Batman Fluff - Blog Posts

𝗕𝗿𝘂𝗰𝗲 𝘄𝗮𝘆𝗻𝗲 𝗮𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰

𝗠𝗼𝗿𝗲 𝗮𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗵𝗲𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝘀𝗲𝗿𝗶𝗲𝘀 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝘀𝗼𝗼𝗻

Author note: 😭💖Thank you to everyone who got me to 1000 likes! THANK YOUUU ALL SO MUCH- I'm very grateful for all the support 😚yes I'm still writing the Tyler Galpin x Reader fic!! Part 2 will be out before Saturday (I hope), but here's a little something to celebrate 1000 likes!!! 🥺💞

Batman x Gender Neutral Reader

words: 887 . 🥺💞Song suggestion while reading: Cherries by Madison beer

Summary: It's been one year since you've started dating the Bruce Wayne of Wayne Enterprise and still, it feels like you're living in a dream to know both you and him are in love and are together! Though not always together physically, unfortunately due to Brucey's secret vigilante life- You could only hope he makes it in time to celebrate your and his anniversary. . .

BRRRRRR.

"Speak." Oh how you missed hearing that gentle, masterful calm voice of his.

He's most likely in his batmobile right now, flying over the city or doing something genius you haven't figured out yet.

"Mm, got any plans for tonight, Batman?" With your hip, you leaned on the coffee table and stared out the floor-to-ceiling glass window of a penthouse. (One of many you shared with your future husband all over the city.)

"Depends on who's the lovely person asking. And I thought I've told you not to call me during–"

"–Night patrols, yes but. . ." You twisted the silky curtain fabric around your finger, "I just really wanted to hear your voice." Also to see if he remembered your anniversary date.

There was a small pause before a delicious low chuckle trailed down your body tenderly in vibrations through the phone. "Will that be all?"

Oh no it won't be once he gets his ass here.

You tightened the lavish bathrobe around you, "hopefully I'm not disturbing you too much, Mr Batman. But if you have some time to spare, I'd appreciate it if you'd spend it on me."

Another one of his entertained chuckle runs through your nerves like silk.

You sighed dreamily, "it would really make my night. . ."

"I'll come to you within 24 hours," you swear you heard a teasing smile in his lovely deep voice. (He had no idea what a chase you'll be giving him this time. If it'll even be a chase at all for the big brain he has.)

"I'm not at my (our) usual place. . . " That was the first clue you gave him, "how ever will you find me?"

He guaranteed before hanging up, "you're never far from me. If that's all, I'll need to get going to see you soon." Oh he'd better.

You left the phone on the coffee table and laid out on the lounge sofa to relax, looking out at the world-wide view and specks of stars in the great sky. If he's late, you planned to sleep here for the night. . .

But true to his words, you didn't have to wait long, sensually alone, drinking some juice in your fluffy bathrobe when the sound of the doors opening gently alerted you.

"Baby," his footsteps ring from behind you and closer they reached until a large warm hand lands on your hip.

"It didn't take you very long to get here," you pouted and turned your head around to see the handsome love of your life- though internally your heart jumped for joy at how early he arrived.

They were piercing in the shadows, but sweet in the lights as Bruce's sapphire blue eyes would sweep across your whole body from head to toe for a minute (something like his routine as Alfred, his butler, had once said) admiring you.

"I tried to delay myself as best as I can to give you some space, (Name), but it is almost midnight." So he knew all along. What an eyeroll moment if not for how wonderful he is looking down at you with that sweet loving smile and his burning hand on your covered skin.

He then crouched and leaned in closer to softly- like a butterfly- kiss the center of your forehead, the ironed tie of his suit hung and grazed at your arm as he held that kiss for a while.

Then you couldn't help speaking, "I thought I'd give you a little challenge. . ." Which wasn't very hard in the first place if he had placed a tracker on you somewhere, somehow like he'd usually do. For safety reasons, you'd assume.

"Oh yeah? And how did that go," he cocked his eyebrow sharply.

"Not very effective but I don't care," you reached out your arms around his neck and tugged him down onto your body. "I hope you have alot more time because I'm not letting you go until tomorrow night."

Bruce allowed this, you were well aware of his extremely superior strength and how much you had an effect on this hero who'd melt in your proximity.

His strong chest pressed down on yours and suddenly you could feel his heart beat racing against yours. . . Like there was nothing except both of your flesh and bones being the obstacle for your hearts to join into one. . . He kissed the side of your lips like he couldn't resist your pull. "Of course not, I don't expect anything less from you, (Name) Wayne. . . I couldn't stop loving you even if I had tried."

"No complaints, Brucey. I'm having you all for myself for the day." You said confidently though didn't mean it completely, sure you could be selfish but the city needed Batman more than you do. . . You have his heart and that's more than enough. (Also his wealth but that's not the point)

Many times in your life you've seen the absolute lovestruck way he's looked at you, but the warmth shimmering between your body and his as he, unblinking, gazed seriously into your soul. . . Made you fall in love again and again. As if you couldn't love him enough.

Bruce whispered near your jaw in the sweetest voice, cracking near the end. "(Name). . . Happy anniversary."

"Happy anniversary too, Brucey." You kissed him back, deeper than ever. The night was still young after all.

❝honeymoon❞

V. sins of the mother.

parts: previously plot: alfred finds yours and bruce's old yearbook. you reminisce on how you lost him... and how he came back to you all those years later. pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x gn!reader. cw: arranged marriage, friends to enemies to (fake) lovers, implied history between reader and bruce, LOTS of angst, eventual fluff, TW for depictions of brief physical child abuse (specifically to the reader), sorry but your fictional mom SUCKS, sweet ending though. words: 3.5k. a/n: I apologize to any british readers for inaccuracies with the whole yearbook thing. from what I gather, the american concept of yearbooks has gotten popular in the uk in the last 14-ish years but if it doesn't make sense, I'm hiding behind the fact that it's a posh boarding school and also- *runs away before I can think of a better excuse*

The rapping at your door is too gentle to be Bruce, and you're proven right when Alfred peeks into your room, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Bruce's guest room had steadily become your home over the course of your engagement. You still had your own place, paying the rent in case all of this fell through in one fell swoop (and it would, you couldn't escape the nagging feeling that it would), but you found yourself feeling some semblance of ownership over the tower. You hadn't even gotten the chance to put your desk up before Bruce was offering you his study—his father's study. He insisted it was because you were CEO, like his father. You dared to think it was because he was starting to see you as family.

The tower felt even more yours when Alfred stopped by like this, checking in on you, making sure you wanted him here. You set the papers in your lap to the side with a tired smile, "What's up, Alfred?"

It turns out he was hiding something behind the door. At first, you think it's a folder, perhaps some work that Bruce needed you to do for the company or some files Alfred kept from his time managing Wayne Enterprises. But when he comes round to your bedside, you realize it's a photo album. A yearbook, to be exact.

The green leather is embellished with the sparkling emblem of Silverstone Academy. It makes your heart jump up into your throat, "Where... where'd you find that?"

"After Bruce graduated, he had me put all of his old yearbooks away in storage. Kept this one, though. Would you like to see?" He turns the book to you with a well-meaning smile, and whether he notices your discomfort and chooses to ignore it is... debatable.

Still, your hands reach for it.

The spine crackles, unopened for many years by the looks of it. You thumb through the pages, flipping past pictures of the palatial school grounds and fellow classmates in freshly-pressed regalia. You're about to turn the page on the extracurriculars when Alfred places a hand on the page to stop you, pointing to a rather large group photo, "This was Bruce's favorite, if I recall."

There are rows of you, each one standing on the bleachers of a court, all of you awkward and fourteen and just wanting the whole thing over with. And then there, amongst the rows of smiling teenagers, is Bruce and you.

"Eyes front, students! I will not say this again. We want to look good for our parents, yes? We want them to see how smart and well-behaved you are, yes? Okay, then. Eyes forward. Shoulders back. Smiles on! This is your last chance. There will be no retakes!" Is what your headmaster probably said, but you were far too distracted by Bruce's fingers tugging on the tail of your un-tucked shirt to know for sure.

You bat away his hand but can't suppress the giggle that bubbles out of you. One of your classmates turns to glare, but the heat of it doesn't reach you when Bruce is whispering, "Last one to dining hall does the loser's chores."

"I'm faster than you and you know it."

"Hey, I beat Wilbur in the race on Saturday."

"That's cause Wilbur hit puberty and can't control his body anymore."

Your headmaster's shrill call draws your attention forward, "And three, two..."

You turn and smile. You feel Bruce's eyes still on you. Just as the shutter goes off, Bruce tugs your hand instead. And, even with all your teenage obstinacy wanting to make him work for your attention, make him fight for it, you can't help it.

You turn to look at him and the flash goes off.

"I remember being quite upset with this one," Alfred disperses your memory, gently calling you back to the present, "Bruce always hated taking pictures, but pictures were all I had of him while he was away. But... can't really hate that smile he's giving you, can I?"

You feel breathless at the image of younger Bruce and the look of... adoration he wears. Everyone else is focused on the camera, some eyes closed and some smiles skewed, but Bruce is focused on you and you him. Like you are the only two people in the world. Arguing over chores and who's faster than who. Like best friends.

You don't realize you're holding your breath until your body takes in one big deep inhale for you, "He wouldn't stop bothering me."

"It's funny how we couldn't get you two to talk to each other when you first met, and then years later you were inseparable."

You remembered that. Barely in second grade and being touted around by your parents at galas. You remembered Bruce hiding behind his mother's dress, and your mother guiding you by the scruff to say hello, "British boarding school will do that to you."

Alfred snorts, "I think he just liked that someone was treating him like a person."

You glance up at Alfred's soft expression, fatherly and proud. You've never seen him look any other way with Bruce. "Will you be Bruce's best man?"

Alfred seems to startle at that question, "Oh... well, he hasn't asked, but I suppose I will. Not sure who else he'd ask."

"I don't think he'd want to," you admit, and Alfred looks confused, "ask anyone else, I mean. You're it for him."

Bruce looks just like how you remember his father, but sometimes, when the light hits Alfred's eyes just right (that same color you've come to love and mourn), you think Bruce looks just like him too. You supposed they were always meant to be family, in that inexplicable way.

Alfred watches you for a moment, struck by your statement, and then softens like the teddy bear you know him to be. "And you as well. I'm glad you both found your way back to each other."

You can tell he means it in the heartwarming way, the way you meant it, but it doesn't fill you with warmth. There are no fuzzy feelings in your stomach. There is a whirlpool.

This time, there is no doubt Alfred senses your discomfort. He seizes up. He goes to say something, something no doubt kind and thoughtful, but you beat him to the punch, "Can I keep this? I want to... show it to Bruce later, maybe. Might make him laugh."

Alfred stops in his tracks. Then, as if used to such stonewalling, stands to his full height and begins his trek back to your bedroom door, "'Course you can. I'll see you in the morning. Goodnight."

He waits for your affirmative, then shuts the door behind him.

july, seventeen years ago.

The banging on your door fills you with dread the second you recognize it for what it is.

You are tangled in sheets and limbs—warm limbs, arms and legs and hands wrapped around your body in the witching hour—while the heavy oak door of your dorm room shakes with each knock. You don't know how long they've been knocking, but you fear you have very little time left to answer before you end up in worse trouble than you seemingly already are.

You shove at Bruce and he flounders, half-asleep. He almost doesn't want to let you go until he becomes aware of the banging on the door himself and presses his back to the wall behind your bed, "He snitched."

"He wouldn't! Coulson would never," you grumble, pulling on a hoodie discarded on the floor, too tired to recognize it as Bruce's, "just... get under the bed."

He does as he's told, though he looks rather peeved to do so. You grab the back of your desk chair and twist it out from beneath the door knob, and almost immediately it is thrown open by the headmaster.

Your first feeling is shock. Your second feeling is, undoubtedly, ice cold fear. You never thought you and Bruce would get away with this forever, but to be caught by the headmaster is... way worse than you could've imagined.

Headmaster Collins was a spidery man. What he lacked in muscle, he made up for in menace. His features were all gaunt and shadowy in the dark of your room, and with only the light from the hallway to capture his silhouette.

Before you can speak, he raises a single finger to cut you off, "I will discuss you blocking doors later. You have a guest."

You frown. "I..." You stammer. Even with your hand caught in the cookie jar, you don't yet want to give yourself away. Maybe he had no idea it was Bruce that kept sneaking into your dorm. Perhaps Coulson hadn't divulged that much. You and Bruce had paid him in many ways to keep that part secret above all.

You just make out the narrowing of the headmaster's eyes, "Your mother. She flew in from Gotham. She says she's worried about you."

Your stomach drops. Perhaps Bruce being found under your bed would've been better.

To the headmaster's chagrin, you corral him back out into the hall and shut the door behind you, "What? I wasn't... she didn't..."

"She failed to let us know either. I only received the call minutes ago when she arrived outside. We don't want to keep her waiting, do we?" Now, in the light of the hallway, Headmaster Collins loses some of that menace. He almost looks... just as concerned as you.

He leads you to the library in complete silence.

When you push open one of the double doors, you see there are a few candles lit, the rest of the lights dimmed low, and your mother standing with her back to you in the center of the room.

She doesn't turn around until you hear the door click shut behind you and, just like that, the headmaster has left you to fend for yourself.

Everyone always said you looked just like her. A spitting image, and one day, "if you're lucky", you'd grow up to be just as powerful. As the eldest of your siblings, it was unavoidable. Your fate had been sealed long before you were born.

She opens her mouth to speak and whether out of fear or anger, your next words come tumbling out before she can, "I already know what you're going to say."

She clasps her lips together. Then, after a moment, smiles down at you, "Well, that saves me some breath. Tell me, darling mine: what was I going to say?"

"That you know why I told you so late. And that you're angry with me for not running it by you sooner... so you could be in control of it."

"I was angry eight hours ago. Not anymore. It was almost clever of you."

Almost. A smarter, more clever you wouldn't have run it by her at all. You would've quietly disappeared off to the Waynes' vacation house in Barcelona and, inevitably, when you got the call, you'd have told your mother you wouldn't be back for the rest of summer break.

But she had her claws in you, and try as you might to defy her, you always felt those fingers curling around your conscience, drawing out of you what little truth you aimed to keep to yourself.

"So you flew all this way to yell at me?"

"To join you."

You blanch. "You... can't." There is nothing else you can say. No argument, no temper tantrum. Nothing.

But your mother is smart. The plane ride over would have given her ample time to cancel her duties for the next six weeks, offload them onto someone else because what was more important than joining the future heir of Wayne Enterprises on a summer abroad in Spain? Most people on the board would kill for that kind of opportunity. That kind of favoritism.

She's smart too in that it's only her. You imagined your siblings had been left to the nannies, and if Bruce questioned her presence, she could argue that leaving Alfred to chaperone two teenagers all by himself would be just cruel. Her presence wouldn't tip the scales too far into dangerous territory. In fact, it would be nothing if not practical.

She takes a step toward you, then another, and then another until she is looming over you. Half her face is lit by the fireplace roaring in the corner of the room, casting a shadow on the other side. Like this, she no longer looks like you. She looks something far colder, "You didn't think I'd let you run off to another country and ruin this for our family, did you?"

"What? Wh... ruin what? Bruce is my boyfriend."

"Your boyfriend is Bruce Wayne. There is a very real difference."

You feel your eyebrow twitch at that, "What's your point?"

But your attitude is nasty. Far too nasty for a child. The residual sting of her hand colliding with your cheek nearly sends you back into a chair but you manage to catch yourself after a few steps, staring at the rug beneath you in disbelief.

"My point is," her attitude is much harsher, and as you wipe away the bit of spit that dribbled down your lip, she blocks your view once more, "he is not just another boy, a peer, a boyfriend. Bruce is the heir to the company, and unlike his father, he has no foresight. Under him, this company will crumble. His family's legacy will cease to exist. That is why I am here, darling mine. Why you exist. Legacies must be upheld."

You hiss in pain when she takes you by the chin and forces you to look her dead on. At this angle, you can see her whole face lit up by the fire. Through gritted teeth, you whisper in horror, "What are you asking me?"

"I'm telling you that I'm coming along, or you will not go at all."

Your heart breaks a little more than it already has. This is what you'd thought of all week, what kept you up at night and got you up in the morning. And now your mother was going to ruin it all. A tear slips down your cheek and over your mother's fingers, and she releases you to wipe her hand clean, "Please."

"You would only find some way to make him hate you, and all my hard work for the past twenty-five years would be all for naught."

"Mom."

"I've already let the butler know."

"Please let me have this."

"Tell me you understand." You remain silent, teeth almost chattering from the chill her voice gives you. Her eyes harden, "Tell me you understand why I let you have him at all."

"He's my friend."

"He's your future. Tell me." Another tear rolls down your cheek. Your mother grabs you by the arm and pulls you to her, shaking you as more tears fall. You're doing your damnedest not to sob but you're failing spectacularly, "Tell me!"

"He's my future." You gasp out.

"And why do I allow you to be friends with him?"

"Because..." You blubber, fiercely wiping away the tears, "...to uphold our family legacy."

"And?"

"To keep you on his good side."

"Keep us," she taps your chin with her finger, making you flinch, "us, darling mine. Wayne Enterprises will end with him, but it'll begin again with us. With you. Say it."

"With me."

"So we'll go together. And you will do anything he tells you to. And you will make him very happy because he is not your friend. He is our ticket to owning Gotham City."

You would've done anything Bruce asked of you because you loved him, because you trusted him. The way your mother talked about what he might ask of you made you feel sick to your stomach. She shakes you again, expecting you to say it back.

Your lips part to release a shaky exhale meant to be a word, but behind your mother, you stare past the cracked library door and into the eyes of your best friend. The only word you can get out is, "Bruce?"

Your mother drops you completely. She swings around but the door is shutting before she can catch a glimpse, and you're shoving her out of your way before he can get too far.

You throw the door open and find him rushing back down the hall, a flummoxed headmaster lingering by as you run after Bruce. You shout his name but he doesn't slow for you at all, even as your voice echoes off the old school halls. "Bruce! Bruce, please! Let me explain."

It takes more energy than you have in you to catch up with him, but you eventually slide to a stop in front of him, stopping him before he could ascend the stairs and return to the dorm rooms. You expect to see anger clear on his face, or sadness, betrayal even. Instead, he is cold. He looks right through you.

The emptiness of which he looks at you catches you completely off guard. Anger, you could stomach. But this?

"How much did you hear?"

Those eyes that used to look at you so sweetly hold nothing in them at all. He stares you down as if you should already know.

When he tries to side-step you for the stairs, you grasp desperately for his hand but he yanks away from you like you've burned him, sending you collapsing to your knees against the bottom step, "Bruce, please... I don't feel that way about you. I've never felt that way about you. You... you're my best friend. This is exactly why I shouldn't have told her about the trip, I should've just kept my mouth shut-"

"What trip?"

You look up at him and see a wave of something sharp cross his face before smoothing back over completely. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. He sees the question in you, the thing you fear to ask when it hits you.

Bruce turns his face away from you, "I'll see you in September."

You sit on those steps until sunrise.

The elevator stutters to a stop at cave level, letting you out into Bruce's sanctuary. He's standing at his desk and staring at you, as if he had expected Alfred instead.

"Hey," you start, timidly approaching him with yearbook in hand, "Are you busy?"

He watches you get closer and slowly shakes his head, eyes falling to the book clutched to your chest. They widen some with recognition, a cloudy look overtaking them once you're within arm's length of him. You set the book down on his desk, careful not to disrupt his work. You go to flip open the cover but his hand comes down on the Silverstone emblem, forcing you to draw back your hand in surprise, "Where'd you get this?"

"Alfred kept it." At that, Bruce groans. You gnaw on the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing.

You watch as he slides the book closer to himself, nudging away the files he'd been poring over before you'd arrived, making quiet noises of recognition here and there. When he inevitably lands on the class picture Alfred had shown you, he hesitates. You wait for him to say something, anything, but after a moment of silence, he presses on.

It isn't until he gets to the individual headshots from that year that you notice something odd. On your page, where your headshot and name should be, is a hole cut into the paper. Your heart sinks.

Your mind goes for the worst thing first (that perhaps he had hated you so much that putting away the yearbooks wasn't enough, that he had to cut you out of them too), but Bruce simply traces the neatly cut edges where your face should be.

Then he flips to the page where his picture should be, and his picture is cut out in the same fashion.

You look to Bruce for answers, but his expression is... guarded. He almost looks like he doesn't want to entertain it, almost looks like he's about to tell you to leave him to his work for the rest of the night.

Instead, he pushes the book back to you, "I kept yours in my wallet. I was going to give you mine."

You don't know what to say first, but it finds you in the lull in conversation, "You were going to?"

Bruce's mouth twists in discomfort, still not looking at you. He reaches over and shuts the cover to the book, "I thought... you might tease me about it." For a brief second, he looks at you, "Dunno where they are now."

That brief second is, of course, his tell. It was a shame. Bruce had become such a good liar since he left you on those stairs. He had to have been to get where he is now. And yet, you know in an instant that he's not being honest with you. It feels good this time.

Aftercare with Bruce Wayne.

He just freshly fucked the brains out of your skull, leaving you boneless on the mattress as he lays next to you. “Still w’me, baby?”

The small noise that you release lets him know, an ego boost to his heart makes him smirk. Before you fell asleep, his hands wrapped around your body and he walked towards the bathroom.

You never had to say anything, hearing the rush of water fill the tub answered your question. Bruce gently placed you on the counter of the sink, grabbing bathing salts and a small herbal bath-bomb for the water. Soon enough, the water filled up towards the edge and was steaming.

“Bruceyyy.. ‘M so tired..”

“I know sweets. Take a bath before sleeping, okay?” Bruce lifted you up with ease, stepping into the bathtub with your body in his hands. The hot water wrapped around your body, making you sigh with relief. He used a wash cloth and wiped down your body, the gentle movements making you sleepy.

Soon enough, your eyes were drooping as Bruce placed a large navy towel around your shoulders, drying you off clean. He dressed you in his sleep shirt, the fabric pooling down towards your thighs.

The bed seemed like heaven as soon as you were placed down, falling into a half conscious state of sleep while Bruce adored you.

“I love you so much, to the moon and back. Sweet dreams bun.”

ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-ೄྀ࿐ ˊˎ-ೄྀ

A/N Ayyyy new ideaaa!! also sorry for not ever including aftercare in a bunch of stories i post, hope this could make up for the lack of aftercare ;)

— reprieve | bruce wayne (☾)

wc: 3,047

draft from early last year — written as part of lunar lore (oc) but can be read as ‘x reader’

initially written in lowercase bc i mostly write on my phone so if i missed anything lmk pls

warnings: fluff !! super wordy/descriptive, potentially ooc!bruce, younger!bruce wayne (as in like the second year of being batman—he's in his early-mid twenties), third-person pov (mc is referred to w she/her pronouns), no use of ‘y/n’ or names, mc has hair long enough to be tied into a clip (one or two mentions of ‘curls’), established situationship (they're not dating actually BAHA), mc has abilities (super strength, healing factor, n cybernetic eye implants mentions—lmk if u want a more detailed explanation!!), domesticity, flirty!bruce, mc implied to hv a rough past and high pain tolerance, clingy!bruce, chores, mc is smaller/shorter than bruce, documents, thomas n martha wayne mentions, mc mentioned to be physically toned, alfred is on (a well-deserved) vacation in the maldives, bruce has a bad headache (bane mentioned!!), lots of touching, celcius use (jumpscare), sleep coercion (/pos), gaslighting (/joke) — lmk if i missed anything !!

Reading is a friend.

When he was younger and his parents were still six feet above, the library had been, au fond, Bruce's bedroom. Restless nights tossing and turning became nights by the warmth of the fireplace, moonlight managing to spill over the carpets through the gaps of the preposterously too-tall curtained windows that had always towered over the young wayne back then—the same windows where he now reached half its height, a bittersweet revelation to live. All the while Alfred would find him fast asleep in the loveseat in the morning, an opened copy of something Caesarean during his odd Roman Empire phase as a child opened and tucked against his chest, eyes shut and breathing slow, drowning deep in a dreamscape. But reading wasn't his only love in that aspect.

His mother read to him often. It was how he learned that he adored literature. He slept better with the sentiment of a bedtime story, whether it be tall or grounded, read from or simply spoken. His father tended to be guilty of the latter half, spouting theatrical tales that had his arms waving about and his expressions warping and morphing into exaggerated faces that young Bruce would sleepily giggle into his blankets from. His heart would sometimes swell and yet, ache in the recollection, bittersweet on his tongue. He supposed the whole family were readers, in their own way. Storytellers and story-lovers, one and the same. Though, in his life now, a free hour was tough enough to wring out of his day, let alone enough time to sit back and properly enjoy a book like he used to.

It didn't help that now, one of the only few things he actually had to sit down and read were documents. A good amount of which, for his company.

Such as right then, where he hunched over his home-office desk, head in his hands as his overworked brain tried to swallow the bits of information spread out on crisp sheets between his elbows.

Fucking hell.

Groaning, his head sank further into his palms, fingers weaving through the loose, messy strands over the front of his hairline.

He just dealt with Bane last night—reading was very much a foe right now.

The home-office was nostalgic in the shades of Victorian browns and the arched tips of the intricately framed (and once again) too-tall windows, floors drenched in the liquid gold of the sinking sun through the glass. Carpets blanketed mahogany planks as shelves lined up against the walls, neighboring pictures and awards and titles scattered over the century-old paint, where his parents would watch over him in the various stages of their lives, smiling forever. It could be considered old-fashioned, but it was comfortable. Before him, it was his father's and the father before him and so on. A Wayne's dwelling, through and through. Anecdotal in each crevice and dent and scratch and marks he'd discovered all throughout his life and will continue to, what with the too-long history of his bloodline—if the very lived-in state of the place hadn't made it so, anyway.

Bruce, however, felt far from comfortable—even if he was in the best pajama set he owned that he got a few months back. He thought it'd be a normal-ish day (normal-ish only because of the lack of Alfred, who was probably sipping cocktails as he tanned by the shore somewhere in the Maldives); wake up, morning routine, get to work, try not to sleep through meetings, scatter some food intake throughout the day and sunscreen reapplications, clock out, prep for his night job, do said night job, night routine, go the fuck to sleep. But no.

No, his company had to have some dispute with a Hong Kong branch because of a corruption case (that Batman had exposed) that had occurred and blew up several weeks before. And now, as a majority shareholder, he was one of the several board members that had to figure out what to do with the aftermath. And it's not like he didn't have a plan—of course he did, he's Batman—he had one, he knew exactly how to clean up messes. He was good at it, he knew what to do. But even then, he was still a man. And sometimes, men have headaches in the face of legal documents after a night of getting tossed back and forth in a Gotham bank.

Eyes squeezing shut, his shoulders sunk in quiet defeat as he sighed, eyelids unveiling a steel blue glare into the petty fibers of inked paper. Some part of him felt that it was stupid how he couldn't just take in some words, but hell, exhaustion was a bitch.

His ears perked up at the faint, but relief-inducing sound of steps echoing through the hallways past the home-office walls, shifting to lean back in his seat as the thumps thudded louder to the door. She had light feet. In a different situation, he'd barely be able to hear her steps at all. But she was at home, she was comfortable. So she was louder than she needed to be for no reason, and it was fine.

Seconds later, the door cracked open (she never bothered to announce her presence, not when she knew he could always sense her), and doe eyes stared at him through little loose wisps of curls that framed her face, untucked from the clip the rest of her hair was in, a blank expression (not bored or anything, just a default face) written into her skin.

“I just finished the laundry—can you take out the trash later? I've done everything else.”

The request was strange in hindsight, considering his status. You'd think the first son of gotham would never have to lift a finger. but with Alfred on vacation, the simpler chores were split between them. And well, she did most of it—considering the fact that she knew how, having tailed and assisted the Wayne butler on a day-to-day basis—but on some instances, she proved, admittedly, a tad lazy or she simplydidn'twantto. Which was where he came in, something he definitely didn't object to. It was fair, and it's not like he couldn't throw out trash or clean the bathrooms himself. He'd been in the darkest trenches of the earth back in the days of learning his practice, rotten food and mold scared him as much as finding her fluffy bunny slippers under the bed did.

Sighing—not out of exasperation, to be clear—calloused fingers ran through dark curls in blatant exhaustion that twitched a shift in her expression, he nodded softly.

“I will. But just—” his tongue kissed teeth as a plea formed in the back of his throat, the bridge of his nose massaged through his pause. His free hand waved her over, “could you come here for a second?”

Brows furrowing in visible concern, she pushed the gap of the door wider to let herself in, revealing the familiar silk set of a camisole and pajama shorts that hung over her hips, and the basket of folded laundry comfortably tucked between her hand and her waist that she carried with ease. Immediately, she scanned him and his surroundings for any cause of his discomfort as the basket of clothes was set down by the door that she nudged shut.

“What's wrong?” She asked, walking over to where he sunk in his seat, palms reaching out to grasp his forehead for a temperature change as her eyes blinked white. 36° celsius, her findings read. He was fine, his vitals were largely stable. Mostly unmarred save for the leftover bruises and minor cuts from the night before, and the slight concussion from the headslam into a fucking wall. Soft fingertips scratched over his scalp as she weaved through his hair in soothing motions, willing the comforted flutter of his eyelids as his head fell back with yet another sigh—that had, fortunately, sounded a little more relieved this time.

“You're stable.” She concluded, eyes narrowed at him. “Is it the concussion?”

It was definitely the likely culprit. His skull was pounding into his skin, throbbing with an ache that set fire to his senses. But even if said concussion had fallen rather mild, most of the pain stemmed from the bruising more than anything. Being slammed head-first into a sturdy bank wall wasn't quite as painless as she'd have made it seem. But even with the protection his cowl offered, it couldn't exactly cancel all the brute force from the impact. No matter, that wasn't his main concern at the moment. (but it definitely was the concussion.)

Before he could say more, a searing pain shot through his head at the slightest scrape of a fingernail against the bump over his cranium (again, Bane), triggering a sharp hiss of air through gritted teeth. Immediately then, her hands slipped away to hover hesitantly by her chest, wincing apologetically.

“..Sorry.”

“Hn.”

Eyes squeezed shut, his chest heaved with deep breaths as he pulled himself together, straining to push down the pain blooming over his scalp. How inconvenient.

“I can't read.” He rasped a confession, weakly knocking his knuckles to the edge of his desk to introduce the documents to her line of sight, the white lenses faintly glowing in a quiet examination.

Oh. Okay, she understood.

But with a snort, she opted to tease. “Didn't know Bane made you illiterate.”

Groaning, his grasp found her forearm just to pull her into his lap, arms circling her waist to push her closer, head lolling into the soft skin of her toned back as she settled over his thighs in the blink of an eye. Maybe she should be surprised, but proximity was far from a stranger at this point in their timeline. And she wasn't one to ever deny him, regardless of the desires his hands would speak for him.

“Read it to me.” He beckoned, muffled against her shoulder blade, inadvertently bubbling a giggle up her throat from the ticklish way his lips mumbled into her skin. “Please.”

Moving the rolling chair closer to the desk, she leaned over to skim through the papers, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she pinched the papers between her fingertips. Her head tilted as the information summed itself up in the built-in display beyond the white lenses she looked through, “this is clean-up?”

He nodded once, “for the corruption case, yes.”

She nodded too, flipping through the pages in her quiet, reading through the paragraphs with the ease his exhaustion had antagonized.

“I don't think you want me to read you all this word for word.” she quipped with yet another snort, words laced in an audible smile that lulled his worn-out brain. “If you couldn't read it, I don't think you'd digest it better hearing it.”

A single grunt was the only response he could muster to her teasing, strong arms squeezing her by the waist as he nuzzled into the crook of her neck, breathing her in. If he wanted to say how her voice might bewitch his brain just enough to finally understand it, he didn't. Because this was nice. She was warm. Softer in comparison to his hardened, calloused self, scarred in places he'd rather the world never see. She wasn't like that. All her scars were inside, in the skeleton of her soul and in the heart of her mind. They both shared that quality, certain enough. It made them closer, he considered. He never felt so close to another living being that he could unsheathe his armor, the facades and the lies and the aloof stoicism and unveil his everything, to feel safe enough to sleep nights by her side. The thought that she was his anchor was overwhelming, but bears a comfort in the truth. He'd rather no one else to sit on his lap and yet mock him in a moment of weakness.

“Mm..” Humming thoughtfully, she finally reached the end of the papers as his inner monologue wrapped up. “I could annotate this for you.”

Pushing the chair back, she leaned down to reach the desk drawers—with that of a mild struggle considering the way he clung to her—in a search. “Where'd you put the sticky notes and pens i got you?”

“Ask Alfred.” Was his immediate reply—one that he could definitely feel her deadpan to—expression shifting in slight discomfort with how she was leaning over a little too far for him to snuggle into. he squeezed her tighter, frowning into her skin. “Stop moving.”

“No,” she lightly chided, making her way through the drawers that lined the large foot of the desk from top to bottom. “I'm looking for the sticky notes.”

Another grunt. “Just summarize it for me.”

“You won't remember it.”

“I will.”

Clicking her tongue, her eyes rolled. “As if.”

“I will.”

With his insistence, she was suddenly pulled back up against him, resulting in a position where he was basically sandwiched between her and the back of his chair, biting back a pained sound from the slight sting of his head pressed against the leather cushion. “Just stay still.”

Of course, she ignored that and continued to lean over to look for the sticky notes, much to his chagrin.

Huffing, he stubbornly clung to her as she searched. and in just a few handfuls worth of seconds, she finally found them—much thanks to him, of course.

Quietly, she set the pens and notes over the desk, clicking the tip of the pen open to start the annotations. It's not like she had to or anything—definitely not. But she liked the feeling of doing it, the feeling of helping him in any sort of way. She indulged the extra mile for anything he needed, but if he rather she didn't, she could do that too. She'd give her soul for him if asked, even offhandedly.

“In summary,” she began, softened hums harmonizing with the scribbles of pen and paper. “Contract terminations, relocations, reviews, resourcing, retrieving research, rehiring—bla, bla.” Trailing on, she wrote down the necessary jist of it into the colorful notes and stuck them by the relevant paragraphs, scribbling quick summaries to keep his attention. “And then you get to the lawsuits part and who you're suing and for how much, as suggested by your legal department.” She said, “how fun.”

He scoffed, “how not.” His cheek was squished up against her shoulder, “there's another meeting for it tomorrow.”

“Aw.” she mock-cooed, “poor rich boy with his meetings.”

“Shut up.”

“Uh-huh.” An amused grin formed at her lips, the bottom half bitten between her teeth as she wrote down all the necessary things in the little notes.

Silence stretched on in the quaint, half-modern half-victorian home-office, the light steps of a dancing pen over paper being the only sound that cut through the otherwise nothingness looming in the air. She could feel him against her, breathing starting to slow and his hold starting to slack, his neck curling in in a position that'd probably leave him sore if her were to just fall asleep just like this. So, despite how little her want to wake him was, she lifted a hand to lightly tap at his cheek, rousing him just enough.

“You should go on ahead,” she urged, following the sleepy hum he let out. ”Nap.”

He grunted, snuggling deeper into her, a chosen response in the stead of vocal words.

Looking up in a mix of a deadpan and something fond, she sighed. “Bruce, come on. You'll be sore when you wake.”

“Are you done?” He mumbled an ask, just for her to lightly shake her head as she rubbed his cheek gently.

“No,” she told him, “I'll be done in maybe ten or twenty minutes, though. And then I have to start on your dinner before patrol—”

“Later.” He nuzzled into her once more, ”you're tired.”

Her brows shot up with amusement, “..Okay, I'm not.”

“You are.” He gave her yet another squeeze, “you're very tired, and you want to nap.”

She threw her head back with a laugh, a hint of disbelief whisked in the hymn of her giggles as her hands moved to rest over his where they hugged her by the waist. Jesus, he was (poorly) gaslighting her. “Oh, you're serious.”

“So serious." He added, “you're so tired, and you want to nap.”

Her head shook with the humor of the situation, a grin stretched across her face as the white of her lenses was blinked away. “You're unbelievable.” He'd rather that she was the tired one and he was, what? An unwilling victim to her desires? Unbelievable.

“You're so sleepy.” he repeated, like somehow his sleepy chants would coerce her into feeling it. maybe he was just that tired, and she was just that comfortable and he was too used to it. but he couldn't just go to bed without her now, not when it was better by her side. “So sleepy.”

Eyes rolling, she sighed defeat into the air, shoulders sinking in a quiet relent. If this was how he was going to be convinced to nap, then so be it.

“Fine,” she slumped, “I'm so sleepy.” To exaggerate, she feigned a yawn. “So tired. I want to nap.”

Chuckling, his arms pulled her into yet another squeeze. “I told you so.”

She lightly shook her head, “you're unbelievable.”

Without another word, he'd gotten up the chair with her in his arms, wringing a yelp out of her as she was now held up in the air by the waist, knees tucked in like she was still seated as her feet hovered while his took steps over the mahogany floors, somehow managing to make his way to the door successfully in his sleepy state without resulting into her crashing into anything. When they met the door, she opened it for him to pass them through and shut it closed just as well, leaving the papers and the laundry idle in the home-office as he led them through the halls of his childhood, eager to sleep off the ache in his skull.

Thankfully, she remembered to set up a few alarms to wake them up before patrol, much to his grumbling.

And if she ever brought it up again, he'll only grunt about it.

©lunarlighxt on tumblr

ask me stuff pls — tell me what u think !! <33

BRUCE WAYNE’S SECRETARY is welcome in his office after dark, gets to watch him work the last few hours — when the mask of gotham’s billionaire playboy cracks. revealing a more unguarded, almost approachable, version of him only she gets to see.

as the city quiets, so does his resolve. his tie is loosened, sleeves rolled up, and the weight of the day lingers in the curve of his shoulders. a nightcap sits on his desk - one he offered her earlier.

HR would write a novel about that one, but this is BRUCE WAYNE we’re talking about. who would dare say no to him?

there’s something so intimate about the silence, how he leans back in his chair, fingertips brushing over a report instead of gripping it. he speaks differently too. lower, gentler.

he breaks it occasionally, murmuring a dry remark about an upcoming meeting or an offhanded observation about crime rates or legal affairs. his voice, rough and worn from hours of use, carries an unfamiliar warmth. she doesn’t always know how to respond, but he doesn’t seem to mind. the company is what he craves.

then there are moments when he catches her watching him. a look up from his work, expression soft, almost curious - offering her a rare, tired smile.

yet, there’s still a distance between them, an line she never crosses. she knows her place, even when his gaze lingers a little longer, or when his gratitude slips out in the form of a quiet, “thank you.” before he announces it’s time they both start heading home.

she wonders if anyone else knows this side of him even exists.

BRUCE WAYNE’S SECRETARY is also HIS WIFE, so when he comes home later that night not as bruce wayne but as BATMAN, wounds and bruises decorating his skin — she gets to kiss him better too,

gets even more of him that no one else does.

THINGS I WANNA SAY TO YOU (BUT I’LL JUST LET YOU LIVE) — bruce wayne x reader

the dark knight has been shouldering gotham’s weight for too long. tonight, he might just need someone else ease the burden. // wc : 773

raindrops traced uneven paths down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the wayne mansion, the soft patter filling the otherwise tranquil room. fire crackled low in the hearth, its amber flickers like demonic fingers, clawing and reaching, scraping at the shadows that clung to the vaulted ceilings. BRUCE WAYNE sat on the edge of the leather couch, shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie discarded carelessly on the coffee table. there was a dull ache in his shoulders—a reminder of the endless strain he subjected himself to. but tonight, there was nothing demanding his attention. no calls to answer, no suits to don, no crises waiting in the alleyways of gotham. for once, quietness held.

bruce intended to keep it that way.

his gaze followed you as you entered the room, his thoughts unspooling before he could stop them. the life he’d constructed, brick by brick, with walls of steel and grief meant to keep others out. yet somehow, you’d slipped through. the way you fit into his life, seamlessly yet entirely your own, never ceased to disarm him. you were so different from everything he was—light where he was shadow, warmth where he was cold.

somehow, you belonged here. with him.

you set the tray down on the coffee table, the clink of ceramic pulling him from his thoughts. you started to sit on the armrest, but he caught your hand, long fingers curling around your wrist. “come here,” he said, tugging you toward him. your brows lifted slightly, but you didn’t resist as he guided you until you were settled in his lap, facing him, your knees bracketing his hips. one of his hands resting on your waist, the other trailing up your arm idly.

“what was that for?” you tilted your head with a curious smile, your hands instinctively settling on his shoulders. bruce didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on your face as his mind scrambled for the right word to capture the sight before him. eloquent, articulate bruce wayne, who always seemed to find the perfect phrase, drew a perfect blank. ethereal was the closest candidate, but even that felt inadequate. the firelight danced across your features, softening the curve of your lips and the elegant slope of your nose. for a fleeting moment, he felt utterly unmoored.

“you’re so tense,” you murmured, breaking the quiet as your fingers pressed into the tight muscles along his shoulders, working with a steady rhythm. bruce allowed his head to tilt back slightly, eyelids fluttering shut as he surrendered to your touch. your fingertips dug into the knots, slowly unraveling the tension that had built up over days, coaxing a deep exhale from his chest. the pressure was firm but gentle, easing away the stiffness in his muscles. as you continued, bruce’s thoughts drifted, and this time, he made no effort to reign them in.

the sound came first—a sharp, ominous crack. bruce stood on an endless pane of dark glass, its surface trembling under pressure. fractures raced outward like veins, jagged and merciless, the splintering sound echoing like gunfire. beneath his feet was nothing but darkness, a bottomless void that yawned wide, waiting to swallow him whole.

shit, he’s going to fall.

and then, your touch—fingers gentle but firm against his skin—and the cracks stilled as though startled into submission, the jagged edges softening under the warmth of your palms. the glass rippled, smooth and fluid like water, its sharpness dissolving as if it had never been.

he swallowed back a groan, adam’s apple bobbing as his fingers tightened briefly on your hip. the reaction didn’t go unnoticed. “relax,” you teased, your voice a lilting chirp of amusement. his lips twitched in response, though his grip on you remained firm. “you make that sound easy,” bruce countered gruffly, the strain in his voice a contraction to his words. your hands slowed, one drifting to rest over his chest, where you could feel the steady thrum beneath your palm. leaning forward, warm breath skimmed his jaw, impossibly close yet maddeningly restrained.

“better?” you asked softly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes searching.

“better,” he replied, though the word couldn’t begin to articulate even a fraction of what he felt.

THINGS I WANNA SAY TO YOU (BUT I’LL JUST LET YOU LIVE) — bruce wayne x reader

the dark knight has been shouldering gotham’s weight for too long. tonight, he might just need someone else ease the burden. // wc : 773

raindrops traced uneven paths down the floor-to-ceiling windows of the wayne mansion, the soft patter filling the otherwise tranquil room. fire crackled low in the hearth, its amber flickers like demonic fingers, clawing and reaching, scraping at the shadows that clung to the vaulted ceilings. BRUCE WAYNE sat on the edge of the leather couch, shirt sleeves rolled up, his tie discarded carelessly on the coffee table. there was a dull ache in his shoulders—a reminder of the endless strain he subjected himself to. but tonight, there was nothing demanding his attention. no calls to answer, no suits to don, no crises waiting in the alleyways of gotham. for once, quietness held.

bruce intended to keep it that way.

his gaze followed you as you entered the room, his thoughts unspooling before he could stop them. the life he’d constructed, brick by brick, with walls of steel and grief meant to keep others out. yet somehow, you’d slipped through. the way you fit into his life, seamlessly yet entirely your own, never ceased to disarm him. you were so different from everything he was—light where he was shadow, warmth where he was cold.

somehow, you belonged here. with him.

you set the tray down on the coffee table, the clink of ceramic pulling him from his thoughts. you started to sit on the armrest, but he caught your hand, long fingers curling around your wrist. “come here,” he said, tugging you toward him. your brows lifted slightly, but you didn’t resist as he guided you until you were settled in his lap, facing him, your knees bracketing his hips. one of his hands resting on your waist, the other trailing up your arm idly.

“what was that for?” you tilted your head with a curious smile, your hands instinctively settling on his shoulders. bruce didn’t answer, his gaze fixed on your face as his mind scrambled for the right word to capture the sight before him. eloquent, articulate bruce wayne, who always seemed to find the perfect phrase, drew a perfect blank. ethereal was the closest candidate, but even that felt inadequate. the firelight danced across your features, softening the curve of your lips and the elegant slope of your nose. for a fleeting moment, he felt utterly unmoored.

“you’re so tense,” you murmured, breaking the quiet as your fingers pressed into the tight muscles along his shoulders, working with a steady rhythm. bruce allowed his head to tilt back slightly, eyelids fluttering shut as he surrendered to your touch. your fingertips dug into the knots, slowly unraveling the tension that had built up over days, coaxing a deep exhale from his chest. the pressure was firm but gentle, easing away the stiffness in his muscles. as you continued, bruce’s thoughts drifted, and this time, he made no effort to reign them in.

the sound came first—a sharp, ominous crack. bruce stood on an endless pane of dark glass, its surface trembling under pressure. fractures raced outward like veins, jagged and merciless, the splintering sound echoing like gunfire. beneath his feet was nothing but darkness, a bottomless void that yawned wide, waiting to swallow him whole.

shit, he’s going to fall.

and then, your touch—fingers gentle but firm against his skin—and the cracks stilled as though startled into submission, the jagged edges softening under the warmth of your palms. the glass rippled, smooth and fluid like water, its sharpness dissolving as if it had never been.

he swallowed back a groan, adam’s apple bobbing as his fingers tightened briefly on your hip. the reaction didn’t go unnoticed. “relax,” you teased, your voice a lilting chirp of amusement. his lips twitched in response, though his grip on you remained firm. “you make that sound easy,” bruce countered gruffly, the strain in his voice a contraction to his words. your hands slowed, one drifting to rest over his chest, where you could feel the steady thrum beneath your palm. leaning forward, warm breath skimmed his jaw, impossibly close yet maddeningly restrained.

“better?” you asked softly, pulling back just enough to meet his gaze, eyes searching.

“better,” he replied, though the word couldn’t begin to articulate even a fraction of what he felt.