It's no secret that the billionaire has gotten around throughout his life, but all of that stopped the moment he met you.
People warned you: tabloids, gossip magazines, women attending galas who may or may not have seen Bruce's bedroom years ago. You didn't believe them, of course. Because what is this, Fifty Shades of Wayne?
You were sorely unprepared to have all of his attention on you.
His hands, so strong and calloused with years of beating down deranged men, glide carefully across your skin. Bruce doesn't just touch you, he takes you in. Every sound you make as his fingers graze your nipples or your clit gets catalogued into part of his mind that's solely dedicated to you.
You're absolutely gone as soon as he starts to push his plush cock in, the thick tip stretching your skin differently than his fingers ever could. He's not much better, letting out soft whispers of your name every time his hips shift.
The length of his cock is just right, pressing and caressing spots deep inside that you swear have you seing stars. His pace is so well-rounded, like he knows exactly how to keep pulling you in without overwhelming you.
Honestly, you think that might overstimulate your cunt more than a rushed motion would. The consistent push of his length in and out of your weeping hole feels like too much and not enough at the same time.
And as soon as you're cuming around him?
You best believe he's cradling you like the most precious being of the universe.
The magazines and whatnot were right, but Bruce treats you so gently that it's worth being sore for a few days after.
Main Mterlist
A/N: day 8! I think. Idk im half asleep. But yay consistency!
It's expected for a mansion such as Wayne Manor to have such luxuries, sure, but so many of them sat untouched for years. You didn't even know they existed until Bruce told you to bring a swimsuit.
Your stay at home dates with Bruce often included a bottle of wine and some candles, though the jets whirling bubbles around the sizeable tub are new.
Bruce thinks that you're stunning no matter what, but something about seeing you, half-naked, with the heat swirling around him had your lover itching with a need to you.
"You locked the door when we came in, right?" In all honesty, Bruce doesn't care what your answer is; he's devouring you, right here, right now, whether the door is locked or not. In fact, he's already began releasing your breasts from your swim top.
He licks at your sensitive skin like it's the first thing he's tasted in years, his wet hands coming to rest on your waist. It isn't long before he guides you back and forth to rub on his erection through the fabric of the swimsuits.
"Such a pretty girl..." He whispers between licks on your chest, "My pretty girl."
If Bruce were to be hit with some sort of truth serum and asked what his weakness is, his answer would be you- especially in the warmth of the hot tub with your body pressing so sweetly against his.
You're in for a long night.
Main Master list
A/N: day three of posting consecutively! lets see how long i can make it!
When you woke up this morning, your body had been sore. Like you had been through the meat grinder kind of sore but in a good way.
You had looked over at Dick sleeping soundlessly. Half his body on top of you and half on the bed with his messy raven hair falling over his eyes, his long lashes almost brushing his sharp cheekbones.
Yeah, a very good way.
But when you got out of bed and basically limped around the apartment, he gave you the smuggest look ever. Seriously no one had ever looked as proud of themselves as he had.
You wanted to slap him. Or kiss him. You were still deciding.
That didn’t stop you for asking him for help though, since he had been the one to carry you around the apartment and draw you a warm bath. The shoulder massage he gave you in the bathtub wasn’t too bad either. Plus the pancakes he had prepared with a little smiley face on top with chocolate syrup.
But that didn’t take away from the fact that he was an unserious man.
He had known you were supposed to have lunch with your friends today so he had been an exceptional tease last night in bed. Not just a tease, he was also apparently under the impression that you were made of rubber and could bend you however he pleased.
Just because he worked out eight hours a day didn’t mean you did too. You’d be lucky to even squeeze in a workout once a week and he knew that and yet he chose to manhandle you.
Not that you were against it. He was very skilled in the bedroom and the nights where you had to just lay there for him to do all the work were your favourites.
But damn now you were limping on your way to meet your friends. You and Dick walked out of the car, hand in hand towards where your friends were sitting outside the cafe.
And he had the audacity to snicker.
“It isn’t funny!” You huffed out, hands clutching his arm to hold for balance since your legs were way too sore to even walk.
“You weren’t complaining last night,” he replied and pushed his sunglasses up on his nose, looking way too amused.
“Shut up,” you scoffed instead of replying since thats all you could do. He wasn’t wrong.
Once you reached the table, Donna, Wally and Roy immediately greeted you with hugs.
“You okay?” Donna was the first one to speak, noticing your limp.
“Yeah,” you swallowed and sat down on the chair next to Dick’s, shifting a little. “Just walked into a chair.”
“Uh huh,” Roy narrowed his eyes at Dick’s smug face.
“And was the chair named Dick Grayson?” Wally added.
“Wally!” You gasped and looked at Dick for help but he just laughed and draped his arm over the back of your chair.
The rest of the lunch went by with way too many jokes about Dick’s dick and you’d think he’d be offended by it but he was the one initiating most of them.
Like you said, unserious.
✶ JASON TODD
Jason was out running when you woke up. It was your usual morning routine –he woke up before you, gave you a small kiss on your forehead and left for a run then returned an hour later with coffee and sometimes pastries.
This time however, you had told him you were making pancakes so he wasn’t surprised to find you standing in the kitchen wearing his shirt that he discarded last night.
He walked over to you, black tank top clinging to his body due to the sweat like a second skin and if you weren’t sore from last night you would have done something about it.
The minimal clothing you were wearing –Jason’s t-shirt and panties– didn’t do a lot to hide the marks he had left on you last night. Your thighs looked like a crime scene with how many hickeys he had left there.
You waddled over to the fridge to grab the eggs when Jason noticed you.
“What’s up?” He frowned and came up behind you.
“Hmm?” You asked and cracked an egg in the bowl.
“You’re waddling like a penguin,” he pointed out.
“Oh,” you blushed and immediately looked away from him. “You know,” you shrugged.
“Babe what?” He asked and turned you around to steal all your attention.
“Last night,” you said. “You’re not exactly small.”
“Well thanks,” he gave you a confused smile. “Is that why you’re limping?”
“That and my legs being folded like a lawn chair over your shoulders for over an hour yes,” you quipped.
Jason in response let out a cackle.
“Great, hope you’re proud of yourself,” you scrunched your nose and turned back to prepare the pancake batter.
“I mean it does wonders to a guy’s ego,” Jason let out a dramatic breath. “Seven orgasms in one night is my new record.”
“Jason!” You huffed and pushed him away. “You cannot count my orgasms you freak.”
He laughed again and came up behind you, wrapping his arms around your middle before nuzzling his head in the crook of your neck.
“Seriously though, I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He asked, pressing fluttering kisses to the hickeys he had left on your neck.
“No,” you hummed and craned your head back.
“You liked it?”
“Yes,” you breathed as his kisses made their way down to your shoulders.
His fingers busied themselves with massaging your hips, causing you to close your eyes in relief and rest your head back on his shoulders. Which gave him even more room to kiss on your neck.
“Let me make you feel better,” he murmured and turned you around before getting down on his knees.
“Jason,” you said through a shaky breath.
“Yeah?” He looked up at you through dark eyelashes and hooked your thigh over his shoulder. “Is this okay?”
You nodded your head which was all the permission he needed.
It was going to be a long morning.
✶ TIM DRAKE
In hindsight, waiting for your boyfriend to return from his week long mission at the manor probably wasn’t your brightest idea.
He had texted you that he would be back today and would just crash at the manor instead of coming back to your shared penthouse.
But you hadn’t seen him in a week! So it was only fair you drove to the manor and let yourself into the batcave to wait for him.
It had almost been an hour since you made yourself at home on the little beanbag chair with a book in your hands in the Batcave along with Barbara who was perched at the Batcomputer, doing whatever it is that Oracle did.
Tim returned soon along with the rest of the Bats on his Batcycle (Batman wasn’t a very creative person you were beginning to realise).
Damian made a ‘TT’ sound at you before making his way towards the shower area.
Tim on the other hand broke out in a grin the second he looked at you. He didn’t even bother taking off his mask or the suit before he was launching himself at you on the beanbag.
“Tim!” You grunted when his armoured chest collided with yours. “You’re crushing me.”
“Don’t care,” he muttered and pushed his head in the crook of your neck.
“Take a shower you stink!” You said and pushed him off.
“I see how it is,” he raised his head to look at you and if you could see his eyes behind his domino mask, you knew he would be narrowing his eyes at you. “I come back a week later after saving the world and my girlfriend says I stink.”
“You do,” Jason mumbled somewhere behind him.
“Ignore him he’s jealous,” Tim said to you before leaning down to give you a fleeting kiss. “I’ll be back,” he murmured and finally got off the beanbag to go take a shower.
That had been enough of your loving and sweet boyfriend for the night.
Because he was soon coming out of the shower without a shirt and in only a pair of sweatpants. He didn’t even bothering talking to anyone or even debriefing the case like he usually did, he just made his way towards you and picked you up and threw you over his shoulder.
Thankfully everyone else was busy cleaning themselves and only Barbara was present in the Batcave. She shook her head at you like she knew exactly what was happening but didn’t want to be a part of it.
It had been a very long night.
The night for which you were paying now.
Tim’s heavy arm was thrown over your stomach in a tight grip like he never wanted to let you go.
Squinting open an eye, you flicked the bedside lamp on –having no clue what time it was outside due to the blackout curtains being drawn.
You turned over in Tim’s iron grip and looked around the room which looked like it had gotten robbed last night.
Your shirt was thrown on the floor along with your shorts, your bra dangling down the knob of the door –no clue how it got there. And your panties were probably torn in half somewhere. Even the pillows were thrown haphazardly, the covers weren’t even covering you.
Half the reason you woke up was the chill in the room causing goosebumps to rise on your naked body. The only source of heat you had was Tim’s equally as naked body wrapped around you like a koala.
You rubbed your eyes and tried to look at him. The first thing you saw were the red scratches on his chest, glowing against his pale skin and you were sure if he turned around his back would look the same.
“Tim?” You whispered and brushed his hair away from his face.
He only groaned in response and tugged you closer but his grip on your back was beginning to hurt.
“Hey,” you tried again and pushed at his shoulder –which you now saw had a bite mark on it.
Images of Tim’s bicep wrapped around your neck came to your mind but you quickly shook them off. Not the time.
“Tim come on, you’re hurting me,” you winced, which finally caught his attention.
“What?” He asked, voice laced with sleep and somehow deeper like you’ve never heard before. “Where are you hurt?”
“It just feels sore.”
“Fuck I’m so sorry,” he sat up straight in bed and leaned down to pull the covers up.
“It’s okay, you didn’t do anything I didn’t like,” you giggled when he turned around and yep his back looked every bit like his chest. Red scratches all over.
“Your back,” you whispered and reached out to lightly brush your hand over the marks. “What the fuck did we do last night?”
“I think I just missed you too much,” he chuckled. “Turn around let me give you a massage.”
“Yes please,” you moaned and turned around on your stomach to let Tim rub the soreness out of your muscles with his nimble fingers.
The knots in your muscles immediately came loose with each movement of his warm hands on your much colder body. Maybe they taught massaging the pain away at vigilante school or wherever Bruce took all the kids of his he seems to adopt.
His hands went lower to gently rest your calf over his shoulder –much gentler than last night. He pressed soft kisses to your leg as his fingers rubbed all the way to your ankles.
Later when you two went down for breakfast (it was around lunchtime), Cass and Damian gave you a disgusted look. Jason raised an eyebrow at the bite marks on Tim’s forearm while Dick only laughed in amusement. Even Barbara was staring at the hickey on your jaw since apparently Tim had forgotten he was human.
✶ BRUCE WAYNE
You were sitting on the chair in the little breakfast nook when Bruce entered the kitchen. A crossword puzzle was sat on the table next to a plate of toast and orange juice in front of you as you mindlessly scribbled on the puzzle.
Bruce came up behind you and gave you a little kiss on the back of your head before walking over to the cabinets to pull out a mug.
“Oh wait! I made you a yogurt bowl,” you said and hopped off the chair.
Bruce raised an eyebrow and watched you limping towards the fridge in nothing but his old uni sweatshirt. Your hair was falling over your shoulders, messy from a good night’s sleep. And other activities.
His eyes wandered lower to the backs of your knees where he was gripping your legs last night and sure enough there were marks to show it. For a second he was worried but when you turned around and gave him your million dollar smile, he forgot what he was thinking about.
“It has raspberries, nuts, pumpkin seeds, chia seeds. It’s good for your health,” you beamed and set it down in front of your own breakfast on the table.
Bruce joined you in a beat and eyed you as you grimaced a little while sitting down.
“Everything okay?” He asked.
“Yeah,” you said, voice a bit sarcastic which he didn’t miss.
“That’s not convincing,” he frowned.
“You rearranged my guts last night. I think that has something to do with me having trouble sitting down,” you smirked and he immediately blushed.
You heard a sudden noise from behind you and when you turned around to look, Tim was standing there, looking nauseated. “I’ll uh… have breakfast in my room…” he said.
“I didn’t know you stayed here last night,” you said to him.
“I wish I hadn’t,” he gagged and grabbed a cup of coffee before leaving the two of you alone.
Bruce scrunched his nose and turned his face towards his breakfast.
“Oh don’t go all shy now! You were very vocal last night,” you teased and nudged his foot with yours just to watch his ears turn even redder.
“I think we should take a warm bath together to you know, let our bodies heal,” he suggested.
“Uh huh,” you narrowed your eyes. “And no other reason at all.”
“Of course my darling,” Bruce smiled and tugged you out of your chair before picking you up in his arms.
“No other reason at all.”
my first multi part fic ever feeling nervous
didn’t know which photos to use so…
if you couldn’t tell i’ve been extremely tim drake pilled lately thanks to all the requests ive received for him 😭
likes comments and reblogs appreciated, hope you guys enjoy <3
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Rating
Explicit
Length
3.9k words
Summary
Still reeling from the death of his trusted and beloved butler Alfred Pennyworth, Bruce Wayne | Batman adjusts to the employment of his new butler: Alfred's great-niece, Verity Pennyworth...
Excerpt
"Master Bruce."
Her voice was closer now. He hadn't heard her approach, too lost in the grinding machinery of his own thoughts. She'd crossed the platform while he'd been staring at nothing.
"Your tea will get cold," she added.
Something in her tone—gentle, but not solicitous—pried loose a laugh from his chest. It came out as a dry exhalation, barely audible. Not a laugh at all, really. More like surrender.
He turned the chair.
Verity stood at the edge of the command platform, one hand resting on the console shelf, the other holding the cup of tea. The steam had thinned. Her eyes—gray, he noticed now, a pale and luminous gray like winter daylight—met his without challenge or retreat.
She was so young.
Twenty-four, he remembered. Maybe twenty-five. Young enough that her life stretched out before her like an uncrossed threshold, old enough that she'd already buried both parents and now a great-uncle. The last of the Pennyworth line.
And here she was. In the cold. In the dark. With him.
Wuthout thinking, Bruce reached out and took her hand.
It was an impulse. A misfire of neural pathways that bypassed whatever rational filter remained operational at three in the morning after a night of cracked ribs, costumed maniacs, and street-fighting men. He just—moved. His fingers closed around hers. Warm. So warm, her skin. The bones of her knuckles delicate against his palm.
"Master Bruce?" Her voice lifted at the end, the first crack in that perfect composure. Not fear. Surprise.
He didn't let go.
Because her hand in his was a tether. A single point of human contact in the endless algorithmic hum of the cave. Because she was warm and alive and here and if he let go he might drift into the dark and not come back.
Because he needed this. Whatever this was...
Warnings: brother’s best friend trope, explicit sexual content, violence, blood/injury, mutual pining, oral sex, vaginal sex, cowgirl
Summary:
Bruce Wayne has rules for everything.
Hal Jordan’s sister is one of them.
Unfortunately, the newest Green Lantern on Earth has never had much patience for rules written without her permission.
Author’s Note:
Written for this request ❤️💛
Bruce and Hal are both twenty-nine, Reader is twenty-seven, and this is set in a loose early Justice League continuity where Hal and Bruce have been friends for a while now.
Sorry if Bruce and Hal are OOC, I don't have as much experience with these two characters 😅
Bruce Wayne had rules for everything.
You knew because you had spent years watching him obey them.
He had rules about exits, weapons, comm channels, injuries, contingency plans, and the exact amount of time Bruce Wayne could remain at a party before people began to suspect he hated being there. He had rules about Batman, too, though those were harder to name and easier to recognize: never let pain show unless it served a purpose, never answer one question when silence would make someone reveal three more, and never stand close enough to anyone to be mistaken for wanting something.
And then there was the rule about you.
You knew that one existed because Bruce had been breaking pieces of it for months.
He still called you Jordan, as if your last name were a lock he could keep turning until the door stayed shut. He kept a professional distance during League meetings, though his attention found you the instant your ring flared or your breathing changed after a fight. He never touched you without reason, and yet somehow there was always a reason. A hand at your elbow when a collapsing floor shifted beneath your boots. Two fingers at your wrist when he needed your attention during a briefing. His shoulder brushing yours while he leaned across a tactical display and pretended the contact meant nothing.
You had grown very tired of pretending with him.
The rule had been easier before the ring found you. You had been Hal Jordan’s younger sister first, which meant Bruce had known you for years with a warning label already attached. Hal introduced you in a Coast City hangar when you were twenty-one, his arm thrown around your shoulders and his grin sharp with older-brother warning.
“This is my sister,” Hal had said. “She’s smarter than me, meaner than me, and if you upset her, I’m crashing a jet into your house.”
You had shaken Bruce’s hand and told Hal that even a billionaire deserved better than being threatened with property damage before dinner. Bruce had not smiled, but his mouth had changed slightly, and later, when you knew him well enough to read the small things, you realized that had been the first time you had made him almost laugh.
Back then, Bruce knew you in fragments. A voice on Hal’s comm. A name on a care package sent to Watchtower and addressed to “Hal Jordan, Adult Child, Space.” A civilian connection with no reason to matter.
Then you became a Green Lantern.
The first time you walked into a League briefing in uniform, green light settling over you like it had been waiting for your shape, Bruce went very still. It was quick enough that most people missed it. You did not. Hal had been hovering beside you, radiating anxiety badly disguised as pride, while Barry asked too many questions and Clark smiled like he was watching something new and bright arrive in the world.
Bruce had said, “Jordan.”
You had said, “Batman.”
And his eyes, hidden behind the white lenses, had stayed on you half a second too long.
That was how it started. Or maybe that was when you finally noticed.
By the time Qwardian weapons entered Gotham, the rule between you and Bruce had become less like caution and more like a challenge neither of you had agreed to name.
The Watchtower observation deck was quiet when you found Hal, which meant he was worried enough to stop pretending otherwise.
He stood near the window with his arms folded, staring down at Earth. You stopped beside him and looked at the blue curve of the planet below.
“You heard the briefing?” he asked.
“The one where Batman asked for Green Lantern support in Gotham because somebody smuggled Qwardian weapons through the harbor?” you said. “Yes.”
Hal’s mouth tightened. “I don’t like it.”
“You don’t like Gotham.”
“I don’t like Gotham, Qwardians, smugglers, Batman’s communication style, or the way the Guardians decided I was urgently needed three sectors away the second Bruce asked for Lantern backup.”
“Maybe the Guardians are invested in my professional development.”
“The Guardians are cryptic little nightmares with robes.”
Your ring hummed faintly on your finger. Qwardian technology was not a theoretical threat. Yellow light could cut through constructs if it was tuned properly, and the people who built those weapons understood willpower well enough to know where to strike.
“Batman asked for me,” you said.
Hal grimaced.
“That bothers you.”
“He asked for you by name.”
Your pulse did something irritating. You kept your face still, because Hal had known you long before either of you had rings.
“Maybe he trusts me.”
“He does.”
“You sound upset about that.”
“I am upset about several overlapping things.” Hal dragged a hand down his face. “Bruce is difficult. He withholds information because he thinks needing other people is a personal failure. He’ll act like he’s letting you help while positioning himself to take the worst hit. If he gets injured, he’ll pretend his bones are suggestions.”
“For someone who insists Bruce isn’t your best friend, you have a lot of detailed complaints.”
You knew what he meant. Hal trusted Bruce in a fight, trusted his strategy, and trusted his willingness to stand between civilians and horror. Trusting Bruce with you was harder.
“I’m twenty-seven,” you said. “I wear the same ring you do. I need you to remember both things at the same time.”
His jaw tightened. Then he exhaled. “I’m trying.”
The doors opened.
You did not have to turn to know who had arrived. The room changed before Batman spoke.
“Jordan,” Bruce said.
Hal turned. “You’re going to have to be more specific. There are two of us.”
Bruce stood in the doorway, cape dark around him, cowl in place. He looked at Hal first, then at you. His attention lingered on you for less than a second, and your ring warmed at your finger.
Traitor.
“The shipment,” Bruce said.
A holographic map appeared from the device in his hand. Three red markers pulsed over Gotham’s harbor, East End, and a downtown district near Wayne Tower. Bruce quickly explained the recovered crate: Qwardian parts converted into rifle cores, shield disruptors, and a device meant to send fear-state feedback through a Lantern construct.
“That’s not street-level tech,” Hal said.
“No,” Bruce replied. “Someone is using Gotham’s criminal networks as distribution cover.”
You stepped closer to the map. Bruce held the device steady, but his fingers tightened slightly when your shoulder nearly brushed his arm.
You noticed.
“The route is too obvious,” you said. “If someone wanted to hide Qwardian weapons inside Gotham’s criminal supply chain, they wouldn’t route two crates through men you already monitor. They wanted you to find one and chase the others.”
“Yes,” Bruce said.
You pointed toward the downtown marker. “This one is near Wayne Tower.”
“Charity gala tonight,” Bruce said. “Wayne Foundation. Aerospace relief fund.”
Hal blinked. “You think someone’s moving alien weapons through your own party?”
“I think someone wants to sell a demonstration piece there.”
“You’re still having the gala?”
“It gives us a controlled environment.”
Hal stared at him. “Your idea of a controlled environment is a room full of rich people in formalwear and possible alien weapons?”
“Yes.”
You tilted your head. “I’m invited?”
“You are now. Your connection to Ferris Aerospace and your identity as Hal’s sister provide civilian cover. Your ring stays concealed unless necessary.”
It was a sound plan. Annoyingly sound. It also meant spending an evening in public with Bruce Wayne.
Bruce, not Batman.
Tuxedo, not armor.
That was going to be a problem.
Hal reached the same conclusion through a different emotional route. “Absolutely not.”
You turned slowly. “Sorry?”
“That came out wrong.”
“It came out like you think you get a vote.”
“I have a concern.”
“You get several. You do not get a vote.”
Hal looked at Bruce. “If she gets hurt—”
“I’ll keep her informed,” Bruce said. “I’ll use her support when needed. I won’t sideline her.”
That was probably the closest Batman came to an oath.
Hal looked startled that he had gotten it.
You were startled too.
Then Bruce’s gaze turned to you. “Unless she disobeys direct tactical instruction.”
You smiled. “Depends on the instruction.”
“Jordan.”
“Batman.”
Hal threw his hands up. “Great. Fantastic. I hate this already.”
The gala at Wayne Tower glittered in the way Gotham’s wealthy liked to pretend meant safety.
You arrived as yourself, more or less, in a dress Alfred had produced from one of the Manor’s many emergency wardrobes, because apparently Bruce had contingencies for formalwear too. Your ring sat on your finger, disguised by a thin construct glamour as something decorative and harmless. To anyone looking, you were Hal Jordan’s younger sister, here on behalf of Ferris Aerospace.
To Bruce, you were a Lantern in a room full of possible threats.
You knew because he looked at you exactly once across the ballroom and then deliberately looked away.
That single glance did more damage than every Qwardian weapon in Gotham.
Your comm clicked softly.
“Stop staring,” Hal said.
You nearly dropped your champagne. “Aren’t you supposed to be in space?”
“I am in space.”
“Then why are you in my ear?”
“Because the Guardians speak slowly and I multitask under stress.”
“You are spying.”
“Emotionally.”
Before you could threaten him properly, Bruce appeared at your side.
“Miss Jordan,” he said, voice warm with public charm.
Miss Jordan.
That was worse than Batman calling you Jordan. Worse because he said it with a faint smile and a smoothness that belonged to cameras, gossip columns, and people who mistook charm for availability.
“Mr. Wayne,” you replied. “Lovely party.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’ve heard things about Gotham events.”
“All true.”
“You don’t know which things I heard.”
His eyes flickered. “Still true.”
Hal made a choking noise in your ear. “Is he flirting?”
You coughed into your glass.
Bruce’s attention sharpened. “Are you all right?”
“Fine.” You smiled too brightly. “My brother says hello.”
“I’m sure he does.”
“He also wants to know whether you practice that voice in mirrors.”
Bruce’s smile turned lethal at the edges. “Tell your brother I can hear him.”
Hal went silent.
You blinked. “You can?”
“Now I can.”
In your ear, Hal said, “That’s illegal.”
Bruce murmured, “So is accessing a secured mission channel during Guardian proceedings.”
“I hate him,” Hal said.
Bruce’s mouth curved. “He doesn’t.”
A woman in a silver gown approached and began asking you about Ferris propulsion work in the tone of someone fishing for proprietary details. You answered with enough technical accuracy to be credible and enough vagueness to be useless.
Then your ring warmed.
Bruce noticed the shift before you moved. His hand brushed the back of yours as he turned slightly toward the crowd. It looked accidental. It was not. The contact was brief, but it grounded you long enough to separate the ring’s alert from the room’s noise.
Qwardian energy.
Faint. Close.
“Service entrance,” you murmured.
Bruce smiled at the woman in front of you. “Excuse us.”
One moment, you were trapped in polite conversation, and the next, Bruce had placed a hand at the small of your back and guided you into a quieter corridor. Security cameras tracked both of you, then angled away one by one as Bruce disabled or redirected them from a control in his cufflink.
Because, of course, the cufflink did that.
“You’re distracted,” Bruce said.
“My brother is commentating.”
“I can remove him from the channel.”
“I can hear you,” Hal said.
“You have Guardian proceedings,” Bruce replied.
“You have my sister in a hallway.”
You stopped walking. “Hal, I swear to Oa—”
The ring pulsed harder.
The warning cut through the absurdity.
“Behind the third door,” you whispered.
The door opened into a private gallery space overlooking the lower atrium. Three catering staff members stood frozen near a storage cart. A fourth person, dressed in the same uniform, held a compact device over an open case. The device glowed faintly yellow beneath his hand.
You threw a construct shield over the civilians as the device discharged.
Yellow light spiderwebbed across green, seeking weak points in the structure of your will. Bruce moved under the shield and took the attacker down before he could fire again. Two more men burst from a side door with weapons drawn. You boxed the civilians safely near the back of the room, caught one bullet against a construct disk, and slammed the second man into the ceiling with a green fist.
Bruce glanced at you.
“He’ll live,” you said.
“I didn’t ask.”
“You were going to.”
A corner of his mouth moved.
Then the first attacker recovered enough to slam his hand against the open case.
The gallery lights went out.
A larger pulse of Qwardian energy surged from the case.
“Bruce,” you snapped.
He caught the case and threw it toward you.
You wrapped it in layers of construct shielding a second before it detonated.
Yellow light hammered against green, fear-state feedback clawing down the connection between your ring and your mind. Images flashed behind your eyes: Hal dead in the black of space, your father’s plane falling, Bruce bleeding out on a wet alley floor while you arrived too late to matter.
The construct fractured.
“Jordan,” Bruce said.
His voice cut through the feedback.
Quiet. Certain. Yours to hold onto.
Willpower was not the absence of fear. It was looking fear in the face and refusing to let it choose for you.
You tightened your fist.
The construct compressed. The explosion folded inward until it burned itself out in a flash of sour yellow light.
Silence followed.
Bruce was beside you. “Status.”
“Headache. Some feedback. Manageable.”
Hal’s voice returned in your ear, stripped of every trace of humor. “Talk to me.”
“I’m okay.”
“You didn’t sound okay.”
“I had a Qwardian device try to give me a slideshow of my worst fears. I’m annoyed.”
Hal swore softly. “I’m coming back.”
“You are not.”
“I can be there in—”
“Hal,” you said, sharper now. “Do your job.”
He went quiet.
You hated the way that hurt. You knew he meant well. You also knew the universe could not keep shrinking itself around his fear for you.
Bruce hauled the attacker up enough to look into his face. “Who gave you the device?”
The man spat blood. “You think you scare me?”
Bruce leaned closer.
The man’s bravado lasted approximately four seconds.
“The Broker,” he said.
You scanned the destroyed case. “This wasn’t one of the main crates. It was a sample.”
“And a demonstration,” Bruce said.
The Broker had not come to the gala to sell weapons to Gotham criminals.
He had come to prove the weapons worked on a Lantern.
The final crate began moving before midnight.
Bruce changed in the back of the limousine.
You tried to be normal about it.
That was difficult, because the privacy screen was up, Alfred was driving with the calm of a man who had seen everything and found most of it mildly inconvenient, and Bruce was stripping out of his tuxedo with brisk efficiency as the car cut through Gotham traffic.
There was armor hidden beneath the rear seat.
Of course, there was.
You stared out the window with great determination while black fabric, reinforced plating, and the familiar shape of the cowl emerged in your peripheral vision.
“You can look,” Bruce said.
“I was being polite.”
“You were being obvious.”
“You are changing clothes in a car.”
“I’ve done worse in smaller spaces.”
Your mind did several unhelpful things with that sentence.
Bruce snapped a chest plate into place. In its place, Batman assembled himself piece by piece, but the cowl remained off. The in-between state should have looked strange. It did not. It felt like you were seeing the seam between both halves of him.
“You knew they might target me,” you said.
Bruce’s hands paused.
There it was.
The silence you had been waiting for.
His gaze lifted to yours. “I suspected.”
Anger moved through you. “That didn’t make it into the briefing.”
“I didn’t have confirmation.”
“You had suspicion.”
“Yes.”
“And you brought me into a room full of civilians without telling me someone might use me as proof of concept.”
“The civilians were the reason I needed you there.”
“You could have said that.”
“I needed you focused.”
The green light around your ring sharpened. “Careful.”
Bruce went still.
You leaned closer, anger steadying into something colder. “I am not Hal. I am not one of your Robins. I am not a civilian you need to maneuver into the right place for her own good. If you want my help, you give me the truth and let me decide what to do with it.”
He took that without flinching.
Good.
Then he said, “You’re right.”
You blinked.
Bruce looked at you fully, no cowl, no party mask, no attempt to soften the admission. “I should have told you. I’m sorry.”
The anger did not vanish, but it lost some of its teeth.
“You’re very annoying when you apologize properly,” you said.
“I’ll try to avoid it.”
“Bruce.”
His mouth twitched.
The limousine slowed.
Alfred’s voice came through the intercom. “We are approaching the east warehouse district. I have taken the liberty of redirecting Master Jordan’s next three attempts to access this vehicle’s communication system.”
You closed your eyes. “How angry is he?”
“On a scale from one to Mr. Jordan, he appears to have reached Mr. Jordan.”
Bruce put the cowl on.
“Your family is weird,” you said.
“Yes.”
“You didn’t even argue.”
“It would waste time.”
The car stopped.
Batman opened the door and stepped into the rain.
They found the final crate inside an abandoned textile factory six blocks from the harbor.
You hovered above the adjacent building, rain hissing against your ring’s atmospheric shield, while Bruce crouched at the roof’s edge beside you. Your scan came back ugly, with yellow static crawling over the edges of the image.
“Twenty-eight people,” you said. “One crate. Multiple Qwardian weapons. They’re using a dampening field keyed to Lantern energy.”
“Can you break it?”
“Eventually.”
“We may not have eventually.”
You smiled without humor. “That’s usually how Gotham works, isn’t it?”
“I’ll draw fire,” he said. “You secure the crate.”
“No.”
“Jordan.”
“I know this is very shocking for you, but we just had a conversation about not using me as bait without telling me.”
“You’re not bait.”
“You said you’ll draw fire from people holding anti-Lantern weapons and send me toward the crate that wants to chew through my ring. That is at least bait-adjacent.”
His jaw shifted. “Your alternative?”
“We go in together. I shield. You disable. We reach the crate at the same time. If it reacts to me, you use whatever terrible little gadget you definitely built after the gala to dampen the feedback.”
Bruce stared.
You lifted an eyebrow. “You did build one.”
“It’s untested.”
“Bruce.”
“Yes.”
“You built an untested anti-Qwardian dampener in the time between leaving the gala and arriving here?”
“In the car.”
You stared at him.
He said nothing.
“I hate that I’m attracted to that.”
The words left your mouth before your brain approved them.
For one suspended second, the rain seemed louder.
Bruce went completely still.
Well.
There it was.
You could have pretended it was a joke. Instead, you held Bruce’s gaze because you were tired of pretending the air between you had not been catching fire for months.
His voice, when it came, was lower. “This isn’t the time.”
“No,” you said. “It isn’t.”
You turned toward the factory before he could say anything else. Your ring brightened.
“Together?”
The pause lasted half a heartbeat.
“Together,” he said.
Then the roof beneath you exploded.
You threw up a shield on instinct, catching the blast before it could take the building apart beneath you. Bruce rolled clear, cape snapping open as he dropped through the smoke toward the factory’s upper windows.
You followed, shield first.
The factory erupted into chaos.
Gunfire shattered the air. Qwardian beams sliced through the gloom in vicious streaks of yellow-white light, each one bending toward your constructs as if hungry. You split your shield into overlapping plates, moving them independently so the beams could not chew through one structure for too long.
Bruce landed below you and became motion.
He disarmed the first man before the man knew he was there. Another fired at him from the catwalk. You built a green hook and yanked the weapon sideways, sending the shot into the ceiling. Bruce’s batarang took the shooter in the shoulder a second later.
“Left,” Bruce said.
You turned and caught a beam meant for your side. The shield cracked, and fear-state feedback poured through the fracture.
Your father’s plane fell again.
You tasted smoke that was not there.
Then Bruce’s hand closed briefly around your wrist.
The dampener activated from his gauntlet, a pulse of cold blue-white energy cutting through the yellow static. The false fear vanished so abruptly that your next breath hurt.
“You were right,” he said.
“You said untested.”
“You told me to use it anyway.”
“Because the alternative was letting yellow-light fear eat through me.”
“Focus.”
You laughed once, breathless and sharp, and drove a construct hammer through a row of Qwardian rifles.
The final crate sat at the center of the factory floor, bound in dark metal veined with dim yellow light. It was larger than the sample case, more heavily shielded, and already opening. The men around it were not Gotham criminals. Their gear was too clean, their formation too disciplined.
One of them lifted a weapon toward Bruce’s back.
You saw the shot before he did.
“Batman!”
You moved without thinking.
The beam struck your shoulder instead of his spine.
Pain tore through you with bright, savage force. Your shield vanished. You hit the ground on one knee, then both, green light flickering wildly around your hand. Your ring screamed warnings, but the words came through fractured.
Bruce was there before the man could fire again. He took the weapon apart, then the man. Fast. Precise. Brutal enough that even through the pain, you understood he was holding back by choice rather than temperament.
“Status,” he said, dropping beside you.
You pressed a hand to your shoulder. Your glove came away wet with blood. “That hurt.”
“How bad?”
“Bad, but not dying bad.”
“That’s not a category.”
“It is tonight.”
The crate began to open.
Yellow light spilled through the widening seam, thick as poison. Fear washed across the factory floor, and men who had been firing seconds earlier stumbled back from their own prize. Your ring faltered. Bruce’s hand went to his gauntlet, but the dampener sparked and died before he could activate it again.
“Damn it,” he said.
You forced yourself to stand.
Bruce’s hand caught your waist. “You’re injured.”
“You’re observant.”
“You can’t contain that alone.”
“Then help me.”
The crate screamed.
It was not sound, exactly. It was emotion weaponized so efficiently that your body interpreted it as noise. The fear hit harder this time, dragging images from the deepest parts of you with cruel precision. Hal’s ring floating empty in space. Bruce dead in your arms. Yourself trapped behind green glass, pounding on it while everyone you loved moved farther away.
Your knees weakened.
Bruce stepped in front of you.
The fear hit him too.
His body went rigid. You saw the instant it found him. Crime Alley, you thought, though he did not say it. Pearls on wet pavement. Blood. A child alone in an alley with a scream trapped in his throat forever.
His hand shook once.
Only once.
Then he reached back and found yours.
“Together,” he said, voice rough.
You gripped his hand.
The ring flared.
You had always thought willpower was an individual thing. The Guardians certainly treated it that way. One ring, one bearer, one chosen mind strong enough to overcome great fear. But your ring did not reject Bruce’s hand in yours. It steadied.
Will was not always solitude.
Sometimes it was a hand reaching back through fear and finding someone else still there.
You raised your ring.
Green light poured through the factory.
The construct you built was enormous and imperfect, a great banded cage forming around the crate while Bruce threw every explosive charge from his belt into the seams. The charges detonated in sequence, disrupting the yellow pulse long enough for your construct to tighten.
The cage compressed.
Bruce’s hand tightened around yours.
“Now,” he said.
You clenched your fist.
The crate collapsed inward with a scream of twisting metal and extinguished light.
Silence followed so abruptly that you swayed.
Bruce caught you against him.
You wanted to say something clever. Instead, pain rushed back through your shoulder and side, and your legs stopped pretending they were interested in holding you upright.
“Bruce,” you said.
His arms tightened around you. “I’ve got you.”
Then the world went soft at the edges.
You woke to cold stone, antiseptic, and the distant sound of water dripping into darkness.
The Batcave.
You knew it before you opened your eyes. The air felt different underground, damp and metallic, humming with machines. Your body registered pain in layers: shoulder first, hot and ugly; side second, a deep bruise from hitting the factory floor; head third, throbbing with the aftermath of Qwardian feedback.
Your ring pulsed weakly on your hand.
Medical intervention complete, it informed you. Further rest advised.
“Traitor,” you muttered.
A chair scraped nearby.
Bruce appeared above you.
The cowl and cape were gone. He was still armored from the waist down, undersuit unsealed at the throat, blood drying at his jaw. He looked tired, furious, and relieved all at once. The combination did something inconvenient to your chest.
“You’re awake,” he said.
“So they tell me.”
“How do you feel?”
“Like I got shot by a fear gun in a haunted factory.”
“Accurate.”
“You’re supposed to say something comforting.”
“You’re stable.”
“Deeply romantic.”
The word landed before you could stop it.
Bruce went still.
You closed your eyes. “Ignore that.”
“No.”
You opened them again.
He was watching you with an expression you could not read, which was unfair because reading him had become a bad habit and a worse need. Without the cowl, his face was too human. Bruised, cut, handsome in a way that irritated you because it gave him another advantage he did not need.
“You were unconscious for most of the night,” he said.
“That sounds dramatic.”
“Six hours and thirty-eight minutes.”
“That sounds worse.”
“It was.”
Your ring pulsed weakly at your hand, the bandage across your shoulder glowing faintly where it had sealed the worst of the damage. The pain was still there, but distant now, dulled by whatever emergency protocol the ring had decided counted as medical care. You were hurt, not fragile. There was a difference, and Bruce looked like he wanted to argue with the distinction.
“Sounds like you were worried.”
“I was.”
Your throat tightened.
Bruce looked away first, but only to reach for a glass of water. He helped you sit up carefully, one hand behind your back, the other offering the glass. You took it and drank because arguing required energy you did not have at the moment.
“You brought me here,” you said.
“Yes.”
“Hal is going to be calm about that.”
“No, he isn’t.”
You laughed, then hissed as pain pulled at your side.
Bruce’s hand was on your waist immediately. “Careful.”
The word had no right to sound like that. Low, close, roughened by something he was trying to restrain.
You looked down.
His hand was bare.
You had not noticed he had removed the gloves. His fingers rested against the fabric of the temporary medical wrap your ring had formed around your torso, close enough to your skin that warmth seeped through. You became very aware that the damaged sections of your uniform had been dismissed for treatment. The ring had preserved your modesty, more or less, but Bruce had still cleaned the wounds on your shoulder and side.
His hand withdrew.
Too quickly.
“Bruce.”
He stood. “I need to check your vitals.”
“You already did.”
“Again.”
“Is this a medical need or an avoidance tactic?”
His jaw shifted.
You had your answer.
He turned toward the tray of supplies. “Your shoulder needs another scan.”
“And you need stitches.”
“It can wait.”
“No, it can’t.”
“It’s minor.”
“Your definition of minor is terrible.”
He ignored that and reached for a scanner.
You caught his wrist.
The movement hurt. You did it anyway.
Bruce froze.
His pulse beat under your fingers, steady enough that you almost missed the way his breath changed.
“Let me see,” you said.
“I’m fine.”
“You just said that like a man who has lied to doctors, friends, and probably several concussed teenagers.”
His mouth twitched despite himself. “Several?”
“Bruce.”
The humor faded.
He looked down at your hand around his wrist. Something quiet and dangerous moved between you, made worse by the fact that both of you were hurt, tired, and far past the point where pretending could be mistaken for discipline.
Finally, he set the scanner down.
The victory should have pleased you. It did. It also terrified you, because Bruce Wayne undressing for medical reasons in front of you was somehow worse than the limousine.
He removed the upper armor first. Beneath it, the undersuit was torn near his ribs and shoulder. Blood had soaked into the fabric at his side, darker than it should have been. You stared at the wound, anger flaring through the exhaustion.
“You said minor.”
“It is.”
“You are allergic to honesty.”
“Only recreationally.”
You gave him a look.
He sighed and sat on the adjacent cot.
That was as close as you were likely to get to full cooperation.
You slid off your own cot before he could stop you. The Cave tilted slightly, but you steadied yourself with one hand on the mattress and refused to sit back down. Bruce’s hands lifted instinctively, hovering near your waist.
“I can stand,” you said.
“Barely.”
“Still counts.”
“It doesn’t.”
You stepped between his knees because it was the easiest way to reach the cut at his side. That was the reason. Practicality. Access. Medical necessity.
Bruce looked up at you from beneath dark lashes, and the lie became embarrassing even inside your own head.
You picked up antiseptic and gauze. “This will hurt.”
“I know.”
“Try not to enjoy being stoic.”
“I’ll try.”
“You won’t.”
“No.”
That small, dry agreement nearly broke your anger.
You cleaned the wound carefully. Bruce did not flinch, but his abdomen tightened beneath your fingers, and you felt the reaction like a secret spoken against your palm. He was warm. Solid. Too close. Your ring gave a faint pulse, probably detecting your elevated heart rate and, with the terrible discretion of alien technology, choosing not to comment.
Bruce’s gaze stayed on your face.
It was impossible not to feel it.
“You took that shot for me,” he said.
You did not look up. “You were busy.”
“That weapon could have killed you.”
“It could have killed you, too.”
“You had less protection.”
“You have less sense.”
His mouth pressed into a line. “This isn’t a joke.”
“I know. But I’m not going to stand there and let someone shoot you in the back because Hal might be upset later.”
Bruce went silent.
There it was again. Hal, present even when he was sectors away. Hal, whose love had shaped both of you into caution and defiance in equal measure. Hal, who trusted Bruce with his life and feared trusting him with yours.
You looked at Bruce then.
“My brother doesn’t own me.”
His eyes darkened. “I know that.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
“Because sometimes you act like wanting me would be something you did to him.”
The words landed hard.
Bruce stood.
You should have stepped back. You did not. He was close enough now that you had to tilt your head to hold his gaze. The Cave hummed around you, a mechanical heartbeat under stone.
“That’s not what this is,” he said.
“Then what is it?”
His face closed.
You almost laughed, though nothing about it was funny. “Right. Of course.”
You turned away, but his hand caught yours before you could take more than one step.
Carefully. Gently.
Still enough to stop you.
You looked back.
Bruce’s control was not gone, but it had cracks now. You could see them in the tension around his mouth, the strain in his eyes, the way his hand held yours like he wanted to pull you closer and did not trust himself to choose what came after.
“He’s my friend,” Bruce said.
“I know.”
“He trusts me.”
“I know.”
“He asked me to keep you safe.”
“I am also in the room. I am standing right here, Bruce. I am hurt and tired and very aware that Hal loves me, but I’m not a responsibility you borrowed from him.”
“I don’t think you are.”
“Then stop acting like the problem is what Hal would do if he knew you wanted me.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Your own words echoed back too late.
Wanted me.
Bruce’s hand tightened around yours.
You could have taken it back. Pretended. Softened it into something easier for both of you to survive.
You did not.
“Tell me I’m wrong,” you said.
Bruce looked at you for a long time.
Then he said, “I can’t.”
Your breath caught.
The admission did not come dramatically. He stood in the blue-white glow of the Batcave, bruised and bleeding, with his defenses still half-raised and his honesty dragged out like something taken from behind locked doors.
“How long?”
His gaze dropped briefly to your mouth. “Since before Metropolis.”
Your heart stumbled.
“The bridge collapse?”
“That was when I stopped pretending it was incidental.”
A strange, fragile silence opened between you. It made the Cave feel too large around the two of you, all stone and machinery and secrets, while Bruce stood close enough that you could feel the restraint in him like a held breath.
“And before that?”
“I noticed you,” he said. “That was all I let it be.”
“That was years ago.”
“Yes.”
“You never said anything.”
“No.”
“Because of Hal.”
“Partly.”
“What’s the other part?”
His eyes met yours. “Because wanting someone doesn’t mean I know how to have them without causing damage.”
Your anger faltered.
Bruce looked down at your joined hands. “I know how to protect people. I know how to plan for loss, betrayal, fear, injury, and failure. I don’t know how to want something this much and not make it another battlefield.”
The Cave felt too quiet.
You stepped closer.
He did not move away.
“You don’t get to decide that alone,” you said. “Maybe that’s the part you keep getting wrong. You make rules and decide they’re noble because no one else gets hurt, but you don’t ask whether anyone else agreed to live by them.”
His face shifted.
“Rules written without permission,” he said.
You smiled faintly. “I’ve never had much patience for those.”
His hand rose slowly.
He gave you every chance to step back.
You did not.
His fingers touched your jaw, light at first, as if contact itself required restraint. Your breath caught. The touch was barely anything. A question. A warning. A line finally acknowledged for what it was.
“Tell me to stop,” he said.
“I don’t want you to stop.”
His jaw tightened. “Your injuries—”
“Are real. So are yours. We’ll be careful.”
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably.”
“Hal will be furious.”
“Hal can join the list.”
Bruce almost smiled. It vanished beneath something darker when your fingers curled into the torn fabric at his waist.
“I need you to be sure.”
“I am.”
“I need you to tell me if anything hurts.”
“I will.”
The last lock in him gave.
Bruce kissed you.
For a man built on restraint, he kissed like restraint had finally become unbearable. His mouth was warm, firm, and hungry, his hand sliding from your jaw to the back of your neck as his other arm came around your waist with careful force. He drew you in without crushing you, mindful of your side, your shoulder, every place pain still lived. That care only made the hunger worse.
You made a sound against his mouth, and Bruce froze.
“I’m okay,” you whispered.
His forehead rested against yours. “Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
“Less than wanting you and pretending I don’t.”
His eyes opened.
That did it.
The next kiss was harder. His mouth opened under yours, and the first slide of his tongue against yours sent heat spilling through you so fast your ring flared.
Green light washed across the Cave floor.
Bruce drew back just enough to look down.
A construct had formed behind him, broad and soft-edged, bracing his back where the cot’s metal frame would have pressed against his injured ribs.
You stared at it.
Bruce stared too.
Then his mouth curved.
“Don’t,” you warned.
“It reacts to subconscious desire.”
“I know how my ring works.”
“Useful.”
“Bruce Thomas Wayne, if you try to analyze my ring while kissing me, I’m leaving.”
His gaze returned to your mouth. “Then I’ll stop analyzing.”
“Good.”
“I didn’t say I’d stop noticing.”
You hated how much that pleased you.
His mouth found yours again, and the world narrowed to heat, pain, want, and the careful pressure of his hands.
Eventually, he pulled back, though not far.
“You need rest,” he said.
“You are very bad at seduction.”
“I wasn’t finished.”
Your pulse jumped.
“My room,” he said. “If you want.”
You nodded before pride could make you tease him.
“I want.”
The elevator from the Cave to the manor felt like crossing between worlds. One moment, there was stone, equipment, and the smell of metal and rainwater. The next, there was the quiet warmth of Wayne Manor’s study, old books, polished wood, and a grandfather clock that swung shut behind you like it had never been anything but furniture.
Bruce’s bedroom was dark, restrained, and more lived-in than you expected. Books sat on the nightstand. A jacket had been thrown across a chair. A glass of water sat half-finished near the bed. He closed the door behind you, and the click sounded too loud.
Without the Cave around him, without the cowl or the ballroom or Hal’s voice in your ear, Bruce looked like a man standing at the edge of something he had wanted long enough to fear.
He came to you slowly.
“You’re sure?” he asked again.
You reached for him.
This kiss was softer at first. Both of you were injured, and the walk upstairs had reminded your body that adrenaline was a liar. Bruce kissed you like he remembered every wound, every sharp breath, every place his hands needed to avoid.
His fingers found the edge of the ring-made wrap covering your shoulder. “May I?”
You nodded.
“Words,” he murmured.
“Yes.”
Green light shimmered as your ring loosened the temporary wrap and dissolved the remains of your uniform section by section. The fabric vanished from your body in controlled pieces, leaving your bandaged shoulder and side exposed, then the rest of you bare beneath the dim light.
Bruce’s gaze moved over you.
Slowly.
Reverently.
Your breath caught under it.
“You’re staring,” you said.
“I am.”
“At least you’re honest.”
“I’m trying to be.”
That softened you.
You stepped closer and touched the edge of his undersuit. “Then let me.”
Bruce’s eyes darkened.
The rest of his armor came off with your help, slowly because his ribs were bruised and yours were not much better. When the undersuit finally joined the rest of the armor on a nearby chair, you let yourself look. Bruce’s body carried the history his voice rarely offered. Scars old and new. Bruises blooming beneath skin. Muscle shaped by discipline and punishment in equal measure.
You touched a scar near his shoulder.
He went still.
“Does it hurt?”
“No.”
You leaned in and kissed the scar beneath your fingers.
Bruce shuddered.
The reaction moved through you with embarrassing force.
You looked up at him. “Stop holding yourself like you’re waiting to be denied.”
Something in his face shifted.
You lifted your hand to his cheek. “I’m here.”
The kiss that followed had weight. Bruce’s hands moved over you with increasing confidence, learning the shape of you by touch, careful at your bandages and firm everywhere else. He kissed your mouth, your jaw, the side of your throat, pausing when your breath hitched and continuing when you whispered yes.
The bed met the backs of your knees.
You sat, and Bruce followed you down only after checking your face for pain. That should not have made you want him more. It did.
He knelt between your legs.
The sight stopped your breathing.
Bruce Wayne on his knees, shirtless and bruised, looking up at you like restraint had become the last fragile thing between him and worship.
“You don’t have to—” you started.
His hands slid over your thighs. “I want to.”
The words were low and simple. They settled deep in your body.
Your ring pulsed.
Bruce noticed, of course.
He kissed the inside of your knee. “Does that mean yes?”
“It means my ring is nosy.”
His mouth moved higher. “And you?”
“Yes.”
He stopped. Looked up. Waited.
You understood what he needed before he asked. “I want your mouth on me.”
His eyes darkened.
Then he bent his head.
The first touch of his mouth between your thighs was enough to make your hands clutch the sheets. He started slowly, tongue dragging through you with deliberate patience, as if learning you mattered more than rushing you. Bruce’s hands settled on your thighs, warm and steady, holding you open without pinning you down.
He kissed your cunt like he had thought about it before.
The realization made you whimper.
Bruce’s fingers flexed. He heard it. Felt it. Stored it somewhere in that dangerous mind of his and used it against you immediately, tongue circling your clit with firmer pressure until pleasure flashed bright behind your eyes.
“Bruce,” you breathed.
Your hips lifted, and pain tugged at your side. You hissed before you could stop it.
Bruce pulled back at once. “Too much?”
“No.” You reached for his hair, keeping him close. “Side. Just hold me still.”
His hands moved to your hips with careful pressure, avoiding the injury while giving you something to push against. “Tell me if that changes.”
“I will.”
His mouth returned to you.
This time, he took control of the rhythm with devastating patience. He held you steady so you did not hurt yourself chasing pleasure, and somehow the restraint made it worse. Better. Both. His tongue worked over your clit until your thighs trembled, then dipped lower to taste you, slow and thorough, making a deep sound in his throat that left you dizzy.
You looked down and nearly came from the sight alone.
Bruce between your legs. His mouth wet from you. His eyes lifted to yours while he licked you like he wanted to make you remember every second of it.
Your ring flared bright enough to cast green light across his face.
He smiled against your cunt.
“You’re smug,” you gasped.
He slid one finger into you.
Your complaint dissolved into a moan.
The finger moved slowly at first, giving your body time to adjust, then curled with precise pressure that made you grip his hair harder. Bruce groaned as if he liked that too much. He added a second finger, his mouth still on your clit, and pleasure gathered so fast you could barely breathe.
“Come for me,” he said against you.
That finished it.
You came with a sharp cry, fingers twisting in his hair, body clenching around his fingers as pleasure tore through you. Green light burst over the room, constructs blooming above the bed in half-formed shapes: stars, wings, a shield, a hand reaching for another hand. Bruce kept his mouth on you through it, gentling only when you began to shake from the sensitivity.
When you finally slumped back against the pillows, breathless and boneless, he kissed the inside of your thigh.
You stared at the ceiling. “The ring is never going to let me forget that.”
Bruce’s laugh was low, almost disbelieving.
You reached for him. “Come here.”
Bruce rose over you carefully, bracing himself to keep his weight off your injuries. You caught his face and kissed him, tasting yourself on his mouth. The intimacy of it made you moan before his tongue even touched yours. His body settled between your thighs, hot and solid, and when his cock pressed against you, hard and heavy, every satisfied nerve in your body woke again.
“You’re holding back,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
“Because of me?”
“Because if I move too quickly, I’ll hurt you.”
Your heart softened even as your body throbbed.
You kissed him once. “Then let me set the pace.”
His jaw tightened. “You’re injured.”
“So are you.”
“That isn’t an argument.”
“It is tonight.”
His mouth twitched despite himself.
“Condom?”
Bruce reached toward the nightstand with more urgency than dignity.
You smiled.
He gave you a look. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
He rolled the condom on, hands steady though his breathing was not. You shifted over him, straddling his hips carefully, one hand braced near his shoulder.
Both of you went still.
This was the point where everything became unavoidable.
Bruce’s hands settled on your thighs. “Still sure?”
“Yes.”
“I need you to tell me if anything hurts.”
“I will.”
You reached between your bodies and guided him to you. The first press of him against your entrance made your breath catch. You sank down slowly, taking him inch by inch, your body stretching around him as Bruce’s hands tightened on your thighs.
He was careful.
So careful.
You hated and loved him for it.
When you finally took all of him, both of you stopped breathing for a second.
Bruce’s eyes closed. A rough sound escaped him, almost a groan and almost your name, though he did not say it.
“You okay?” he asked, voice strained.
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
“Some. Not too much.”
His eyes opened immediately. “We can stop.”
“I don’t want to stop.”
You rolled your hips carefully.
His head fell back against the pillow.
That was answer enough.
The first movements were slow. They had to be. Your shoulder throbbed, your side protested, and Bruce’s ribs made certain angles impossible. But the slowness became its own kind of torture. Every careful rise and fall dragged him deep through you, every restrained thrust up met your body with heat that built instead of broke.
Bruce watched you as if he were memorizing the sight.
You leaned down to kiss him, and the angle changed. He hit something inside you that made you gasp into his mouth.
“Again?” he asked.
“Yes.”
His hands shifted, guiding your hips without forcing them, helping you find the angle again. Pleasure sparked bright enough to make your ring flare. You moved a little faster, chasing it, and Bruce’s mouth found your throat.
“You feel perfect,” he said against your skin.
Your body clenched around him.
He swore.
You smiled, breathless. “Say that again.”
His hands tightened. “You feel perfect, darling.”
This time, you both felt what the words did to you.
Bruce groaned as you clenched around him, his hips lifting carefully into yours. You rocked down to meet him, pleasure deepening with each movement. The room filled with the sound of your breathing, the soft shift of sheets, the wet slide of your body taking his.
The pace stayed slow until it could not.
In one controlled movement, he sat up, bringing you with him. You gasped as the angle changed, your arms wrapping around his shoulders while his hands supported your back and hip. The position took pressure off your side and drove him deeper inside you.
His hand slid between your bodies.
When his fingers touched your clit, your forehead dropped to his shoulder.
“Bruce.”
“I’ve got you.”
He moved inside you with careful strength, each thrust measured but deep, his fingers circling your clit in time with the roll of your hips. Pleasure crowded everything else out: the rain, the pain, the rules, the months of wanting him in silence.
“You’re close,” he said.
You nodded, beyond words.
“Look at me.”
You forced your eyes open.
Bruce was right there, face flushed, eyes dark, mouth parted with effort and want.
“Come,” he said. “I want to feel you.”
The orgasm hit hard.
You cried out as pleasure tore through you, body clenching around his cock in pulsing waves. Bruce held you through it, mouth at your jaw, his fingers slowing but not stopping until you were shaking against him. Green light burst across the room again, this time forming a soft halo over both of you before dissolving into sparks.
Bruce thrust once, twice, then buried his face against your neck with a deep, broken groan as he came.
You held him as carefully as he had held you.
For a long time, neither of you moved.
Rain whispered against the windows. The room slowly returned to itself around you. The bed. The shadows. The faint green glow of your ring dimming back to something calm and private.
Bruce’s hand moved over your back, slow and soothing.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“Pain?”
“Yes.”
He stiffened.
“Manageable,” you said quickly. “And worth it.”
“That isn’t medically relevant.”
“It is emotionally relevant.”
His laugh was quiet and tired.
Eventually, after several attempts at movement proved both of you had been overly optimistic about your injuries, Bruce helped you lift off him and dealt with the condom. He returned with a warm cloth, water, pain medication, and the kind of focused aftercare that suggested he had made a checklist in his head the second he regained cognitive function.
You accepted the water and side-eyed the rest.
“Do you have a post-sex protocol?”
Bruce paused. “No.”
“You hesitated.”
“I have medical protocols.”
“Bruce.”
“And hydration protocols.”
“Oh my god.”
His mouth twitched. “Take the pain medication.”
“You’re bossy.”
“You’re injured.”
“So are you. Take some too.”
He looked as if he might argue.
You stared at him.
He took the medication.
“That was easy,” you said.
“It wasn’t.”
He cleaned your wounds again with careful hands, checked the bandages, and let you examine his ribs with your ring despite his obvious discomfort at being scanned. Your ring recited the damage in a crisp, judgmental monotone, concluding with rest advised.
Bruce glared at it.
“Don’t glare at my ring.”
“It editorialized.”
“It said rest advised.”
“Unnecessary.”
“You are a nightmare.”
“So I’ve been told.”
You settled back against the pillows in one of his shirts because your uniform was damaged, your dress was probably in Alfred’s hands, and Bruce’s shirt was soft enough that you were prepared to steal it. He noticed, but all he said was that you could keep it.
That was worse.
“Careful,” you said.
“With what?”
“Being sweet. I might get used to it.”
Bruce’s gaze softened. “That wouldn’t be terrible.”
Oh.
You did not have a clever answer for that.
He climbed into bed beside you with all the caution two injured vigilantes required and none of the emotional distance you expected. When you shifted closer, he lifted an arm carefully, letting you tuck yourself against his uninjured side.
“What happens now?” you asked.
His hand paused.
There it was. The question neither of you could avoid forever.
“Now you sleep,” he said.
“That is aggressively unromantic.”
His mouth curved faintly. “After that, we secure the Broker.”
“And after that?”
His eyes met yours.
“After that,” he said, “we tell Hal.”
You blinked. “We do?”
“Yes.”
“You don’t want to hide this?”
“No.”
The answer came quickly enough to hurt in a good way.
Bruce looked at your joined hands resting against his chest. “Hiding would make it seem like something shameful.”
Your throat tightened.
“And is it?”
His eyes returned to yours. “No.”
The word was quiet. Certain.
You believed him.
Morning came gray and quiet.
The rain had stopped, leaving the windows streaked and the grounds beyond them washed in pale light. You woke slowly, warm beneath the sheets, your body sore in several competing ways. For one blissful second, you forgot where you were.
Then Bruce shifted beside you.
Memory returned all at once.
The Cave. The kiss. The bed. His mouth between your thighs. His voice saying I want to try.
You opened your eyes.
Bruce was already awake, because of course he was. He looked tired, bruised, and unfairly handsome in the morning light.
“You sleep like a suspicious cat,” you said.
His eyes moved to yours. “Good morning.”
“That wasn’t a denial.”
“No.”
A knock came at the door before you could answer.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred called from the other side, voice perfectly composed. “I have breakfast, additional medical supplies, and a secure communication from Mr. Jordan.”
You buried your face in the pillow. “I’m moving to Oa.”
Bruce’s hand settled at your back. “Thank you, Alfred.”
“Of course, sir. Shall I inform Mr. Jordan that you are unavailable, or would you prefer to be murdered before breakfast?”
“Unavailable,” Bruce said.
“Wise. Miss Jordan, I hope tea is acceptable.”
“Tea is great. Thank you, Alfred. Also, sorry.”
“For bleeding on the linens or for the rest of it?”
You made a small, strangled sound.
Bruce closed his eyes.
“Please don’t trouble yourself,” Alfred continued. “This household has endured far worse scandals with far less charm.”
His footsteps receded.
You stared at the door.
Then at Bruce.
“I need you to understand that I might choose Alfred over you.”
“Understandable.”
The comm on the nightstand flashed green.
Hal.
The morning, apparently, had decided to stop being merciful.
“You don’t have to answer yet,” Bruce said.
“If I don’t, he’ll panic.”
“He’s already panicking.”
“More, then.”
Bruce reached for the comm, then paused. “Do you want privacy?”
The offer was so careful that it almost hurt. You looked at him: shirtless, bruised, one shoulder bandaged, hair still mussed from your hands. Hal was going to see enough to understand and not nearly enough to calm down.
“No,” you said. “Stay.”
Bruce handed you the comm.
Hal’s face appeared in a green projection above the nightstand, already mid-sentence.
“—do not care what Batman says about compromised channels, I am your emergency contact and technically also a Green Lantern, which means—”
He stopped.
His eyes moved over the scene.
You, in Bruce’s bed, wearing Bruce’s shirt.
Bruce, shirtless beside you.
The sheets.
The bruises.
The morning.
Silence.
Then Hal said, very quietly, “Bruce.”
“Hal,” Bruce said.
You cleared your throat. “Hi.”
Hal’s gaze snapped to you. “Are you okay?”
The worry in his voice stripped away some of your embarrassment.
“Yes. I’m okay.”
“You were unconscious.”
“For six hours and thirty-eight.”
Hal turned on Bruce. “You gave me stable. You gave me stable for unconscious?”
“She was stable,” Bruce said.
“Stable is what you say about furniture.”
“Hal.”
“No, I’m going to yell about that later.” His eyes narrowed. “Why are you in his bed?”
You opened your mouth.
Bruce spoke first.
“Because we slept together.”
The room died.
You turned your head slowly. “Bruce.”
He looked at you. “What?”
“That was your opening?”
“It was direct.”
“It was catastrophic.”
Hal laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. “You slept with my sister.”
“Yes,” Bruce said.
“After a mission involving anti-Lantern weapons.”
“Yes.”
“In your house.”
“Yes.”
“In your bed.”
Bruce paused. “Obviously.”
You closed your eyes. “Please stop helping.”
Hal pointed at him through the projection. “Don’t obviously me, you emotionally repressed gargoyle.”
You sat forward before Bruce could make it worse. “Hal. I’m okay. Bruce didn’t pressure me. I wanted this.”
Hal looked at you, and the anger cracked just enough for fear to show through.
“You wanted this?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He swallowed.
That was the hard part, you realized. Hal could joke and rage and threaten murder because all of that was easier than sitting with the fact that you had chosen something he could not protect you from.
“I’m twenty-seven,” you said gently. “I love you. I know this is weird. But I decide what I want.”
Hal dragged a hand over his face. “I know.”
“Do you?”
He exhaled. “I’m trying.”
Bruce stayed quiet beside you, letting this part be yours and Hal’s. You appreciated that more than you could say.
Then Hal looked at him.
“You are my best friend,” Hal said.
You gasped. “Oh, now he admits it.”
Hal ignored you. “You are my best friend, and you slept with my sister.”
Bruce said, “Yes.”
“I hate that you keep confirming things.”
“I don’t want to lie to you.”
Hal grimaced. “Don’t be honorable while I’m angry. It’s manipulative.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched.
“Do not smile,” Hal said. “I will fly through that window.”
“We’re on the second floor,” Bruce said.
“I will start low and build momentum.”
You pressed your fingers to your mouth to keep from laughing because your side still hurt and because Hal looked genuinely betrayed by physics.
Then Bruce shifted slightly, and you saw the brief tightening around his eyes before he could hide it. His ribs. You moved before thinking, placing a hand lightly against his side.
Hal noticed.
His expression changed.
“You care about him,” he said.
It was not a question.
You looked at Bruce.
He looked back at you, quiet and open in a way he would never have allowed with anyone else watching unless the answer mattered more than the risk.
“Yes,” you said.
Hal’s eyes closed briefly.
When he opened them, he looked older.
“Bruce,” he said. “If you hurt her because you get scared and decide pushing her away counts as protecting her, I will actually throw you into the sun.”
Bruce did not deflect. “I know.”
“I don’t mean physically. I mean you. Your head. Your rules. The thing where you decide love is a liability and call it strategy because it sounds better than fear.”
The room went still.
Hal looked at him steadily. “Don’t do that to her.”
For a long moment, Bruce said nothing.
Then he looked at you.
“I’ll try not to,” he said.
It would not have been enough from anyone else.
From Bruce, it was honest enough to matter.
You reached for his hand beneath the sheet and squeezed. “And I’ll call him out on it if he does.”
Hal opened his mouth.
You pointed at the projection. “And you will not help unless I ask.”
He shut his mouth, visibly suffering.
“Fine,” he said. “I hate this.”
“I know.”
“I’m happy for you,” he added, with the grim determination of a man dragging the words uphill. “And furious. Both things are happening.”
“That’s fair.”
“Call me after breakfast,” Hal said.
“I will.”
The projection ended.
Silence settled over the room.
You leaned back against the pillows with a long exhale. “That went better than expected.”
Bruce looked at the dark comm. “He threatened to throw me into the sun.”
“Exactly.”
His mouth curved faintly.
You shifted closer and rested your head against his shoulder, careful of every bruise you knew about and probably several you did not. Bruce’s hand found yours beneath the sheet.
Outside, Gotham waited.
There was still a Broker to catch, a buyer to identify, and enough fear-soaked alien technology in the city to make the day complicated. Hal was angry, Alfred knew everything, and the rules Bruce had spent years building around you lay broken somewhere between the Batcave and this bed.
But Bruce’s thumb moved slowly over your knuckles.
The touch was small. Private. Certain.
You looked down at your ring. It glowed faintly in the gray morning light, steady as a heartbeat.
here you go my sweeties, as promised some older bruce. yes this is self indulgent. #daddy ( ˃` ⩌ ´˂ ) .ᐟ .ᐟ apologies for the spelling mistakes or wtv
————————Ი𐑼
you weren’t sure how this whole predicament started: you wake up in silky sheets with messy hair and a rosey bite mark on your collar. you remember being thrown over a really large man’s shoulder, squealing excitedly and kicking at his torso and something about a very loud whine of “daddy daddy daddy”
you’re mid thought when you hear the sound of feet tapping on the floorboards, moving towards you.
“hey, sleepy head. drink this for me.” bruce demands as sweet and quiet as possible. his arm is extended out to you with a glass of water in his hand. you take it with a small, shy nod.
bruce watches to make sure you drink everything before he sits down beside you, taking the cup and putting it on the nightstand. he rests his achy back against the headboard with a tiny groan. You look up at him with big puppy eyes,wondering if you did something to hurt him.
“‘m okay, just gettin’ old” he chuckles and pats your head playfully.
“you’re not old” you laugh softly and lean into his hand.
“you barley know me,honey” bruce murmurs and takes his hand of your head to cover you back up with the comforter.
Later in the morning, you leave the bedroom with a yawn, hoping to find bruce looming somewhere. turns out he was napping on the couch like an old grandpa. cute!
you giggle quietly and bend over the back of the couch to run your hand through his hair, just like he did to you. you knew bruce was insecure about your age difference: it’d been obvious the first night you slept together. he doesn’t know that you love having a big strong old man to take care of you.
bruce’s eyes flutter open, looking up at you with one eye barley open. he sits up and grabs your waist from over the couch cushions, pulling you over them gently like a baby kitty. He places you on his lap as he runs his hands up and down your sides.
you smile down at him, hands on his chest, waiting for some form of attention from the handsome guy below you. slowly, your fingers travel to his jaw and rub against his salt and pepper stubble.
“hot” you whisper, trying not to make eye contact with bruce’s gorgeous eyes, that are roaming your entire body like you’re some sparkly treasure he found.
your hips grind slowly against his lap with a small hum coming from your throat, whilst you grab his huge hands and force them onto your tits.
“please” you pout, begging for nothing in particular, you’re already taking everything you need.
“i gotcha, bunny” bruce grumbles, his hips moving away from your pussy so he can pull down his sweats and move your cute little panties to the side.
you squeak a little as his cock fits snug inside of you, your walls contracting roughly. “bruce, oh fuck!” your whimpers and whines pour out your lips as you struggle to move your hips onto him.
bruce, being the most observant man, lifts you up, his cock never leaving you, and lays you softly on your back.
“yeahh, there we go, ain’t that nice?” he grins down at you, he wants to get rough just like you want but he can’t hurt his baby. you’re tiny compared to him, his body engulfing yours, making you feel every vein and muscle on his body as his dick kisses your cervix.
his soft stomach presses against yours as he lifts your legs onto his shoulders. “sweet girl, always so good for your daddy” he growls. oh so he did remember what you called him last night…
“oh shit, bruce!” you pout and grab at his forearm.
“not my name, honey” bruce snickers as he leans down, pushing your legs back slightly, meanwhile pushing all the way into your pussy. “tell me, and i’ll let you cum with me.”
“daddy, oh gosh, you’re my daddy” you moan out before bringing your hand to your mouth and biting down, trying to stop yourself for saying something even more icky and embarrassing. “m cummi-“ you attempt to scream until bruce thrusts completely inside of you once again, painting your walls just like he did the night before, and before and before.
“good baby” he pants taking his cock out of your pussy and looking at his art. he uses his thumb to part your folds, watching your mixed climax drip out of your hole.
You want to wake up like this every morning, with your old man that you sometimes called daddy.
Can you go I to more detail about greying Bruce Wayne? 👀
oops sorry I didn’t see this!!! I’d love to talk about peepaw. >⩊<.ᐟ
Bruce is a tad insecure of his greys, it means he’s getting older and possibly less “fit” even though he’s jacked as hell.
You do notice a lil pudge on his lower stomach and you love it sssooo much it hurts. It’s incredibly hard for you not to stare at him when he’s coming out of the shower, a towel dangerously low on his waist. It’s hard not to stare when he’s shaving his stubbly jaw, bicep flexing, looking like a sexy silver fox. (˶˃𐃷˂˶)
Now, into my smutty thoughts…
Bruce is a pretty hairy guy, especially at this age. Yes there is a dark happy trail. Yes you do lick it. Yes he enjoys it. His chest has a thin layer of hair on it with teeny speckles of grey like his stubble and his gorgeous abs are still as hot as ever!!!
Sometimes, Bruce would look at himself in the huge bathroom mirror and catch glimpses of grey in his hair and the chub on his stomach. You, however, noticed a while back and can’t help but ask, very sweetly, if you could ride his thick thighs and run your hands across his body. He was reluctant at first, too insecure, but eventually he lets you push him down onto the couch and relaxes into the cushions.
I mean, hey if we’re getting real freaky on main, he might even let you rub yourself on his stomach when he comes back from the gym or patrol… all sweaty…
Phew! Hot hot hot. Thanks for the request, spooky! And I’m so so grateful for my 100 followers ahh!𐔌՞. .՞𐦯
