hii i tried to send this in before but i wasn’t sure if it went through because of the link but could i request a fic or drabble based on this video with bruce?
i love the idea of wife!reader and bruce getting come from a shopping spree and her waiting up (cause he leaves for patrol pretty much right after) to show/model everything for him even through he’s tired and a little beat up and wants to cuddle his wife.
just loverboy bruce admiring his wife and her pretty clothes while also trying to convince her to come to bed
thank you!!!
Your Love
Bruce Wayne x wife!Reader
warning: FLUFFFFFFFF!!!!! Tooth rotting fluff.
A/N: Anon, I absolutely love you. I had so much fun writing this.
By the time you were showing Bruce your nth outfit, it was honestly a miracle he was still conscious. You didn’t notice at first because you were having far too much fun, standing in front of the mirror looking at the new cardigan while talking about how you absolutely hadn’t intended to buy it until you saw it on sale and then somehow ended up buying it.
Meanwhile Bruce sat against the headboard with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you with the kind of devoted attention that would have made most people think he was listening to the most important conversation of his life.
The truth was that he wasn’t really paying attention to the sweaters. He was paying attention to you.
The way your eyes lit up when you talked. The way you kept twirling around to look at yourself in the mirror. The way you kept smiling every time you showed him something new. That was what he was watching.
That was what had kept him awake for almost two hours after patrol. Because God, he was tired. His body ached from tonight’s patrol, his shoulder was sore from a hit he’d taken earlier and every time he blinked he felt sleep trying to drag him under. There was a point about thirty minutes ago where he’d genuinely forgotten what you were saying because he’d almost fallen asleep with his eyes open.
But every time you came from the closet wearing something new he found himself sitting up a little straighter.
“What do we think?” Bruce stared, completely caught off guard because he was actively fighting against the need to sleep. You immediately laughed.
“See, that’s not a real answer.”
“I like it.” His voice was rough with exhaustion.
“You liked the last one.”
“I did.”
“You liked the one before that.”
“I did.”
“The one before that?”
“I did.” Bruce’s mouth twitched.
“Exactly. You’re biased.” Bruce watched you walk toward the closet again. Waited until you couldn’t see him anymore. Then he rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, desperately trying to stay awake a little longer. This man was reaching his limits. Every instinct in his body was begging him to lie down.
Instead, he heard the closet door open again. Bruce lowered his hands and immediately smiled. You stepped out and did a small spin and Bruce’s eyes followed automatically.
“Well?” He looked at you for a moment long enough that your smile slowly turned into a laugh.
“What?”
“You look beautiful.” His expression softened. You groaned immediately.
“Awwwwww baby.”
“It’s true.”
“You say that every single time.”
“Because it’s true every single time.” You climbed onto the mattress and crawled closer. Bruce immediately reached for you. His hand settled against your thigh because you were within reach. Because touching you was as natural as breathing.
You smiled when you noticed.
Bruce looked halfway asleep. His head resting against the headboard and his hand rubbing slow circles against your leg. And suddenly you realized just how exhausted he looked. The excitement softened immediately after realizing your husband was actively trying to stay awake for you.
“Babyyyyyy.”
“Hm?” Bruce hummed.
“You’re tired.” A very laugh escaped him and you feel your heart ache a little. This man loves you so deeply and he never tries to hide it.
“Little bit.”
“Little bit?”
“Maybe more than a little.”
“Bruce.” You frowned and his eyes finally met yours. The look in them made your chest ache. Because he wasn’t annoyed. If anything, he was disappointed that he was getting tired.
“I love seeing my beautiful wife happy.” he said quietly. Your heart melted on the spot.
Bruce reached for your hand and he brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles.
“You’ve been talking about this shopping trip all week.” A sleepy smile appeared on his face. “I wanted to see everything.”
You stared at him. And suddenly all the dresses and sweaters and shoes seemed significantly less important than the man sitting in front of you.
“There’s only two outfits left.” you admitted. Bruce visibly perked up which makes you leave a gasp.
“Bruceeeee!” His head immediately dropped back against the headboard.
“Oh no.”
“You were counting.”
“I wasn’t.”
“You absolutely were. Say it!”
“I wasn’t counting.”
“You looked relieved.” Bruce laughed despite himself.
“You caught me there, love.”
“I can’t believe this.” You collapsed dramatically against his shoulder.
“I love you.” The response was so immediate that you burst out laughing. Bruce looked super super serious. No joke.
Ten minutes later, after you’d shown him the final outfit and spent another five explaining why the shoes you’d bought were completely necessary despite already owning three similar pairs, Bruce finally reached his limit.
The poor man looked exhausted. You were halfway through another explanation when suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist.
“Babyyy!” Before you could react, he pulled you backward onto the mattress with him. One second you were standing.
The next you were trapped in Bruce’s big and muscular arms.
Bruce immediately rolled onto his side and wrapped himself around you like a giant human blanket. His face buried against your shoulder.
“Softie.” You started laughing.
“No.”
“Brucey.”
“No.” You tried to sit up. The arm around your waist tightened instantly. Yup, mission impossible.
“Bruce!”
“We’re done for today.” His voice was muffled against your shoulder.
“We’re not done.”
“We are.”
“I still haven’t shown you the bag.”
“The bag can wait.”
“The bag is cute.”
“I’m sure it is. You bought it, of course it will be cute.” You laughed so hard you could barely breathe. Bruce simply pulled you closer. As though he physically couldn’t get enough. As though after being away all night, all he wanted was to hold his wife and sleep.
“Husband of mine.”
“Hm?”
“You didn’t even see the other bag.” His eyes were already closed.
“I believe in you.”
“You don’t know what it looks like.”
“I’m sure it’s beautiful.” You rolled over enough to look at him. His face was pressed into your pillow, hair messy and his eyes closed. And somehow still holding you like you might disappear if he loosened his grip.
“You really stayed awake through all of that just for me?”
Bruce opened one eye. The effort alone looked exhausting.
“Of course I did.” The answer was immediate. You felt your heart squeeze. Bruce reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His expression sleepy and affectionate and completely gone for you.
“I love seeing my wife excited.” You leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Bruce smiled. Then immediately pulled you closer again.
“Okay baby.” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “I love you, good night now.”
“I love you too.” You smiled. Bruce pressed a kiss against your forehead.
“Good.” Bruce kisses you, again, one last time before drifting off to sleep while holding his favorite person in his safe arms.
heyyyyyy! *slides into dms* may i request a drabble with bruce wayne proposing to (y/n)? like the jason todd fic. because i absolutley adored your jason drabble. it was so incredibly sweet. i coulnt stop grinning while reading it. your writing is so cozy. ykyk? i want to read moreeeeeeee. i want to read some tooth rotting bruce fluff. i just love your writing style and could not help but ask. this is my first time requesting. so i am kind of nervous.
⁺༝ ꒰১ 𝒟𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 magical mailbox ໒꒱ ༝⁺: omg! my first anon letteeeeer. you have no idea how much this tiny milestone means to me! thank you so so much for your kind words anon. plus it only makes it even more speacial, that this is also your first request. gladly i will try to meet your wishes and write a tiny snippet. anyways- here is your tiny story hihi <33 hope you will enjoy it, honey.
i tried my best hihi. please like and comment if you enjoy this tiny ficlet. anywayyyyssss ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა i should stop rambling.
warnings & tags .ᐟ: sfw. pure fluff. no use of y/n. written with fem! reader in mind. no reader description. maybe ooc? no beta reader. Bruce being all over the place. Bruce having a few dark thoughts (?). i did not know how to end this sorryyyy. wrote this till almost 4 am. could be trash haha. Still learning how to tag!!. English is not my first language.
a little sticky note .ᐟ: This is a little ficlet based on this post by the lovely sentrybites: "i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”." you may find my original post (jason todd x reader) here .૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა This time, I wrote directly in English instead of first drafting a rough sketch in my native language. I think I like it better this way; the text resembles my natural writing style much more closely.
word count: approx 1873
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Subsequent to Selina leaving him, even before walking down the aisle, Bruce ceased believing in his very own happy ever after for the Dark Knight. That is, until he met his very own Lampyridae, his sweet firefly, his Seirēn. A wonderful young woman who illuminated his seemingly gloomy and arcane labyrinthine path of self destructional vengeance, lucring him inro a sweet yet secret sanctuary. Now, brucce finally allowed his weary heart to fully embrace a new person, vowing never to let her go again. To offer her his last name, and with it, his entire weeping soul.
Ambrosia and citrus fruits hung in the air. Ice cream cones glided slowly down the ever warming pavements, the melting straberry and vanilla milky cream bleeding slowly along the cracks of the hot paving stone. For once , silence reigned at the lakeshores.
Even though the villa boasted a small private beach, teenagers would invariably hop the fence or clamber down the stone wall to party until dawn. "Il proprietario non c'è mai," they would hum whenever the Polizia peered over the fence.
"Let the young people enjoy their summer," she had said, just as he was on the verge of chasing the group away with a fine walking stick clutched in his fierce hand.
She was so lenient. He never understood why.
Windows flung wide open, an orchard of peach trees with wind chime breez through the leaves and branches shimmering with the early heat haze. A timeless oil-painting or polaroid-worn-away-at-the edges-with-fading-faces kind of beauty about this dream. It had to be one. Bruce Wayne was never lucky. This could not be real.
And her? Soft light spattered on her soft skin, her and her and her.
i want to live like this forever. I want to rip my teeth into this very moment and never let go. i want to feed on this very image. i want to die here.
Always intertwined, feeling the silken sheets shifting around us like white snakeskin as i sought for your body's warmth. Never quiet sated.
The golden light, filtered through the leaves, bathed her skin in gentle marble textures. Bruce traced curve after swirl, searching for those tiny imperfections in her skin that made her feel human. Less than the thalassic siren he saw within her.
Her muscles rippled in the same rhythm the gentle waves of the lake, soft, persistent, soft.
Bruce was scared. Scared that in this life, it would start raining the second he whispered her name into her ear. The second she called for him. Afraid that a storm would break, instead of time standing still, after they had kissed for the millionth time.
The house was filled with the smell of the last misshaped, sweet heavy, almost drunken peaches of the season. Slowly loosing shape from their ripeness. All summer long the peach-trees had begged to get picked. When their skin had still been plush, full of life as if frozen in them; smooth as marble.
Bruce pushed his nose into the back of her neck. Her warm, soft hair tickling his nose, while his lips savoured the faintly salty taste of her skin. He tried to purge the heavy ripe scent from his nostrils, trying to inhale her youthfulness. Hoping she was secretly not yearning for the light. That she did not feel as though her lips rested upon a fruit: a fruit that was scarcely lovable, less plump, and all too easily bruised.
He traced a tiny mole on her shoulder, sighing deeply. His eyes flickering towards an old bureau. Wooden vines adorned its otherwise simple form. Inside a tiny secret drawer lay a ring - cradled in silk and kept safe within a silver seashell jewelry box. A silver ring enclosing a genuine saltwater pearl, held fast by curving forms and filigree that evoked the beautiful, almost ethereal appearance of sea foam.
The ring of his mother. The ring of his father's mother. And hopefully soon the ring of his future children's mother.
Selina.
A name that haunted his mind like a ghost. He avoided mirrors, too afraid to catch the reflection of her cat like green eyes. Her gaze, staring back at Bruce like a blinding light in the darkness. Scars reminded him that Bruce Wayne would never find solace without becoming entangled in a web of hazy thoughts, thoughts he called love. Thoughts of straying from the righteous path of his predetermined, solitary road of vengeance, of abandoning the very safety of an already godforsaken city.
A name that had haunted him again for months, ever since a tiny green glimmer of hope had taken root in his heart. Hope for a more domestic life.
His spiraling thoughts were interrupted as she stirred beside him. The Bat blinked; his eyes felt dry after having zoned out for so long, his heavy eyelids unmoving. She turned over, still half-asleep, and buried her face against his bare chest. He felt her legs shift between his, yet she showed no sign whatsoever of waking up. "My sleeping beauty…" he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. He inhaled her scent and the light oil of her scalp.
"Hmmm... does my pretty lady want to grace her humble knight with her waking presence?", he sighed gruffly. His voice was laced with a heavy raspy note. Another sleepless night for the vengeful knight, she noted. The young woman felt him shift his head,and felt, once again, how he was staring at that damned table for the umpteenth time. She didn't even have to open her pretty eyes to sense that tense gaze.
She heard him think, zoning out agian, for a tiny second. He heard her mumbel before he could once again loose him again.
"No...", she breathed, her refusal barily audible. He let out a soft, throaty laugh and scattered a thousand kisses across her jawline and cheek. His two days worth of stubble pricking her delicate face. "Let me see your pretty eyes...", he mumbeled between kisses, gently cupping her cheeks with one large hand. His palm was deliciously rough from the work as a viligante and the rigorous training. The skin scarred from training all the different skills he now commanded.
She opened her eyes only a tiny slit, her long lashes brushing expectantly against her slightly squished tissue of her cheekbone. He purred with contentment, pursed his lips, and pressed a childlike kiss to her mouth. "My pretty little fawn… just look at you—so displeased, and your day hasn't even begun yet," he murmured.
He laughed again, as if his words had been immensely amusing.
"I'm sorry, little angel—I'm so sorry I woke you," he cooed tenderly, kissing first her eyelids, then her nose. "Forgive me, my little apple."
He had left the bed, tucked his beloved back snugly into the silken cocoon of their sheets, and then set off for the kitchen. Ready to brew coffee and bring back some pastries from the tiny bakery downtown. Just a few miles away from this villa. The young woman slowly sat up, her eyes staring, almost gawking at the bureau. She tried to figure out what Bruce could possibly have found so interesting there.
After all, she hadn't simply stumbled into the Batcave last winter just because she had bumped her head one too many times as a child. She pushed the duvet off her legs and crept slowly, on tiptoe, toward the piece of furniture. Hesitantly, she glanced toward the open double doors. She could smell the fresh aroma of Italian coffee being brewed over on the stove.
Her hands felt along the underside; her fingertips sensed every tiny irregularity, every little imperfection in the wood. Her index finger glided over a strange spot. She pressed against the wood, and a tiny compartment sprang open. With a soft click, the drawer slid out.
For a moment, she simply stared inside. Lying there was a small silver shell, nestled within the folds of pale silk. The morning light caught on its curves, making it gleam like something dredged from the bottom of the lake by a mermaid's careful hands.
Slowly, she reached for it. The shell felt cool in her palm. Older than the house. Older than summer. The hinge gave way with barely any resistance. And there it was, a ring. Not gaudy not enormous. Not the sort of thing displayed behind spotless glass windows on Fifth Avenue.
The pearl seemed alive. Cream-white and luminous, carrying the soft glow of moonlight trapped beneath water. Silver swirls held it in place, delicate and wild at once, like sea foam frozen by magic. Her thumb brushed over the metal.
The realization settled slowly within her. For several seconds she simply sat there on the floor, cross-legged before the bureau, holding the ring between her fingers as though it might disappear. The world outside continued uninterrupted.
The floorboards groaned softly. Bruce appeared in the doorway carrying a tray balanced awkwardly in one hand.
Bruce almost dropped the tray. The pure silver was not particularly heavy, nor because the polished wooden floor beneath his bare feet was uneven, but because the sight that greeted him as he stepped through the doorway struck him with the same strange, disorienting force as waking from a nightmare and realizing it had followed you into daylight.
His Darling sat on the cool floor before the bureau, the tin ysecret drawer open; and between ger fingers, caught in a shaft of golden morning sunlight that pouzred through the open windows and turned every speck of durst into drifting flecks of amber, rested the ring.
The ring he had carried across contonets, hidden away in safes, vaults and secret compartments, protecting it with care that bordered on reverence, because some small and embarrassingly hopeful part of him had knoen for years that if therfe was ever going to be a woman standing again beside him at the end of all things, then it would be her.
For one terrible moment, Bruce could only stare.
Months. Months of planning collapsed in on themselves like a wet paper card house. Sogging into one big clump.
The little island in the middle of the lake appeared before his eyes, the old castle perched upon it like something stolen from a fairytale, its stone walls glowing honey-gold at sunset. He remembered the owner laughing when Bruce had first approached him, convinced the billionaire was attempting to buy the property outright rather than merely borrow it for an evening. He remembered checking out flower shops, stupid decoration and bills of online shopping of fairylights, so high no one could actually imagine one would buy so many.
He puffed, feeling suddenly so unsure.
The speech- God the speech!
Entire patrols had been spent composing it in his head. He had rewritten it while literally hanging upside down from gargoyles. Rewritten it while bleeding. Rewritten it while pretending to pay attention during board meetings. Every sentence carefully chosen. Every word measured.
Because there were things he wanted her to understand: That she had saved him. That he still woke up some mornings convinced she was going to disappear. That every dream he had ever dared entertain for himself somehow had her standing at the center of it.
And now she had found the ring while wrapped in a bedsheet. Like a magpie digging through cupboards after flying into a room through an open window.
The Bat nearly laughed, oh he almost wept. He stepped hesitantly towards her, sank to his knees , slowly taking her delicate hands, and kissed ever singly inch of them. The ring lay cradled between her hands. "Please…" he murmured amidst his adoration. His eyes closed as he murmured "Please" once more.
heyyyyyy! *slides into dms* may i request a drabble with bruce wayne proposing to (y/n)? like the jason todd fic. because i absolutley adored your jason drabble. it was so incredibly sweet. i coulnt stop grinning while reading it. your writing is so cozy. ykyk? i want to read moreeeeeeee. i want to read some tooth rotting bruce fluff. i just love your writing style and could not help but ask. this is my first time requesting. so i am kind of nervous.
⁺༝ ꒰১ 𝒟𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 magical mailbox ໒꒱ ༝⁺: omg! my first anon letteeeeer. you have no idea how much this tiny milestone means to me! thank you so so much for your kind words anon. plus it only makes it even more speacial, that this is also your first request. gladly i will try to meet your wishes and write a tiny snippet. anyways- here is your tiny story hihi <33 hope you will enjoy it, honey.
i tried my best hihi. please like and comment if you enjoy this tiny ficlet. anywayyyyssss ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა i should stop rambling.
warnings & tags .ᐟ: sfw. pure fluff. no use of y/n. written with fem! reader in mind. no reader description. maybe ooc? no beta reader. Bruce being all over the place. Bruce having a few dark thoughts (?). i did not know how to end this sorryyyy. wrote this till almost 4 am. could be trash haha. Still learning how to tag!!. English is not my first language.
a little sticky note .ᐟ: This is a little ficlet based on this post by the lovely sentrybites: "i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”." you may find my original post (jason todd x reader) here .૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა This time, I wrote directly in English instead of first drafting a rough sketch in my native language. I think I like it better this way; the text resembles my natural writing style much more closely.
word count: approx 1873
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Subsequent to Selina leaving him, even before walking down the aisle, Bruce ceased believing in his very own happy ever after for the Dark Knight. That is, until he met his very own Lampyridae, his sweet firefly, his Seirēn. A wonderful young woman who illuminated his seemingly gloomy and arcane labyrinthine path of self destructional vengeance, lucring him inro a sweet yet secret sanctuary. Now, brucce finally allowed his weary heart to fully embrace a new person, vowing never to let her go again. To offer her his last name, and with it, his entire weeping soul.
Ambrosia and citrus fruits hung in the air. Ice cream cones glided slowly down the ever warming pavements, the melting straberry and vanilla milky cream bleeding slowly along the cracks of the hot paving stone. For once , silence reigned at the lakeshores.
Even though the villa boasted a small private beach, teenagers would invariably hop the fence or clamber down the stone wall to party until dawn. "Il proprietario non c'è mai," they would hum whenever the Polizia peered over the fence.
"Let the young people enjoy their summer," she had said, just as he was on the verge of chasing the group away with a fine walking stick clutched in his fierce hand.
She was so lenient. He never understood why.
Windows flung wide open, an orchard of peach trees with wind chime breez through the leaves and branches shimmering with the early heat haze. A timeless oil-painting or polaroid-worn-away-at-the edges-with-fading-faces kind of beauty about this dream. It had to be one. Bruce Wayne was never lucky. This could not be real.
And her? Soft light spattered on her soft skin, her and her and her.
i want to live like this forever. I want to rip my teeth into this very moment and never let go. i want to feed on this very image. i want to die here.
Always intertwined, feeling the silken sheets shifting around us like white snakeskin as i sought for your body's warmth. Never quiet sated.
The golden light, filtered through the leaves, bathed her skin in gentle marble textures. Bruce traced curve after swirl, searching for those tiny imperfections in her skin that made her feel human. Less than the thalassic siren he saw within her.
Her muscles rippled in the same rhythm the gentle waves of the lake, soft, persistent, soft.
Bruce was scared. Scared that in this life, it would start raining the second he whispered her name into her ear. The second she called for him. Afraid that a storm would break, instead of time standing still, after they had kissed for the millionth time.
The house was filled with the smell of the last misshaped, sweet heavy, almost drunken peaches of the season. Slowly loosing shape from their ripeness. All summer long the peach-trees had begged to get picked. When their skin had still been plush, full of life as if frozen in them; smooth as marble.
Bruce pushed his nose into the back of her neck. Her warm, soft hair tickling his nose, while his lips savoured the faintly salty taste of her skin. He tried to purge the heavy ripe scent from his nostrils, trying to inhale her youthfulness. Hoping she was secretly not yearning for the light. That she did not feel as though her lips rested upon a fruit: a fruit that was scarcely lovable, less plump, and all too easily bruised.
He traced a tiny mole on her shoulder, sighing deeply. His eyes flickering towards an old bureau. Wooden vines adorned its otherwise simple form. Inside a tiny secret drawer lay a ring - cradled in silk and kept safe within a silver seashell jewelry box. A silver ring enclosing a genuine saltwater pearl, held fast by curving forms and filigree that evoked the beautiful, almost ethereal appearance of sea foam.
The ring of his mother. The ring of his father's mother. And hopefully soon the ring of his future children's mother.
Selina.
A name that haunted his mind like a ghost. He avoided mirrors, too afraid to catch the reflection of her cat like green eyes. Her gaze, staring back at Bruce like a blinding light in the darkness. Scars reminded him that Bruce Wayne would never find solace without becoming entangled in a web of hazy thoughts, thoughts he called love. Thoughts of straying from the righteous path of his predetermined, solitary road of vengeance, of abandoning the very safety of an already godforsaken city.
A name that had haunted him again for months, ever since a tiny green glimmer of hope had taken root in his heart. Hope for a more domestic life.
His spiraling thoughts were interrupted as she stirred beside him. The Bat blinked; his eyes felt dry after having zoned out for so long, his heavy eyelids unmoving. She turned over, still half-asleep, and buried her face against his bare chest. He felt her legs shift between his, yet she showed no sign whatsoever of waking up. "My sleeping beauty…" he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. He inhaled her scent and the light oil of her scalp.
"Hmmm... does my pretty lady want to grace her humble knight with her waking presence?", he sighed gruffly. His voice was laced with a heavy raspy note. Another sleepless night for the vengeful knight, she noted. The young woman felt him shift his head,and felt, once again, how he was staring at that damned table for the umpteenth time. She didn't even have to open her pretty eyes to sense that tense gaze.
She heard him think, zoning out agian, for a tiny second. He heard her mumbel before he could once again loose him again.
"No...", she breathed, her refusal barily audible. He let out a soft, throaty laugh and scattered a thousand kisses across her jawline and cheek. His two days worth of stubble pricking her delicate face. "Let me see your pretty eyes...", he mumbeled between kisses, gently cupping her cheeks with one large hand. His palm was deliciously rough from the work as a viligante and the rigorous training. The skin scarred from training all the different skills he now commanded.
She opened her eyes only a tiny slit, her long lashes brushing expectantly against her slightly squished tissue of her cheekbone. He purred with contentment, pursed his lips, and pressed a childlike kiss to her mouth. "My pretty little fawn… just look at you—so displeased, and your day hasn't even begun yet," he murmured.
He laughed again, as if his words had been immensely amusing.
"I'm sorry, little angel—I'm so sorry I woke you," he cooed tenderly, kissing first her eyelids, then her nose. "Forgive me, my little apple."
He had left the bed, tucked his beloved back snugly into the silken cocoon of their sheets, and then set off for the kitchen. Ready to brew coffee and bring back some pastries from the tiny bakery downtown. Just a few miles away from this villa. The young woman slowly sat up, her eyes staring, almost gawking at the bureau. She tried to figure out what Bruce could possibly have found so interesting there.
After all, she hadn't simply stumbled into the Batcave last winter just because she had bumped her head one too many times as a child. She pushed the duvet off her legs and crept slowly, on tiptoe, toward the piece of furniture. Hesitantly, she glanced toward the open double doors. She could smell the fresh aroma of Italian coffee being brewed over on the stove.
Her hands felt along the underside; her fingertips sensed every tiny irregularity, every little imperfection in the wood. Her index finger glided over a strange spot. She pressed against the wood, and a tiny compartment sprang open. With a soft click, the drawer slid out.
For a moment, she simply stared inside. Lying there was a small silver shell, nestled within the folds of pale silk. The morning light caught on its curves, making it gleam like something dredged from the bottom of the lake by a mermaid's careful hands.
Slowly, she reached for it. The shell felt cool in her palm. Older than the house. Older than summer. The hinge gave way with barely any resistance. And there it was, a ring. Not gaudy not enormous. Not the sort of thing displayed behind spotless glass windows on Fifth Avenue.
The pearl seemed alive. Cream-white and luminous, carrying the soft glow of moonlight trapped beneath water. Silver swirls held it in place, delicate and wild at once, like sea foam frozen by magic. Her thumb brushed over the metal.
The realization settled slowly within her. For several seconds she simply sat there on the floor, cross-legged before the bureau, holding the ring between her fingers as though it might disappear. The world outside continued uninterrupted.
The floorboards groaned softly. Bruce appeared in the doorway carrying a tray balanced awkwardly in one hand.
Bruce almost dropped the tray. The pure silver was not particularly heavy, nor because the polished wooden floor beneath his bare feet was uneven, but because the sight that greeted him as he stepped through the doorway struck him with the same strange, disorienting force as waking from a nightmare and realizing it had followed you into daylight.
His Darling sat on the cool floor before the bureau, the tin ysecret drawer open; and between ger fingers, caught in a shaft of golden morning sunlight that pouzred through the open windows and turned every speck of durst into drifting flecks of amber, rested the ring.
The ring he had carried across contonets, hidden away in safes, vaults and secret compartments, protecting it with care that bordered on reverence, because some small and embarrassingly hopeful part of him had knoen for years that if therfe was ever going to be a woman standing again beside him at the end of all things, then it would be her.
For one terrible moment, Bruce could only stare.
Months. Months of planning collapsed in on themselves like a wet paper card house. Sogging into one big clump.
The little island in the middle of the lake appeared before his eyes, the old castle perched upon it like something stolen from a fairytale, its stone walls glowing honey-gold at sunset. He remembered the owner laughing when Bruce had first approached him, convinced the billionaire was attempting to buy the property outright rather than merely borrow it for an evening. He remembered checking out flower shops, stupid decoration and bills of online shopping of fairylights, so high no one could actually imagine one would buy so many.
He puffed, feeling suddenly so unsure.
The speech- God the speech!
Entire patrols had been spent composing it in his head. He had rewritten it while literally hanging upside down from gargoyles. Rewritten it while bleeding. Rewritten it while pretending to pay attention during board meetings. Every sentence carefully chosen. Every word measured.
Because there were things he wanted her to understand: That she had saved him. That he still woke up some mornings convinced she was going to disappear. That every dream he had ever dared entertain for himself somehow had her standing at the center of it.
And now she had found the ring while wrapped in a bedsheet. Like a magpie digging through cupboards after flying into a room through an open window.
The Bat nearly laughed, oh he almost wept. He stepped hesitantly towards her, sank to his knees , slowly taking her delicate hands, and kissed ever singly inch of them. The ring lay cradled between her hands. "Please…" he murmured amidst his adoration. His eyes closed as he murmured "Please" once more.
i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.
i hope every writer who reads this makes the best of it
warnings & tags .ᐟ: sfw. pure fluff. no use of y/n. written with fem! reader in mind. no reader description. maybe ooc? no beta reader. Bruce being all over the place. Bruce having a few dark thoughts (?). i did not know how to end this sorryyyy. wrote this till almost 4 am. could be trash haha. Still learning how to tag!!. English is not my first language.
a little sticky note .ᐟ: My first anon actually requested this with Bruce Wayne. I'm posting this twice because you can't combine an anon request with a reblog (at least, I don't think you can).This time, I wrote directly in English instead of first drafting a rough sketch in my native language. I think I like it better this way; the text resembles my natural writing style much more closely.
word count: approx 1873
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Subsequent to Selina leaving him, even before walking down the aisle, Bruce ceased believing in his very own happy ever after for the Dark Knight. That is, until he met his very own Lampyridae, his sweet firefly, his Seirēn. A wonderful young woman who illuminated his seemingly gloomy and arcane labyrinthine path of self destructional vengeance, lucring him inro a sweet yet secret sanctuary. Now, brucce finally allowed his weary heart to fully embrace a new person, vowing never to let her go again. To offer her his last name, and with it, his entire weeping soul.
Ambrosia and citrus fruits hung in the air. Ice cream cones glided slowly down the ever warming pavements, the melting straberry and vanilla milky cream bleeding slowly along the cracks of the hot paving stone. For once , silence reigned at the lakeshores.
Even though the villa boasted a small private beach, teenagers would invariably hop the fence or clamber down the stone wall to party until dawn. "Il proprietario non c'è mai," they would hum whenever the Polizia peered over the fence.
"Let the young people enjoy their summer," she had said, just as he was on the verge of chasing the group away with a fine walking stick clutched in his fierce hand.
She was so lenient. He never understood why.
Windows flung wide open, an orchard of peach trees with wind chime breez through the leaves and branches shimmering with the early heat haze. A timeless oil-painting or polaroid-worn-away-at-the edges-with-fading-faces kind of beauty about this dream. It had to be one. Bruce Wayne was never lucky. This could not be real.
And her? Soft light spattered on her soft skin, her and her and her.
i want to live like this forever. I want to rip my teeth into this very moment and never let go. i want to feed on this very image. i want to die here.
Always intertwined, feeling the silken sheets shifting around us like white snakeskin as i sought for your body's warmth. Never quiet sated.
The golden light, filtered through the leaves, bathed her skin in gentle marble textures. Bruce traced curve after swirl, searching for those tiny imperfections in her skin that made her feel human. Less than the thalassic siren he saw within her.
Her muscles rippled in the same rhythm the gentle waves of the lake, soft, persistent, soft.
Bruce was scared. Scared that in this life, it would start raining the second he whispered her name into her ear. The second she called for him. Afraid that a storm would break, instead of time standing still, after they had kissed for the millionth time.
The house was filled with the smell of the last misshaped, sweet heavy, almost drunken peaches of the season. Slowly loosing shape from their ripeness. All summer long the peach-trees had begged to get picked. When their skin had still been plush, full of life as if frozen in them; smooth as marble.
Bruce pushed his nose into the back of her neck. Her warm, soft hair tickling his nose, while his lips savoured the faintly salty taste of her skin. He tried to purge the heavy ripe scent from his nostrils, trying to inhale her youthfulness. Hoping she was secretly not yearning for the light. That she did not feel as though her lips rested upon a fruit: a fruit that was scarcely lovable, less plump, and all too easily bruised.
He traced a tiny mole on her shoulder, sighing deeply. His eyes flickering towards an old bureau. Wooden vines adorned its otherwise simple form. Inside a tiny secret drawer lay a ring - cradled in silk and kept safe within a silver seashell jewelry box. A silver ring enclosing a genuine saltwater pearl, held fast by curving forms and filigree that evoked the beautiful, almost ethereal appearance of sea foam.
The ring of his mother. The ring of his father's mother. And hopefully soon the ring of his future children's mother.
Selina.
A name that haunted his mind like a ghost. He avoided mirrors, too afraid to catch the reflection of her cat like green eyes. Her gaze, staring back at Bruce like a blinding light in the darkness. Scars reminded him that Bruce Wayne would never find solace without becoming entangled in a web of hazy thoughts, thoughts he called love. Thoughts of straying from the righteous path of his predetermined, solitary road of vengeance, of abandoning the very safety of an already godforsaken city.
A name that had haunted him again for months, ever since a tiny green glimmer of hope had taken root in his heart. Hope for a more domestic life.
His spiraling thoughts were interrupted as she stirred beside him. The Bat blinked; his eyes felt dry after having zoned out for so long, his heavy eyelids unmoving. She turned over, still half-asleep, and buried her face against his bare chest. He felt her legs shift between his, yet she showed no sign whatsoever of waking up. "My sleeping beauty…" he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. He inhaled her scent and the light oil of her scalp.
"Hmmm... does my pretty lady want to grace her humble knight with her waking presence?", he sighed gruffly. His voice was laced with a heavy raspy note. Another sleepless night for the vengeful knight, she noted. The young woman felt him shift his head,and felt, once again, how he was staring at that damned table for the umpteenth time. She didn't even have to open her pretty eyes to sense that tense gaze.
She heard him think, zoning out agian, for a tiny second. He heard her mumbel before he could once again loose him again.
"No...", she breathed, her refusal barily audible. He let out a soft, throaty laugh and scattered a thousand kisses across her jawline and cheek. His two days worth of stubble pricking her delicate face. "Let me see your pretty eyes...", he mumbeled between kisses, gently cupping her cheeks with one large hand. His palm was deliciously rough from the work as a viligante and the rigorous training. The skin scarred from training all the different skills he now commanded.
She opened her eyes only a tiny slit, her long lashes brushing expectantly against her slightly squished tissue of her cheekbone. He purred with contentment, pursed his lips, and pressed a childlike kiss to her mouth. "My pretty little fawn… just look at you—so displeased, and your day hasn't even begun yet," he murmured.
He laughed again, as if his words had been immensely amusing.
"I'm sorry, little angel—I'm so sorry I woke you," he cooed tenderly, kissing first her eyelids, then her nose. "Forgive me, my little apple."
He had left the bed, tucked his beloved back snugly into the silken cocoon of their sheets, and then set off for the kitchen. Ready to brew coffee and bring back some pastries from the tiny bakery downtown. Just a few miles away from this villa. The young woman slowly sat up, her eyes staring, almost gawking at the bureau. She tried to figure out what Bruce could possibly have found so interesting there.
After all, she hadn't simply stumbled into the Batcave last winter just because she had bumped her head one too many times as a child. She pushed the duvet off her legs and crept slowly, on tiptoe, toward the piece of furniture. Hesitantly, she glanced toward the open double doors. She could smell the fresh aroma of Italian coffee being brewed over on the stove.
Her hands felt along the underside; her fingertips sensed every tiny irregularity, every little imperfection in the wood. Her index finger glided over a strange spot. She pressed against the wood, and a tiny compartment sprang open. With a soft click, the drawer slid out.
For a moment, she simply stared inside. Lying there was a small silver shell, nestled within the folds of pale silk. The morning light caught on its curves, making it gleam like something dredged from the bottom of the lake by a mermaid's careful hands.
Slowly, she reached for it. The shell felt cool in her palm. Older than the house. Older than summer. The hinge gave way with barely any resistance. And there it was, a ring. Not gaudy not enormous. Not the sort of thing displayed behind spotless glass windows on Fifth Avenue.
The pearl seemed alive. Cream-white and luminous, carrying the soft glow of moonlight trapped beneath water. Silver swirls held it in place, delicate and wild at once, like sea foam frozen by magic. Her thumb brushed over the metal.
The realization settled slowly within her. For several seconds she simply sat there on the floor, cross-legged before the bureau, holding the ring between her fingers as though it might disappear. The world outside continued uninterrupted.
The floorboards groaned softly. Bruce appeared in the doorway carrying a tray balanced awkwardly in one hand.
Bruce almost dropped the tray. The pure silver was not particularly heavy, nor because the polished wooden floor beneath his bare feet was uneven, but because the sight that greeted him as he stepped through the doorway struck him with the same strange, disorienting force as waking from a nightmare and realizing it had followed you into daylight.
His Darling sat on the cool floor before the bureau, the tin ysecret drawer open; and between ger fingers, caught in a shaft of golden morning sunlight that pouzred through the open windows and turned every speck of durst into drifting flecks of amber, rested the ring.
The ring he had carried across contonets, hidden away in safes, vaults and secret compartments, protecting it with care that bordered on reverence, because some small and embarrassingly hopeful part of him had knoen for years that if therfe was ever going to be a woman standing again beside him at the end of all things, then it would be her.
For one terrible moment, Bruce could only stare.
Months. Months of planning collapsed in on themselves like a wet paper card house. Sogging into one big clump.
The little island in the middle of the lake appeared before his eyes, the old castle perched upon it like something stolen from a fairytale, its stone walls glowing honey-gold at sunset. He remembered the owner laughing when Bruce had first approached him, convinced the billionaire was attempting to buy the property outright rather than merely borrow it for an evening. He remembered checking out flower shops, stupid decoration and bills of online shopping of fairylights, so high no one could actually imagine one would buy so many.
He puffed, feeling suddenly so unsure.
The speech- God the speech! Entire patrols had been spent composing it in his head. He had rewritten it while literally hanging upside down from gargoyles. Rewritten it while bleeding. Rewritten it while pretending to pay attention during board meetings. Every sentence carefully chosen. Every word measured.
Because there were things he wanted her to understand: That she had saved him. That he still woke up some mornings convinced she was going to disappear. That every dream he had ever dared entertain for himself somehow had her standing at the center of it.
And now she had found the ring while wrapped in a bedsheet. Like a magpie digging through cupboards after flying into a room through an open window.
The Bat nearly laughed, oh he almost wept. He stepped hesitantly towards her, sank to his knees , slowly taking her delicate hands, and kissed ever singly inch of them. The ring lay cradled between her hands. "Please…" he murmured amidst his adoration. His eyes closed as he murmured "Please" once more.
heyyyyyy! *slides into dms* may i request a drabble with bruce wayne proposing to (y/n)? like the jason todd fic. because i absolutley adored your jason drabble. it was so incredibly sweet. i coulnt stop grinning while reading it. your writing is so cozy. ykyk? i want to read moreeeeeeee. i want to read some tooth rotting bruce fluff. i just love your writing style and could not help but ask. this is my first time requesting. so i am kind of nervous.
⁺༝ ꒰১ 𝒟𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 magical mailbox ໒꒱ ༝⁺: omg! my first anon letteeeeer. you have no idea how much this tiny milestone means to me! thank you so so much for your kind words anon. plus it only makes it even more speacial, that this is also your first request. gladly i will try to meet your wishes and write a tiny snippet. anyways- here is your tiny story hihi <33 hope you will enjoy it, honey.
i tried my best hihi. please like and comment if you enjoy this tiny ficlet. anywayyyyssss ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა i should stop rambling.
warnings & tags .ᐟ: sfw. pure fluff. no use of y/n. written with fem! reader in mind. no reader description. maybe ooc? no beta reader. Bruce being all over the place. Bruce having a few dark thoughts (?). i did not know how to end this sorryyyy. wrote this till almost 4 am. could be trash haha. Still learning how to tag!!. English is not my first language.
a little sticky note .ᐟ: This is a little ficlet based on this post by the lovely sentrybites: "i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”." you may find my original post (jason todd x reader) here .૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა This time, I wrote directly in English instead of first drafting a rough sketch in my native language. I think I like it better this way; the text resembles my natural writing style much more closely.
word count: approx 1873
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Subsequent to Selina leaving him, even before walking down the aisle, Bruce ceased believing in his very own happy ever after for the Dark Knight. That is, until he met his very own Lampyridae, his sweet firefly, his Seirēn. A wonderful young woman who illuminated his seemingly gloomy and arcane labyrinthine path of self destructional vengeance, lucring him inro a sweet yet secret sanctuary. Now, brucce finally allowed his weary heart to fully embrace a new person, vowing never to let her go again. To offer her his last name, and with it, his entire weeping soul.
Ambrosia and citrus fruits hung in the air. Ice cream cones glided slowly down the ever warming pavements, the melting straberry and vanilla milky cream bleeding slowly along the cracks of the hot paving stone. For once , silence reigned at the lakeshores.
Even though the villa boasted a small private beach, teenagers would invariably hop the fence or clamber down the stone wall to party until dawn. "Il proprietario non c'è mai," they would hum whenever the Polizia peered over the fence.
"Let the young people enjoy their summer," she had said, just as he was on the verge of chasing the group away with a fine walking stick clutched in his fierce hand.
She was so lenient. He never understood why.
Windows flung wide open, an orchard of peach trees with wind chime breez through the leaves and branches shimmering with the early heat haze. A timeless oil-painting or polaroid-worn-away-at-the edges-with-fading-faces kind of beauty about this dream. It had to be one. Bruce Wayne was never lucky. This could not be real.
And her? Soft light spattered on her soft skin, her and her and her.
i want to live like this forever. I want to rip my teeth into this very moment and never let go. i want to feed on this very image. i want to die here.
Always intertwined, feeling the silken sheets shifting around us like white snakeskin as i sought for your body's warmth. Never quiet sated.
The golden light, filtered through the leaves, bathed her skin in gentle marble textures. Bruce traced curve after swirl, searching for those tiny imperfections in her skin that made her feel human. Less than the thalassic siren he saw within her.
Her muscles rippled in the same rhythm the gentle waves of the lake, soft, persistent, soft.
Bruce was scared. Scared that in this life, it would start raining the second he whispered her name into her ear. The second she called for him. Afraid that a storm would break, instead of time standing still, after they had kissed for the millionth time.
The house was filled with the smell of the last misshaped, sweet heavy, almost drunken peaches of the season. Slowly loosing shape from their ripeness. All summer long the peach-trees had begged to get picked. When their skin had still been plush, full of life as if frozen in them; smooth as marble.
Bruce pushed his nose into the back of her neck. Her warm, soft hair tickling his nose, while his lips savoured the faintly salty taste of her skin. He tried to purge the heavy ripe scent from his nostrils, trying to inhale her youthfulness. Hoping she was secretly not yearning for the light. That she did not feel as though her lips rested upon a fruit: a fruit that was scarcely lovable, less plump, and all too easily bruised.
He traced a tiny mole on her shoulder, sighing deeply. His eyes flickering towards an old bureau. Wooden vines adorned its otherwise simple form. Inside a tiny secret drawer lay a ring - cradled in silk and kept safe within a silver seashell jewelry box. A silver ring enclosing a genuine saltwater pearl, held fast by curving forms and filigree that evoked the beautiful, almost ethereal appearance of sea foam.
The ring of his mother. The ring of his father's mother. And hopefully soon the ring of his future children's mother.
Selina.
A name that haunted his mind like a ghost. He avoided mirrors, too afraid to catch the reflection of her cat like green eyes. Her gaze, staring back at Bruce like a blinding light in the darkness. Scars reminded him that Bruce Wayne would never find solace without becoming entangled in a web of hazy thoughts, thoughts he called love. Thoughts of straying from the righteous path of his predetermined, solitary road of vengeance, of abandoning the very safety of an already godforsaken city.
A name that had haunted him again for months, ever since a tiny green glimmer of hope had taken root in his heart. Hope for a more domestic life.
His spiraling thoughts were interrupted as she stirred beside him. The Bat blinked; his eyes felt dry after having zoned out for so long, his heavy eyelids unmoving. She turned over, still half-asleep, and buried her face against his bare chest. He felt her legs shift between his, yet she showed no sign whatsoever of waking up. "My sleeping beauty…" he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. He inhaled her scent and the light oil of her scalp.
"Hmmm... does my pretty lady want to grace her humble knight with her waking presence?", he sighed gruffly. His voice was laced with a heavy raspy note. Another sleepless night for the vengeful knight, she noted. The young woman felt him shift his head,and felt, once again, how he was staring at that damned table for the umpteenth time. She didn't even have to open her pretty eyes to sense that tense gaze.
She heard him think, zoning out agian, for a tiny second. He heard her mumbel before he could once again loose him again.
"No...", she breathed, her refusal barily audible. He let out a soft, throaty laugh and scattered a thousand kisses across her jawline and cheek. His two days worth of stubble pricking her delicate face. "Let me see your pretty eyes...", he mumbeled between kisses, gently cupping her cheeks with one large hand. His palm was deliciously rough from the work as a viligante and the rigorous training. The skin scarred from training all the different skills he now commanded.
She opened her eyes only a tiny slit, her long lashes brushing expectantly against her slightly squished tissue of her cheekbone. He purred with contentment, pursed his lips, and pressed a childlike kiss to her mouth. "My pretty little fawn… just look at you—so displeased, and your day hasn't even begun yet," he murmured.
He laughed again, as if his words had been immensely amusing.
"I'm sorry, little angel—I'm so sorry I woke you," he cooed tenderly, kissing first her eyelids, then her nose. "Forgive me, my little apple."
He had left the bed, tucked his beloved back snugly into the silken cocoon of their sheets, and then set off for the kitchen. Ready to brew coffee and bring back some pastries from the tiny bakery downtown. Just a few miles away from this villa. The young woman slowly sat up, her eyes staring, almost gawking at the bureau. She tried to figure out what Bruce could possibly have found so interesting there.
After all, she hadn't simply stumbled into the Batcave last winter just because she had bumped her head one too many times as a child. She pushed the duvet off her legs and crept slowly, on tiptoe, toward the piece of furniture. Hesitantly, she glanced toward the open double doors. She could smell the fresh aroma of Italian coffee being brewed over on the stove.
Her hands felt along the underside; her fingertips sensed every tiny irregularity, every little imperfection in the wood. Her index finger glided over a strange spot. She pressed against the wood, and a tiny compartment sprang open. With a soft click, the drawer slid out.
For a moment, she simply stared inside. Lying there was a small silver shell, nestled within the folds of pale silk. The morning light caught on its curves, making it gleam like something dredged from the bottom of the lake by a mermaid's careful hands.
Slowly, she reached for it. The shell felt cool in her palm. Older than the house. Older than summer. The hinge gave way with barely any resistance. And there it was, a ring. Not gaudy not enormous. Not the sort of thing displayed behind spotless glass windows on Fifth Avenue.
The pearl seemed alive. Cream-white and luminous, carrying the soft glow of moonlight trapped beneath water. Silver swirls held it in place, delicate and wild at once, like sea foam frozen by magic. Her thumb brushed over the metal.
The realization settled slowly within her. For several seconds she simply sat there on the floor, cross-legged before the bureau, holding the ring between her fingers as though it might disappear. The world outside continued uninterrupted.
The floorboards groaned softly. Bruce appeared in the doorway carrying a tray balanced awkwardly in one hand.
Bruce almost dropped the tray. The pure silver was not particularly heavy, nor because the polished wooden floor beneath his bare feet was uneven, but because the sight that greeted him as he stepped through the doorway struck him with the same strange, disorienting force as waking from a nightmare and realizing it had followed you into daylight.
His Darling sat on the cool floor before the bureau, the tin ysecret drawer open; and between ger fingers, caught in a shaft of golden morning sunlight that pouzred through the open windows and turned every speck of durst into drifting flecks of amber, rested the ring.
The ring he had carried across contonets, hidden away in safes, vaults and secret compartments, protecting it with care that bordered on reverence, because some small and embarrassingly hopeful part of him had knoen for years that if therfe was ever going to be a woman standing again beside him at the end of all things, then it would be her.
For one terrible moment, Bruce could only stare.
Months. Months of planning collapsed in on themselves like a wet paper card house. Sogging into one big clump.
The little island in the middle of the lake appeared before his eyes, the old castle perched upon it like something stolen from a fairytale, its stone walls glowing honey-gold at sunset. He remembered the owner laughing when Bruce had first approached him, convinced the billionaire was attempting to buy the property outright rather than merely borrow it for an evening. He remembered checking out flower shops, stupid decoration and bills of online shopping of fairylights, so high no one could actually imagine one would buy so many.
He puffed, feeling suddenly so unsure.
The speech- God the speech!
Entire patrols had been spent composing it in his head. He had rewritten it while literally hanging upside down from gargoyles. Rewritten it while bleeding. Rewritten it while pretending to pay attention during board meetings. Every sentence carefully chosen. Every word measured.
Because there were things he wanted her to understand: That she had saved him. That he still woke up some mornings convinced she was going to disappear. That every dream he had ever dared entertain for himself somehow had her standing at the center of it.
And now she had found the ring while wrapped in a bedsheet. Like a magpie digging through cupboards after flying into a room through an open window.
The Bat nearly laughed, oh he almost wept. He stepped hesitantly towards her, sank to his knees , slowly taking her delicate hands, and kissed ever singly inch of them. The ring lay cradled between her hands. "Please…" he murmured amidst his adoration. His eyes closed as he murmured "Please" once more.
their art looks so yummy. like those pretty and crazy detailed gateaus in my grandmother's old and aesthetically yellowed baking books. i want to live in their art. please just let me yearn for my knight in your art.
mmh thinking loads about clark and his grown-out hair…don't mind me….
tags: implied smut, fluff, domestic bliss, gratuitous mention of his curls (700+ wc)
—
i'd imagine that fhe first time you noticed would've been when you're just in bed with him, lounging after a hearty home-cooked dinner. he's laying on his belly beside you, with an arm tucked under his pillow. he gets like that when he eats too much, usually burning the lethargy off with a nap. quietly, you'd watch the sturdy, broad lines of his back rise and fall, in utter bliss.
"mm. can feel you staring at me. i think." after a long while of you squinting, he'd call you out on it, voice a sleepy, pillow-muffled drawl.
you'd clamber over his stupidly slender waist, combing your fingers through his thick, slightly coarse locks. "your hairs gotten seriously long."
clark remains a drifting cloud beneath you. the only evidence of his presence being the low, content grumbles he makes at the gentle pressure of your nails against his scalp. he lifts his head a fraction. "…has it?"
"mhm." you hum, non-committal. slumping your whole weight into the wide expanse of his broad back. scents of cedar & peppermint coating your senses. your knuckles come to push the curled out edges by the nape of his neck. it springs back up under your nudge. "i've never seen it stick out like this."
you stroke through his curls a little rougher, eliciting a full-bodied shudder from your sleepy boyfriend, "i see. i've had my hands a little full lately." a soft, deep sigh leaves him, and you feel his calloused hands blindly feel for your ankles, snug by his waist. he thumbs at the muscle there, sliding up your calf.
"should i get it cut?" he offers, cheeks pressed against his pillow.
your ministrations stills, "hmm. dunno." you answer honestly, pulling at the curled edges to make them stick out more. "it's sort of…hot. gives you a dishevelled…rugged look." you lower yourself, resting your cheeks onto his traps.
"…"
his arm wraps around your lower back. and with a swift movement, you feel your vision tilt as he plops you beneath him. "ack!" you gasp, steadying a palm by his thick bicep, which he flexes, for your enjoyment.
clark shuffles to cage you in his arms, favouring his weight with his left forearm. one side of his head is visibly styled out in a messy swoop from where you were combing through. though a shorter, unruly strand curls past his forehead.
"i'm not sure if it's good for the hero image. to look unkempt," he ponders seriously, palms pressed against his cheeks as he lays on his side.
you blink up at him. still thrown by the sudden adjustment."…i'm just saying." your knuckles graze past the stray lock, melting into him, with a thigh draped along his ribs. "i like you like this. softer. just f'me." your words trail into murmurs, but he catches them anyway.
the dimples, deep in his cheeks makes themselves known first, and he lets out a huff, sizing you with a dopey smile. "that so?" clark leans on, pressing a kiss to the sensitive spot below your ears. the first peck tickles you, with his messy hair brushing past your ears. "hahah. hey! that tickles." you groan, catching a brief glimpse of his blurred, dark locks," geez…like some…wild beast."
"hmm. make up your mind," he rumbles, trailing teasing kisses past your collarbone, to your sternum. clark lifts his head up, eyes glinting in wanton adoration for you. "am i a beast, or some cool…hip dude?"
you stare at him, in mild disgust. "cool hip dude? nevermind. you can never be rugged."
he nips at your wrist when it comes to rest at the back of his head. "ow!" you yelp, shooting him a displeased look. clark just laughs, replacing the sting with a chaste peck. he guides your hand to the back of his head, as though encouraging you to keep it there.
"got your verdict yet?" the shift in the playfulness is subtle as he makes his way down your midsection. pressing another breathy kiss beneath your breasts, and to your navel. your eyes don't leave him, and neither does your idle palm, half-vanished in his curls.
before you can think to answer, clark lifts your hips up for a second to slide your sleep shorts down. keeping his gaze locked on yours as he presses his lips to your inner thighs.
you swallow the shudder that threatened to give away your building arousal, hands imperceptibly tightening where it was once lax.
i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”.
i hope every writer who reads this makes the best of it
warnings & tags .ᐟ: sfw. established relationship. pure fluff. no use of y/n. written with fem! reader in mind. no reader description. maybe ooc? no beta reader. mild language. stupid jason. tiny bit: lovesick Jason. Still learning how to tag. English is not my first language.
a little sticky note .ᐟ: I thought this tiny tumblr post is as cute as a bug's ear. i had to give it a shot (i tried my best) ;P. please like and comment if you enjoy this tiny ficlet. anywayyyyssss enjoy ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა
word count: approx 994
𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Jason has been in a relationship for a long time with the reader, she is the perfect woman for him. Now he wants to take the next step, but proposing seems so muuuuuuuch harder than imagined.
Jason nervously toyed with the small box in his trouser pocket. It was perhaps the size of a peculiar walnut, yet despite its light weight, it felt so heavy in his hand. He let the lid snap open briefly, tracing the delicate stone with the pad of his thumb, before gently closing it gently.
Or perhaps he thought he was closing the lid gently.
He cursed softly when the stupid lid pinched his thumb. Surely it couldn't be that hard - why was he worrying? He didn't even shit his pants when he had the Black Mask standing right in front of him. But that hadn't been Jason. It had been Red Hood who faced the frightening reality of Gotham.
Maybe that was a lie. Maybe he was shitting his pants a little. He took a deep breath before exhaling slowly; his sweaty hands were already getting on his nerves.
For weeks - if not months - he had planned this evening. Down to every teeny tiny element. Meticulously: every single detail, every single scenario. A little too Bruce for his taste. But good God, what would he do if this evening went wrong? He would never be able to handle loosing his darling.
And how long had she been with him by now? No one would put up with his problems for five years unless they wanted to get married. Right?
He tugged at his shirt. He was Jason Peter Todd, for fuck's sake! Who wouldn't want to marry him, right? Right? He rose from his chair and cleared his throat.
Could it really take that long just to wash one's hands?
He turned in a semicircle, his heart pounding in his throat. What the hell was he doing here? He tugged once more at the table decorations and stared down at the bustling streets of Gotham. Up here on the roof, it almost seemed peaceful, silent. The small garden radiated an almost soothing atmosphere.
Dinner went well. Not just well or good, it was great. He had noticed that she had done her nails. Had she, perhaps, suspected after all what his plans for today was? That was a good sign, right? A woman caring about her nails, maybe even expecting a proposal.
His loud thoughts came to a halt when he heard the door open. Seeing her step out into the soft light of the lanterns (which he had lit specifically for the occasion) in her pretty dress, with those stupid kitten heels that somehow turned him crazy. Perhaps it was the way her legs stretched just a tiny bit more, that struck him as even more alluring.
She had reapplied her glossy lipstick. A broad smile was on her face as she walked towards him.
" 'M sorry, that took longer than expected."
He hummed in acknoledgement. He stepped a tiny bit closer and took her hand in his. Slowly, he rubbed his thumb over her soft knuckles.
"Did you like it?" he asked slowly, leaning down to plant a kiss on her cheek. "The food, I mean. I also have dessert downstairs in the fridge."
She smiled and leaned slightly toward him, nodding slowly. The meal had been simple. Jason Todd’s culinary skills left something to be desired - but pasta al pomodoro with Parmesan? That was something he aced.
"Hmmm, nothing compares to Jason Tood's spaghetti."
For a second he just stared at her and runs a hand through his hair.
"Great, good," he murmured, playing with the small box in his trouser pocket. "Fantastic."
She glanced at him, somewhat confused, and blinked toward his trouser pocket.
"You've been fiddling with your hand in your pocket all evening. What's in there?" she snorted, reaching out to tug his wrist curiously. He wriggled gracefully and gently out of her reach and chuckled softly. A tiny, displeased sound left his throat, but still soft. "It's a secret," he grunted.
"You're stupid," she said, her gaze following his. He took a glimpse at her so gently through his long lashes, as if she herself had hung the stars in the evening sky. He kissed her again on her temple.
"Wanna know?"
His words were barely more than a hum. The moment was perfect. They stood close to one another, amidst that familiar banter that so often passed between them. He had written a text of epic length, spanning from the very first moment he had laid eyes on her, and secretly, deep down, knew that she would become his wife.
Even though his mind told him that he shouldn't open up. Who would want to marry a man like Jason? With his many issues and mild aggression problems? From their first date right up to their first fight, after which he spent an entire evening in his apartment (before they moved in together) crying his eyes out.
He slowly sank to his left knee, yet did not let go of her hand. He watched as her eyes widened and her own hands grew warm. His own heart pounded in his throat. He felt as though he could not breathe. And not a single word of his memorized monologue would come to mind.
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out except a hoarse "I-" His hands were sweaty, trembling slightly as, with his free hand, he pulled the ring from his trouser pocket; and nearly dropped it onto the concrete of the roof.
"Sweetheart-"
He never claimed to be a nervous wreck or a helpless simp. But the way she looked at him, so full of anticipation, while barely holding back her own tears of joy… and the ring, looking a little lost inside its box, sparkled in the soft glow of the lanterns.
"Please...", he almost whimpered.
She laughed softly through a few tears that escaped her eyes. She herself couldn't manage to utter a coherent sound - only a wild nod - before leaping into his arms and sobbing, in broken gasps,
from jade: baby's first leon kennedy fic! 🥹 no beta, we all just die. wrote this with re4!leon, death island leon, and re9!leon in mind heh
dso’s golden boy, legendary agent leon scott kennedy is reduced to nothing but a human pillow. don’t fret, though. he’s exactly where he wants to be in life.
it’s no secret to anyone that leon kennedy has a physique that most women and men simp for. they can gawk however they like but touching him? that right is reserved for you and you only.
leon knows you’re a touchy person by default. first time he met you, he was immediately engulfed in the warmest hug known to mankind—his knees buckled just a little but that’s a secret he’ll take with him to the grave. when he drove you home after the first date? another hug and a kiss to the cheek that he felt even after days passed. he almost didn’t want to wash his face but thought about your preference for hygienic men.
after four years of dating and three months being engaged, your physical love meter has amped up intensely. before, the most he’ll get is a kiss to the corner of his mouth. now? leon’s lucky if he can even get up after getting mauled into the bed due to your sudden urge to “kiss him all over and eat him up and chew him all up.”
this leads us to now, early morning with the sun peeking through the blinds. leon insisted on a blackout curtain but your argument of “you can’t live in darkness forever” resulted in soft baby pink sheer flower patterned curtains.
it was one of those rare times where you awake earlier than him. to be fair, he just came back from a month-long mission in europe.
you’ve always known leon kennedy was pretty but in these instances of serenity and peace, he’s looking extra gorgeous under the warm sunlight. you lay on your front, head slumped over his stretched out bicep. your cheek is skin-to-skin with the muscle, firm yet comfortable. leon’s on his back, chest rising periodically in deep breaths.
glancing at the clock on the nightstand, you decide it’s time to wake him up. you turn your head, open your mouth, and then—bite. hard enough to jolt him awake but not so much that it bleeds out.
you grin as you watch him rub the sleep away from his eyes. “hi, baby. good morning.”
leon squints at you for a moment, still caught up somewhere between dreaming about flowers with faces chasing him and actually facing the prettiest flower ever (you), before he pinches your cheek.
then he registers the dull ache in his arm.
he stills, contemplating on whether to ask you about it or not. instead he settles for, "...mornin'.”
his voice comes out rough, just the right about of deepness and softness that makes your heart flutter. you lean forward to kiss his stubbled jaw.
the arm you were laying on slips under your shirt, calloused fingers caressing the smooth skin.
usually, leon’s internal clock is impossible to shut off, especially after a mission. years of training have hardwired him into waking up the second he’s conscious. most mornings, he’d already be halfway to the coffee machine by now.
instead, he lets his arm flop back onto the mattress, right in front of you. then stares blankly at the ceiling.
you blink. once. twice. "breakfast?”
a beat passes.
"later.”
the answer comes immediately, accompanied by a sleepy exhale.
leon scott kennedy, the man who survived thousands of bioweapons, government conspiracies, parasitic cults, and whatever the hell europe decided to throw at him this time, was choosing to stay in bed. voluntarily.
"i’m tired." his eyes remained at the ceiling.
there’s no complaint in his voice. just a simple statement of fact.
"you should rest, then.” you hummed. he curls his arm loosely around your shoulders in response. for a second there, leon thought he heard purrs of content from you. huh, he must still be dreaming.
you settle comfortably on your stomach again, phone balanced in front of you. your legs swing back and forth behind you as you load up your game, leon snickers at the sight.
a few seconds later, you lean down to take another bite of his bicep. not enough to hurt. never to hurt him.
leon sighs. “i feel like a chew toy.”
“you are. my chew toy.”
“is that all i am to you?”
“most times, yeah.” and another bite. it doesn’t even faze him anymore.
“love you too, i guess.”
“aw, thank you, lord kennedy.”
you grin triumphantly before returning your attention to your phone. one hand taps away at the screen while your cheek remains pressed against his arm like it’s the world’s most comfortable pillow. the 4000 dollars pillow currently on the floor glares at you with scorn and betrayal.
every now and then, you absentmindedly nibble at him. to which, he retorts with faux annoyance.
the room falls quiet after that.
only the sounds of your game, the rustle of sheets, and the occasional bite to his arm interrupt the silence.
leon keeps staring at the ceiling.
not because he's thinking about work. not because he's replaying mission reports. not because he's wondering when headquarters will drag him into another disaster.
for once, he's letting himself do absolutely nothing.
he can feel you beside him. your legs kicking lazily in the air. your weight against his arm. your teeth occasionally finding his bicep because apparently that's become a normal thing in this relationship.
and when you shift closer and practically drape yourself over him, leon doesn’t complain. he never does. you’ve got a soft spot in his heart, after all.
he just lets out another slow breath and settles deeper into the mattress. he reminds himself that he’s home. to you.
and if that means another hour of being a chew toy and a human pillow, leon figures he can deal with that. after all, he’s been through worst situations than this.
a kiss for the cameras (and to piss your father off) | bruce wayne x fem!oblivious!reader, grumpy x sunshine, yearning on his end
1.5k follower event
“You know, it’s easier if you just play along.”
Bruce grimaces. He’s caught between telling you to leave him alone and maintaining his effortless charm. Cameras are flashing, and investors are watching.
Your father, the CEO of Bruce's rival company, is somewhere across the ballroom, pretending not to monitor the interaction like a hawk.
You, however, are looking around like this is all terribly amusing.
"If you wanna piss him off, you can just kiss me," you mutter to him, lips sliding into a bright smile. And God, he wants nothing more than to kiss you until you aimed that smile at him.
But he knows this suggestion is more for your own amusement; you didn’t think he wanted to kiss you. Both of you enjoy seeing your father rage— even if Bruce wouldn’t admit it.
He moves to stand behind you. A large, warm hand comes down on your left shoulder. He leans down, breath fanning your ear, and whispers, "If I do, the press will have a field day."
The heat of your body, mixed with your scent, vanilla and strawberries, makes him dizzy. His throat feels dry, yet he doesn’t step back. He can feel the stares, your father’s eyes burning into the scene.
“If this ends up on the front page tomorrow, I will never ask you for anything ever again,” you sigh dreamily. “This is gonna be the highlight of my month."
Bruce can only pretend you’re sighing like that over him.
His hand slips down from your shoulder to your waist to see if you’ll react.
And you do.
You hum and lean back, resting flush against him. He has to stop himself from pressing up against you like some creep. Instead, he sucks in a breath, his eyes fluttering closed.
“You’re warm,” you murmur, like that’s the only thing you’ve noticed.
He grunts, then spins you around so suddenly that the bottom of your dress flutters around. Your hands fall over his chest. You’re looking up at him, wide-eyed, and he can’t believe he’s playing into this game.
"I’ll kiss you," he murmurs, cupping your jaw. And your eyes light up as if he’d granted you some impossible wish.
"Thank you. I owe y—"
His lips press against yours. It’s not soft. He kisses you like he needs to breathe, parting your lips, his tongue darting over your bottom lip, pulling a soft sound from you.
It looks like he’s putting on a show. The hushed whispers certainly don’t help.
Your hands fist lightly into his shirt. His fingers tangle in your hair, keeping you there, messing up hours of work.
You pull back. He leans forward to catch your lips again, mumbling something like, "Not done."
Your cheeks warm, and a nervous laugh escapes you. "You’re good at acting."
He raises a brow. "I wasn’t acting, sweetheart," he says, voice deep. His pupils are blown as he stares at your lips.
You swallow. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh," he smooths down your hair, fingers brushing through the locks. And he wonders, briefly, if you’ll ever let him kiss you like that again.
