million-dollar wine.”

He chuckled, the same way he had when he held you. Mostly internal, through his nose, his chest moving more than anything else. You studied him unwrapping the lid, reaching into his pocket for his keys that, of course, had a pocket knife attached. Watching him uncork it put you in a trance; the subtle ripple of his back with the movement, the pop of the cork coming undone beneath his fingers.

You’d been curiously silent behind him; when he finished opening the bottle he turned around, meeting your half-lidded eyes. Your head was in your hands, framing a sleepy grin. His stomach lurched, fluffs of anxiety toiling within it. The last time he’d felt this way was when Selina had unexpectedly kissed him. Confusing to have it appear now, in such a different context.

He channeled his focus instead on finding a glass. You didn’t have any flutes, but he withheld a joke about it, not wanting to make you uncomfortable or come across pompous. He poured a hefty glass, his wrist tipping further the more he felt your eyes on him.

The high created a delayed reaction, and you realized too late that he’d watched you gawking. Gawking? Was that what you were doing? You grabbed another tender and your juice before turning around to scoot the table closer to the outlet, desperate to shake off whatever stupor you’d been unconsciously put under.

Bruce would’ve jumped in to help, but he thought the distance would be good right now. He didn’t like the way his attention pulled toward you, or the way his hands shivered around the glass. Thankfully, his voice was unaffected. “Anything you had in mind to watch?”

You finally plugged the cord into the wall, and unceremoniously plopped onto the far side of the couch, leaving the whole right side open. “You can pick.” A wash of relief settled over you at having been the first to sit, not wanting to be the one to gauge how close to get if he’d sat first. Bruce wandered over with his very full glass of wine, and sat about a foot away. It still felt too congested.

“I got nothing.” He adjusted into the cushions, taking his first sip of wine. His left side was lit like a live wire.

You turned on the TV and flipped through some channels while he sipped. You had to force your eyes to remain strictly contained to the screen, a task that was monumentally difficult through the peak of your edible. “There’s this one show everyone’s talking about online. We could try watching the first episode, it’s like an hour.”

Bruce nodded, resting his hand with the glass on his right thigh. “Sure.”

You clicked it, thanking the ultra-fast wifi in the building for an immediate loading. You might have died if you had to stare too long at a black screen, the uncomfortable portrait of you sitting together reflecting back.

You both sat like that for the duration of the episode; in silence, with the occasional sip from Bruce. The first half was one of the more awkward things you’d experienced; you were acutely aware of how high you were, and how alone you were with him. You’d nearly taken double the dose earlier, and you probably would’ve freaked the fuck out if you had.

About halfway through the episode, you began to get sucked into the show—in a bad way. The acting was terrible, absolutely piss-poor; this resulted in a few sideways glances to Bruce which he reciprocated, each time his cheeks becoming a little more flushed from the alcohol. As the episode ended, you became one with the couch, the high beginning to taper, and your nerves the same. Bruce was about three-quarters done with his drink, probably the equivalent of one and a half shots if he downed the last bit.

As the first episode’s credits ran, you sat in a dumbfounded hypnosis. This was what everyone had been raving about? Huh? Your high’s slow descent left you less inhibited. “…That was so fucking bad.”

Buce nearly choked on his wine, evidently having taken a sip just as you spoke. You turned toward him. “You don’t agree?!”

He shook his head, licking his lips to catch the drops of wine that’d escaped in his almost-coughing recovery. His voice was more animated than you’d heard it before. “I was hoping you wouldn’t click ‘next episode’.”

A second of silence and you both laughed, his cheeks moving from a light rose to sunburn in tandem. He gave the impression of a lightweight; for once not drinking with Mar, you weren’t the least liquor-experienced. His laugh was cute, more full than you’d anticipated, but you could barely hear it over your own. “I don’t know how people can stand it.”

He stuck his hand out to the TV, his brow furrowed with such pure befuddlement you started laughing again, to which he giggled through his next sentence. “The officer was so obvious. Anyone with half a brain would’ve figured it out… is that the premise of the show? Whodunnit?”

“I thought it was the unassuming friend, I thought that was obvious.”

Bruce’s hand slapped to his thigh, his head cocking toward yours with a gentle eyeroll. “You’re joking.”

“Let’s go to the last episode! I’ll be right.” You grabbed the remote and clicked through the fifteen episodes between, each click evoking a scoff from him.

“The friend would be so cliche.”

So disdainful for someone wrong. “And the suspicious officer wouldn’t be? It’s so on the nose.” You clicked PLAY, now taking a while to load up.

“Which would make someone overlook it, like you’re doing now.”

“Alright detective.”

The episode opened to a black screen fading in, showing someone’s hands, lingering there, the metal handcuffs clinking. You and Bruce sat forward in your seats as it panned up to reveal the friend in custody.

“I TOLD YOU!” You paused the show and tossed the remote aside, gloating.

Bruce smirked, taking another sip of wine. “What if it’s a fake out?”

You’d never pulled out your phone so fast, and shoved it in his face when it confirmed your suspicions. “Hmm!”

“Alright, alright.”

“Hand over the baton, bucko.”

He side-eyed you, his mouth curling into an amused smirk. “‘Bucko’?”

“Can’t believe I outsmarted the ‘world’s greatest detective’.” As soon as the words passed your lips, the reality set in of who you were sitting next to, and anxiety nipped at your skin again. It was easy for you to dismiss his power when you were angry at him, or begrudging about it; when he had all your systems activated, wanting to run, scream, fight. Not when your guard was down, and you were under a green haze. Not when he was sitting comfortably on your couch.

“Suit might be a little short for you.”

His attempt at humor shocked your nerves again, dulling them. “Didn’t know you were capable of making a joke.”

He grinned, cocking an eyebrow as he sipped the rest of the wine. You’d never imagined him this relaxed. His shoulders down not from defeat, but relaxation; his eyes half-lidded not from desperation, or succumbing to whatever darkness lay within him, but wine’s subtle embrace. Even his legs were more splayed out, casting their net wider, his normally chiseled jawline dulled as his head sank into the back cushion.

You liked him like this, and felt braver. You sat back against the couch to match, tilting your head toward him, his already tilted toward you. “So what else does Bruce Wayne do?”

He looked confused.

“Public you. Do you just go to City Hall meetings, occasionally a shopping spree that totally isn’t a photo-op?”

He chuckled under his breath, his words coming out a little slower. Whoa, you really liked making him laugh. You wet your lips, subconsciously shifting nearer. “About to go to campaign events.” He met your eyes again, an act that was rapidly becoming a slippery slope. Every time he did it you felt more and more comfortable there. “What about you?”

“Campaign things? Yeah, I don’t have much else to do. I’ll try to be at every event.”

“You’re genuinely interested in Gotham politics?”

“Would I rather be home? Maybe, but it’s fascinating. The fact it got sprung on so quickly…”

“Been meaning to pay Reál a visit.” He stayed looking at you the entire time, and you drank up every second of it.

“I was thinking that too.” You mimicked his earlier laugh without conscious awareness. “If only we could pair up. Alas…”

He shrugged, the ripples in his shirt moving with his shoulders. “We could.”

You laughed again; whether it was the weed or his more friendly company, you’d figure later. “No way.”

“You could chaperone my visits. Be my transcriber.” He grinned at you, not giving away how much of it was a joke.

You rolled your eyes at him, playfully. “That’d be making me your personal assistant, Bruce.”

He liked when you said his name. “Guess you’re right, Y/N.”

A few seconds of silence rattled around your chest like a ping-pong ball. “If that happened, shit. Whatever credibility I have left would tank.” You looked at the screen, still paused on the friend’s form in the striped outfit.

“Don’t want that.”

You stared at each other, then busted laughing again. It felt different than how Dr. Vry had sneered at you in the meeting, mocking the notion of you having a name to protect; this was harmless, and if you hadn’t already picked up on it, you could tell by his smiling glances between laughs. Mmm, this wasn’t…

Wanting to ask him this since the candidates were first announced but never having the opportunity, you shot your shot after the din lowered. You grasped for anything platonic to settle the rhapsody that threatened to overwhelm you. “Which candidate are you liking?”

Bruce shot you another look, making your stomach flip. He was teasing. “You care about the billionaire’s opinion on city politics?”

“I am rubbing off on you!” You beamed.

He rolled his eyes in that same way, the grin sneaking into your eyes filling his chest like a balloon. He could hardly breathe around it. “I won’t endorse.”

You squinted. “Why not?”

“People could think whoever I endorse paid me off. Could have the opposite effect.”

You nodded, pondering it for a second. You were more relieved than you’d let on. “That’s better than what I thought your reasoning was. Thought I’d have to fight you.”

“And what did you think it was?”

“Some apolitical bullshit.”

He sighed, the whisper of a smile on his cheeks lifting it nearly into a laugh. “For someone who acts like they know me so well,”

“And when did I claim to?” This was the most pleasant ‘argument’ you’d ever had.

“Maybe it’s more your tone.” You could’ve sworn he winked at you.

This conversation had the aura of a flotation device; barely holding you both afloat. “I don’t know how I feel about a man talking about my tone. Especially one as sunshiney as you.”

“Touché.”

Laughter filled the room again. It was becoming easier and easier now, like a contagion. Bruce lightened his inflection, making it almost sing-songy. “What about you? Who do you like?” You held in a laugh that would’ve projected flecks of spit across the room. You felt ridiculous, and weird, alongside such vast enjoyment. You never, ever thought his company could be so agreeable.

“Only barely looked into them, but March seems about as stellar as a politician can be.” You were surprised you could still think so clearly; usually by this point of the edible, you were crashing into your pillow. His presence tonight was captivating, and you held back a flash of panic having thought that.

You hadn’t been looking at him, holding in a laugh having forced you to stare at his frayed black shoes, but you caught him laughing in your periphery, shaking his head. Your suspicious glare prompted him to elaborate. “You missed when he came to a meeting, it was like you were speaking through his body.”

“Now look who claims to know me so well!”

“That’s right, you hate the idea of taxing the rich and using the funds to help the less fortunate.”

You blushed, biting back a wide grin. “You’re so annoying.”

“Mmhmm.”

You gave him a once over while he checked his phone, mulling over how this simultaneously felt incredibly natural and out of character for him. Was this one of the ‘last good days’ people talked about? What Dr. Crane told you to look out for? An unusually elevated and expansive mood, inevitably leading to a crash, or signaling a resignation to the end? You didn’t want to kill the vibe, but felt that same pull to be the responsible one. “Really, are you okay?”

Bruce attuned to the shift in your body language as if it were his own. His knee-jerk response was to deny and reassure you he was fine. Truly, he wanted to tell you to stop asking him, and stop concerning yourself with his wellbeing. The alcohol had infiltrated, his walls dropping with far less resistance than usual, allowing him to start thinking through the tunnels of emotion without much fight. He felt okay right now, unnervingly so, but when he thought back to going home, about stepping out of the confines of these walls, it all felt heavier.

“It’s okay if you’re not. I’m not fine, either.”

He glanced over at you, your eyes blinking more than usual from the marijuana, slightly unfocused, but trying. He looked at his hands in his lap, fiddling with the tip of his pinky.

“And you don’t have to share because you think you owe it to me.”

Any other day he would’ve bristled at such blatant concern, but right now it cocooned him in comfort. Made his cheeks warmer than they already felt. He recalled your head snapping to the conference door when he’d slipped into his Batman modulation, an action that had him staring at you too long, only half-hearing Gordon on the other end. Had his breath catch before leaving.

“I want to. It’s just new to me. Talking, socializing, parading those rooms.” That physical pain returned to him, and he gestured to you. “Someone knowing besides Alfred. And the mental stuff.”

He expected you to be bored, for your eyes to have glazed over, but your attention was eager. You weren’t even wringing your hands together as you usually were. You spoke gently, but in a fashion nowhere similar to coddling. He wanted to lean closer to you.

“How’s that been?”

His chest puffed with a sharp breath, the rosé swirling in his gut. “No more owls, if that’s what you’re asking. The medication’s been fine, makes me feel a bit jittery, not hungry. That’s about it.”

“It’s gotta be hard to adjust to.”

He nodded, opening his mouth to speak. You spoke first.

“You’re also under the influence, I don’t want you to regret sharing anything.” Now you wrung your hands together.

His eyes searched yours, continuously floored at how often you chose the response least expected. No one else would look out for him like this. None of the people at City Hall, at least. No one in any rooms he’d ever been in. The next words out of his mouth spilled from unadulterated confusion, unable to scour his mind for an obvious answer. “How are you able to do that?”

His brows were knit together tight, all semblance of humor gone. Your voice was softer. “Do what?”

“Look past my reputation.”

You didn’t know how much he’d like the answer, but you said it anyway. “I guess I don’t idolize that stuff. Supreme wealth and influence. I actually hate it.”

“What makes you hate it?” He leaned closer to you, feeling the strongest pull to completely unravel you like a spool of thread.

You noted his swerve from questions about his wellbeing, but didn’t tempt it again. You’d given him an out for a reason. You kept to task, shifting your body toward his without thought. “I don’t like hoarding resources when so many people are without.”

“That’s why you’re watching a movie with him.” You were like a hearth, warm, bright, and he wanted to keep adding kindling.

“Touché.” You grinned, hoping he wouldn’t see the color brought to your ears, but resigned to the reality he undoubtedly did. “I do hate that about you.”

“Would it help if I hated it too?”

“But you’re still not doing anything about it.”

Even when you were interrogating him, listing off his inadequacies, it didn’t dampen the hospitality he felt toward you. He didn’t even care it felt disorienting to admit he liked it. Alcohol was a dangerous drug, his eyes in a constant deliberation between focusing on yours or your lips. “What do you think I should do?”

“You really want to hear it?”

He nodded. He could listen to you talk all night.

You released a sigh from the bottom of your lungs. You floored it without thought for how it might come out with your jumbled, free-flowing mind right now. “I think people should be housed. Given food, access to resources. Like actual access, not handing them a paper or telling them a phone line when half of them don’t have phones. There are more empty apartments in the city than people houseless.”

Damn. “Really?” You were so passionate about this… it was enchanting.

“Yes.”

“So, subsidizing those units?” He’d hand you his card right now. He’d do just about anything you asked right now, his focus growing increasingly singular, the room crowding.

You nodded. “Making it free until people get on their feet. Work with the next mayor to draw up a new budget.”

Underneath the bloom of the alcohol, he felt himself beginning to simmer. He sat back a little. “And what if they just want to loiter?”

“What if they deserve to?”

Bruce didn’t have a response, thrown yet another curveball by you.

“Wouldn’t you want to relax and recover if you spent the last few years out on the streets, and you finally had a shower and a warm bed that’s all yours? A kitchen with food? We could partner with local charities and businesses to provide food and stubs.”

We. His mind zoomed on it like a magnifying glass. He shifted his weight, feeling unsettled. This was verging on a massive argument, tempting a trigger on his fight or flight, your conversation yanking him in opposing directions. “What about people with criminal convictions?”

“Your moral compass needs some nuance.”

Bruce bristled, the thought of criminals being handed a check to live comfortably off the government feeling as wrong as kicking a puppy. What did criminals do to deserve comfort, safety? They’d taken his parents from…

Something flashed across Bruce’s face for only a millisecond, his shoulders slumping. His brows knit together, barely, like a half-formed thought. He scanned the ground in front of him before subtly clearing his throat.

They hadn’t taken his parents from him. One person had. One man pulling the trigger. Christ.. He blinked a few times, vowing to dig into it more later. Something about the greater revelation hidden inside made that thought feel like the inaugural brick.

Thankfully, all he had to do to abandon the thought was focus back on you. The alcohol rendered his ruminations less sticky, but you stickier. He was starting to recognize the contours of your face. His initial balk melted into trust. “Nuance. I’m listening.”

His gaze falling on you was beginning to feel like a third place. Maybe a first. “You’re actually listening to me?”

Your pleasant surprise did heavy-lifting on the mood. He razzed. “Guess it’s the alcohol.”

You paused before sinking into his capturing charm, fretting over how out of character this was. Mood lability was one of the terms Dr. Crane had taught you, but before you could get too wrapped up in your thoughts, Bruce pulled you out of the early waves like a trained lifeguard. He positioned his body toward you, leaning even closer, tilting his head to better meet your wandering eyes. The second he tethered you there, he let down the anchor. “I’m safe.” He nodded slowly, just enough for you to register it.

Soft ebbs of his wine-tinged breath caressed your nose. You looked away, but his lullaby ‘hey’ drew your eyes back. He nodded firmer now. “I promise.”

You bit your lip, tears studding the rim of your eyes.

“I’ll keep promising until you believe me.”

Instead of the whimper that wanted to escape, a single tear fell, and his eyes followed it until it dripped off your chin.

“I don’t take your trust lightly.”

He’s so sweet like this. Another tear, overwhelming sensations swinging on monkey bars in your chest cavity. You brushed it off with the back of your palm, shaking out your hands as much as you could in the small space between you. His focused attention felt permeating, like standing too close to the sun. You let out an embarrassed laugh, struggling to play off your emotionality. “I know every time you bring it up I start crying, and I don’t know why, but. I can handle it. I want to be a resource.”

He mused on that a moment, the only evidence of it being the subtle shifts of his eyes focusing on yours. “If I ever feel like that, I’ll call you.” He measured your reaction with a fine-toothed comb, not wanting to ask too much, needing to straddle the line between comforting you and burdening. You nodded and withdrew your phone from your pocket, leaving him swimming in repose.

You handed him your phone on the New Contact page, and you watched as he input his number. Your breathing was deep and shallow altogether, confused, like the tendrils of flame that scorned your stomach lining as your eyes outlined the shadows of his hair across his forehead, like the electricity that zapped your nervous system when he spoke to you like that, the undulating depth of his blue eyes…

You busied yourself flipping through more streaming channels. Another popular show made you click, this time one Mar had personally recommended. He handed the phone back, glancing at the TV. He didn’t want to watch anything right now, he wanted to keep talking to you. But he didn’t really want you to keep feeling upset, either. He nodded for you to press PLAY.

It started how any flashy drama does, with a wild cold open. Your attention followed the commotion, flashing to a scene in a silent office. Pretty soon, the screen fuzzed out to unintelligible static. Tears streamed down your cheeks from the emotion of the scene, and Bruce leaned closer. His voice was hot in your ear, peppering goosebumps across your skin. “Let me.”

He pressed his lips to your cheeks, kissing away your tears. The clip of your heart thundering in your chest had you gasping at the contact, pushing yourself up to your knees to bring your mouth to his. His lips were soft and enveloping, turning your gasps into panting whines. His cologne squeezed your throat, leaving you breathless.

“Y/N…” he moaned your name into your mouth, a sound that went straight between your thighs. Your phone thudded against the ground, freeing up your hands to thread through his hair. The sounds he was making… Your arms collided, both having the same idea at the same time to pull the other’s shirt off.

Just as his shirt pulled over his head, you opened your eyes, jolting up. You felt your phone slide from your thigh to the couch cushion, still open to New Contact: Bruce. He rustled beside you, blinking slowly back into the room. You both looked entirely unmussed, a foot away. Everything still intact. You both had dozed off, apparently.

It was a fucking dream.

Looking at the screen showed you’d both been out for around half an hour, the show playing on. He ran a hand through his hair, stretching his neck from side to side while he yawned. You averted your eyes in case he could beam into your thoughts. “Um, I need to pee.” You gulped and rose unsteadily to your feet, all but racing to your bedroom.

You rested your forehead against the door once it shut, a gasp of breath leaving you. You twitched hard at the ghost of his lips on your neck, shaking your head while you ran to the bathroom, running ice water in the sink. You cooled your hot hands and placed them on the back of your neck and cheeks, letting your eyes shut.

Dreams are strange. Fickle and unintelligible. The coolness was bringing you back down, settling your heart rate before you inevitably passed out. You spent another few minutes there, avoiding your hair as much as possible as you tethered yourself with each press of your fingers to your face. You shook your hands out, jumping in place. Whew. The images and sensations were fading safely into obscurity, the temperature defogging the haze of your high.

Padding back to your bedroom showed the time to be around ten. The nap had only made you more tired. When you walked back out you focused on your kitchen island, ignoring the giant, screaming, flashing lights coming from the couch. You yawned, and he got up in response. “We fell asleep quick. Don’t know what that says about the show.” He said it so casually, but your mind was positively tumbling all over itself. You nodded, your mouth drying.

You weren’t aware that he was internally stewing over how seamlessly he’d followed your lead once you’d passed out, and all of the embarrassment that was following now that he was awake. He didn’t know that you were holding in a scream.

You brightened so he wouldn’t pry, watching him stretch himself more alert. “I know, I guess the week caught up with me!” Forced to look at him, you clamped your teeth against your tongue in preparation. It was needed.

“I’ll walk. Text you when I make it back?” He wanted to get ahead of your anxieties, knowing if the roles were reversed he’d demand it of you. He simpered. How egalitarian.

“Oh uh, yeah! I’ll text you when I get to bed.” Suggestive. “So you can have my number.” The recovery was far from smooth, but you were struggling to capture an impossible feat of looking at him but not perceiving him. He gave a small thumbs-up as he pulled the hoodie over his head and buttoned his jacket. Once his back was turned toward the door it was easier, but not by much.

He opened the door, peeking over his shoulder. “That was fun.”

“It was nice to have company. Even if it was yours.” In anguish, you clawed back to jests in a futile attempt at normalcy.

He laughed under his breath once more. “Even if it was yours.” His barely-there grin was the last thing you saw before the night crashed to an end.

Jesus fucking Christ.

would y’all like if I posted a oneshot for kinktober ??

i’ve never published a oneshot or explicit smut (yet 🤭) and im soo curious – yes it would be Batman related 🦇

Just finished writing it ✨

would y’all like if I posted a oneshot for kinktober ??

i’ve never published a oneshot or explicit smut (yet 🤭) and im soo curious – yes it would be Batman related 🦇

smutty oneshot coming tomorrow for kinktober 🤭🎃🦇

so excited to give it a go !!!

☆.｡.:* 𝘼𝘽𝙊𝙐𝙏 𝙈𝙀

𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐚 .｡.:*✧ 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲/𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐦 - 21

irish ☆ non-binary ☆ autistic

multifandom ☆ it (2017) lover

☆.｡.:* 𝘽𝙔𝙁

i cannot stop minors from viewing or interacting with my work. but i'd appreciate it if any minor intreracting with my work would be atleast 16+ (if you are below that age, just do not interact. you will be blocked.)

this blog contains dark content. beware.

reader will always be afab refered to as they/them.

i write what i want to. i decided to not take requests (wich i did before). thoughts are alway welcome though ! :)

DNI IF RACIST/XENOPHOBE/TRANSPHOBE/HOMOPHOBE ETC.

“IM NOT A KID”

Dick x Reader | Y/n aka Robin just saved dicks ass |

tw: u got daddy issues don’t you squidward (iykyk) …. that’s why u reading this 🤣,

• smut, age gap, reader is nineteen and consenting

UNEDITED CUS ITS 4am 😘

⚠️STOP DON’T READ IF SENSITIVE⚠️

“You must be Dick, I’m Y/n the new new robin” you helped him up and smiled as he gave you a confused look . you stuck your hand out so he could shake it

“How did you know I was here?” he wiped off the dust off his suit and fixed his mask. “Batsy sent me and you’re welcome by the way” you rolled your eyes and pulled down the skirt to your robin outfit

“Buy me a drink will ya? meet back here in five i gotta change” you smiled and went to go change.

*

“So you’re the new Robin… but you’re a-“ you cut him off because you already knew what he was going to say. “A girl? yeah so? I just saved your ass” the man chuckled “Yea that’s fair”.

the bar tender approaches the two of you from behind the counter “what can i get for you”. “I’ll take a beer and uh strawberry lemonade for her” he looked at you scanning your features like he was trying to see if you were underage. the bartender nods and walks away to make them. “What are you like sixteen?” he says laughing. “Funny but I’m almost nineteen so technically old enough to drink… grandpa ” you whispered in his ear and rolled ur eyes.

he felt flustered by your sudden move of going close to his ear. “How’d you end up with Bruce?”. the bartender hands you two your drinks and leaves the little area you two are occupying. “it was a year after Bruce lost Jason , i was almost taken advantage of but I fought them hard and he was impressed and took me in” she took a sip of her drink and awkwardly smiled.

“And your family?” he asked taking a generous sip of his beer. “My mom was murdered when I was 15 so I’ve been alone for a while, and I never knew my dad.” he gave you a sympathetic look it almost made you want to cry and embrace him. “I’m sorry y/n” he rubbed your hand with his thumb.

“Is Jason still around or should I say the red hood?” he grinned at you. “Yes he came back to live with Bruce at the manor, sometimes they don’t agree but Bruce really loves him and JJ is sweet to me” you stirred your lemonade and chuckled

the tension between you to was thick you could literally cut it with a knife. dick starred at you like you were the only girl in the world, you wanted to believe in love at first sight but you were way to realistic for that kinda mindset. maybe you were attracted to him because you never had a father figure in your life besides Bruce but hey i don’t judge .

“Why robin you couldn’t be a batgirl? i could see you in babs old suit” he smirk at you. “He told me I could be batgirl once he found another respectable robin” you laughed . “Well looks like you’re gonna be stuck as robin forever, I mean how can u even fight in that skirt ? what if it’s cold or raining?” he asked looking deep into your e/c eyes with his hazel ones.

“I manage! That’s what makes me the best Robin this far cus I can fight in a tight ass skirt and in those ugly ass pants from my winter suit”

*

you two have been talking and laughing for hours after a while you asked him if he’d like to come over to your apartment ( bruce gifted it to u for ur eighteenth birthday) he said yes without hesitation. Dick bought beer and you called a taxi to take you two to your apartment complex it was NICE like as nice as gotham penthouse apartments get .

*

It’s been an hour and you two sat down in your living room downing more beers. “how old are you?” you drunkly said while drinking more of your beer. “I’m turning 28 next month” you grinned and took off your big sweater . “I like how it feels to be around you , we basically spent all day together just talking about my problems and the way u validate me-“

he took you by surprise when he kissed your forehead and rustled your hair like you were a little girl. “I get what you mean kid.” you rolled your eyes and smacked his arm annoyed. “I’m not a kid ok” it took him by surprise when you jumped on his lap and started to kiss him like his kiss was the cure to your issues… maybe it was or maybe you just wanted to kiss him. he kissed back passionately but then pulled away. “We can’t, I should go”

“I know you want me i can feel it poking , nobody has to know ok! It’s not like I’m in love with you” you started kissing his neck and he groaned when you began grinding on his clothed manhood. “Yes keep doing that” his voice started to crack he moaned and groaned as you grinded harder it felt so good.

He pulled off your shirt and unclamped your bra and you took off his button up and started kissing up and down his chest he threw his head back. “Let’s go into my room” you got up from his lap and lead him upstairs to where your room was.

when you got to your room he grinned and threw you on the bed and began sucking your breast and using his other hand to play with the other one. “D-Dick please” your sounds were like music to his ears

*

you sank into his manhood bouncing up and down your noises made him even harder and his praises made you leak with pleasure “Good girl keep going” he grabbed your neck and you moaned as he kept squeezing harder with each thrust.

in the morning you smiled when you saw dick bring you breakfast in bed. maybe this was going to be a whole thing, good forbid if Jason found out 😏

EEK that was my attempt at smut forgive me if it’s bad or to weird 😭 i wanna be an romance author so this was practice :) I’ll get better with time 👌

THE DANCE OF THE BLACK WIDOW

bruce wayne x black widow! reader. this is based on the gotham verse but you can picture any bruce you want :3.

playlist: i did something bad - taylor swift, bellow the surface - griffinila, you don’t own me - saygrace, cardigan - taylor swift, static - steve lacy , dark red - steve lacy , softcore - tnh

[ a widow is trained like a machine, meant to have no emotions, no chance of feeling love…. but what if bruce wayne, the man she is protecting teaches her how to love. ]

[october 1st ]

“number 001, enter” dreykov called out to you, he was the owner and founder of the red room. the place you had trained at since you were a child, sat next to him was oswald cobblepot aka the penguin. you entered the big office room and you bowed your head to both men. “001, this is my friend and our new client, penguin.” dreykov smiled at you.

“hello mr. penguin, how may i be of use.” you turned to him and you saw his face light up. dreykov gave you the look. the look was kinda like a green light of sorts, like a code for ~go ahead show off your skills~. dreykov whistled and two big men entered the room, you walked down to a corner of the room, the men followed and when dreykov banged his fist on his desk you got to work, you punched and kicked and flipped both dudes until they dropped on the floor.

they were both bloody and bruised while you didn’t even have a scratch on you. “she’s amazing, my god!!” oswald clapped and laughed like a mad man. dreykov grinned. penguin looked at you ignoring dreykov. “what else can you do.”

“karate, judo, kung fu, wrestling and i’m trained in acrobatics.” your voice sounded almost emotionless and that’s what oswald liked most about you. “she’s skilled in every combat style, she’s a master assassin” you nodded. “I might know of a certain billionaire who might be interested in her” penguin smiled. “bruce wayne? he’s mere boy. what could he use my widow for?” dreykov rolled his eyes.

“all these villains want to kill him. a widow will do him good.” penguin laughed. you swore to god that dreykov gave a genuine smile. “why did u request 001. she’s fresh. i have more experienced widows.” he was right, you just started getting missions at fifteen. other widows like yelena have had over twenty eight years of experience. so why did he want you?.

“bruce is a man of particular taste, y/n is a young beautifully… dangerous woman, just his type”. after about ten minutes of discussion, dreykov dismissed you and told you to pack your things. if things go according to the plan bruce wayne would bid on you and win. you didn’t know why dreykov and oswald wanted bruce to bid on you? but you were raised to follow orders not to question them. widows just do. they don’t ask why and they never said No.

that night you returned to your chambers and started packing your things. all your belongings fit into one medium sized suitcase. you’ve done research on bruce, how his parents died. how villians want him dead. the things he cares about the most some theif named selina kyle, his butler alfred pennyworth.

it was the night of oswalds auction you changed into your stealth suit. it was black with a red hourglass logo on the belt. all widows had white hourglasses on their suits, but dreykov made yours red you never knew why. a handler woman named lorna came and escorted you outside where a limo was waiting for you. you grabbed your suitcase and opened the door. on one side it was the penguin and dreykov.

you sat down on the right side of the limo and sighed. this was going to be a long mission. Oswald cleared his throat “don’t worry, this is only temporary, right?”. dreykov nodded grinning a bit. “right. you’ll be back in two months.” he grabbed champagne and poured himself a glass.

•

you were tucked away in a corner with dreykov watching bidders bid on top of the line weapons, historical paintings that should have been givin to the gotham museum. you kept your eye on bruce he was bidding on some painting, all night he was just reckless spending money. “I LOVE ART. I LOVE IT! YEA” he screamed you weren’t even close to him at all but he was still so loud. “that kids an absolutely brat but he’s definitely gonna love you.” dreykov glanced up at you patting you on your shoulders. “why? does he need to love me.” you cleared your throat. “all in good time my dear.” he chuckled.

you heard bruce and a woman with a white bob have a bidding war over a knife. a knife for god sakes. “woah ms kean. that’s a lot of money, for someone like you” bruce shouted. what an asshole you thought. “TWO MILLION DOLLARS”. bruce just spent two million dollars on a stupid looking knife. you saw oswald run to the stand and bang the wooden gavel. “SOLD! to mr. bruce wayne” people applauded. dreykov chuckled. penguin gave dreykov the signal. penguin was going to go get him interested in well basically renting you.

bruce’s pov:

“i do love seeing that woman lose.” oswald laughed and applauded me. i gave him a fake cocky smile. i was still supposed to be acting like a complete brat after all. he came closer to me and whispered. “a little piece of friendly advice. barbara kean does not give up easily” i nodded pretending to be looking concerned. “she will be coming for that knife. i would just,uh, keep a close eye on it if i were you” oswald grinned. “or you could pay someone else to do it. like a highly trained assassin. she’s the best of the best. they call her a widow. im auctioning her off for two months.” oswald whispered even lower. now he kinda was peeking my interest. “i think you’d like her. you could use a henchman or in this case a henchwomen.” he patted my shoulders and walked back up to the stage. who was he talking about?

“well there’s a new wrinkle, isn’t it?” alfred sighed. “we should stay for the last item. i’d like to see her.” i turned my head back to the stage. “her? you do have a taste for the dangerous. don’t you master b” i rolled my eyes and chuckled. “i do need as much help as i can get against ra’s al ghul” i whispered.

oswald brought up a girl in a black jumpsuit on stage. she was well gorgeous , h/c hair, e/c eyes and a beautiful complexion. she had a a gun strapped on her left thigh. a red hourglass logo was on her belt. “a trained widow assassin. two months of safety guaranteed. she’s made to kill.” oswald laughed. the girl had said nothing. not a word. “can i get a thousand dollars.” i was about to raise my hand to bid but then a old guy in a red suit came close to the auction stage. “three thousand dollars.” the old guy muttered oswalds face changed to an annoyed look.

“five thousand dollars and 89 cents.” i raised my hand but this creep kept bidding more. “fuck off” I told him. i don’t know why but i needed to be near her. “a million and fifteen cents” oswald winked at me and raised his gavel to bang it on the desk. “SOLD! to mr bruce wayne again.” some people clapped, the others gave me dirty looks.

•

dreykov grabbed your suitcase and your hand and escorted you to bruce . you kept a smile on your face and you had your hands to the side, almost dangling over your gun. “mr. wayne. congratulations this is 001. my personal favorite widow” dreykov chuckled a bit. “so she’s a bodyguard?” alfred questioned. “yes and so much more. she has many different talents, ill pick her up november 30th unless you decide to rent her again. you bowed your head before speaking. “mr.wayne, i am at your service.” he smiled and shook your hand.

you shook alfreds hand and greeted him. “mr pennyworth” you bowed. “no need for that child.” he smiled. you were put off by it, it’s like a fake smile. maybe he felt bad for you. but you didn’t really know. you haven’t felt anything. only anger and fear. “so i’ll let you get going.” dreykov handed you your suitcase and left, probably going to find penguin. you clutched your suitcase but suddenly alfred grabbed your suitcase from your hands. “alright master wayne. miss 001. let’s get going.”

the car ride to bruce’s home was really awkward. he kept asking you questions about dreykov and about widows, you gave him very vague answers. “why do they call you 001?” he asked. “i don’t know. dreykov picked it out.” you said blank faced. “widows don’t have names?” he asked like a curious boy. a complete 180 from what u seen him act like at the auction. “some do. dreykov gives us names when he thinks we deserve it.” you sighed it was chilly in his car. alfred watched you two from the rear view window. “alfred when we reach the manner could you prepare tea, i have a lot of questions for 001”

• 

“don’t you feel that its dehumanizing that dreykov auctioned you off.” bruce sips his tea as alfred pours you some. “well i don’t really feel much of anything really. dreykov is like a father. this is how i repay him.” you bowed your head to alfred and sipped your tea. “how long have you been um- uh?” he choked on his words. “widowing? since I was fifteen so 4 and a half years.” his eyes wandered around your face. “you’re alovely miss. why become something so deadly” the older man asked while taking a seat next to bruce at the dinning table. “girls are often under looked by men. i use my lovely face to manipulate men and then I shoot them dead” alfreds eyebrows raised.

you really shouldn’t be sharing any of this with bruce but you did anyways it just felt natural talking to him. “i noticed at the auction earlier. that you have a red hourglass on your belt.” bruce placed a scone on your plate with some tongs. “it’s a symbol all widows agents have but only mine is red.” it wasn’t necessary to tell him the last bit, yet you did. “the black widow has an red hourglass marking” he bit into his scone. “i like it. that spider is deadly” you grinned “the name suits you well. 001 the black widow. doesn’t it alfred?”. “yes sir but she’ll need a name we won’t be calling her a bloody number.” alfred chuckled.

“im sure we will come up with something but in the meantime we will call her widow. is that ok with you.” he looked to you. “of course sir.”

[bruce’s study ]

it was big and rustic looking. lots of books on fancy looking shelves. he sat down on his chair in front of a desk. you adjusted your a suit a bit and made sure your gun was loaded and ready, as well as your escrima sticks. “do you ever have days off?” oh god more questions you thought. “nope. i love this job.” eh it was half true. “i don’t really know you but something tells me that i want to”

“mr. wayne there’s nothing to know.” you sat down on the couch near the desk. “on the contrary. i think there’s much to learn.” he grinned. bastard. you were feeling things you shouldn’t have. COULDN’T HAVE. widows don’t get butterflies in their stomachs. they don’t deserve it. love. you wouldn’t even know what it’d feel like. widows are basically like machines.

“i think i sense something sir. don’t be alarmed but im going to turn off your lights. stay put.” you walk over to the light switch and switch it off.

you stood very close to the window. you signaled to bruce to keep quiet. a couple seconds later a shadowy figure appeared in his study. you ran up and used your thighs to flip her over and on top of the ground. bruce turned his desk lamp on. “selina?” bruce said slowly like he wasn’t sure. “should I finish her off sir” you reached for your gun that rested on your thigh. “no. let her get up” you did as you were told. “ow! so this is the tramp you hired huh?” selina chuckled . “watch how you address her. she’s my widow.” he raised his voice just a little bit.

you felt a vibe between them. maybe they used to go out you thought. “apologies. we were expecting some else” bruce sighed. “who?” selina scoffed. “doesn’t matter. what are you doing here?” he sounded genuinely curious. you walked over to bruce’s side. you clutched your gun in you hands. you don’t trust the street rat you hear he is so infatuated with. “i heard about penguins auction” selina looked at you up and down. “so barbara sent you for the knife. figured i’d just hand it over” listening to these two bickering was hilarious. “something like that.” she smiled. “why’s it so important to her?”

“how should i know? she was supposed to get it for some client. a pretty dangerous guy.” selina huffed “and that if you were smart you’d hand it over and save yourself the trouble.” selinas eyes were calm. meant that she didn’t see bruce as a treat. that’s how she was able to talk to him so causally. “I spent two million dollars on it i think I’ll keep it” he began to raise his voice. you kept your words to yourself.

“why are you acting like this.” selina crossed her arms sounding a bit hurt. “me? what about you. are you barbara keans errand girl now.?” he stood up from behind his desk. “I’m her partner but she won’t see me as equals unless you do me this solid.” selina pleaded with him. “widow. you may be dismissed. there is no threat” you bowed and left the study leaving bruce and selina alone.

•

about an hour later alfred helped you settle into your bedroom. it was big and had plenty of room. alfred brought you some clean sheets and fluffy blue towels . you thanked the elderly man and bowed. “goodnight young miss.” he smiled and left you alone. you made your bed and unpacked some of your jumpsuits into one of the many closets. you grabbed a blue towel and went to shower.

you wanted to wash the guilt away. you grabbed your pill bottle and took two. dreykov would scold you if you didn’t take them. you packed a black pair of shorts and a tank top. a widows favorite pajama set. another thing you sneakily pack was a pair of pink pointe shoes. you didn’t enjoy much of anything but you did like ballet, tho you’d never say it out loud.

after you got out of the shower you brushed your hair into a tight bun. two knocks were heard. “widow.” it of course was bruce wayne. you closed your eyes and sighed walking to the door. “hello sir, do you need anything” you smiled. “no. i just want to let you know that im four doors down. and alfred’s room is downstairs. if you need anything.” he smiled.

“thank you sir” you bowed your head. “bruce is fine. tomorrow me and alfred have some errands to run but you are free to use the kitchen,gym and living room. alfred will set up a tv for you tomorrow” his voice was soft as silk, as sweet as red whine. “goodnight” he touches your arm and pats it. “night.” you said in response. he left leaving you feeling very much confused. how would you last two months?