so imagine ur fav vigilante (in this story the are retired)x reader who lovessss baking but you keeps it as a hobby, your man says you should make it a business , but you always just shrugs him off
until you decides ykw why not just try and your best friend is having a party real soon and was looking for someone to make the desserts so why not kill 2 birds with 1 stone🤷🏽♀️
your friend puts in the order and she needs it buy next tuesday and your like ok go ab your day getting stuff in order, when u realize that it wasn’t as much time as you thought it was to make it all.
so your stressin tryna in yalls shared kitchen when your man walks in sees you struggling and asks if you need help (usually u just shrug him off but he still asks out of courtesy). You look at him like a savior (because hey thats free labor right there🥹) slap an apron on him and show him what he needs to do
3 hrs later~
Questioning his life choices he used to be a badass vigilante his name uses to strike fear into people, now hes covered in eggs and flour head to toe, hands hurting from kneeding dough and stirring cake batter, in a small frilly apron with pink decals and lacy trim that barely fits him but his wife put it on him so hes gonna wear it with pride and its all worth it to see his wife smile ab their accomplishment.
(THIS WAS JUST A RANDOM THOUGHT SO NO I WILL NOT BE EDITING THIS 😛) but if its ass and yall hate it and me jus say it tho 😭
butttt if u love it and me and want to use it as a base for a fic just @me pls
Imagine being the 4th Gotham City Siren and being a little put out to realize you are the only one who hasn't kissed Batman at some point
The latest sleepover party that you had with the three other Gotham sirens had been enlightening -
And jealousy-inducing.
The gossip had started as tame as it usually got with you - wondering if Scarecrow’s member was as long and thin as he was, if Bane could even dirty talk with that apparatus on his face, whether Selina knocked out the cute security guard at the jewellery store when she was there last…
“His lips weren’t as nice as Batman’s,” Selina purred, sharpening her claws with a nailfile.
“You’re telling me, Batty’s so soft and pink,” Harley chimed in.
“I definitely tasted coconut oil in his lip-balm,” Pamela agreed.
You didn’t disclose to them that apparently, you were the only one who hadn’t kissed the Bat. That you were the outcast of the group on that one.
You didn’t intend to be for long.
–
Getting the Bat’s attention was hardly difficult. All you had to do was spread a rumor about a plan to kidnap a socialite at some penthouse. You knew the socialite was out of town, and you knew how to get into her apartment easily enough. Picking locks was nothing to someone with your expertise. You waited out on the balcony, in your tightest little costume, sipping on stolen merlot.
He arrived in the darkness, voice gruff. “Where is she?”
“Little Miss Hotel Heiress? Somewhere in Tahiti, I’m sure,” I said. “Of her own accord, not anyone else’s. You’d know this if you checked social media once in a while.”
He looked as if he didn’t believe you. You couldn’t fully blame him for that.
“But since you’re here - there is a little matter of equality that we need to discuss.”
He let out a grunt, but hesitantly stuck around.
“You know my girlfriends? Harley - Catwoman - Poison?” You said, moving in closer to him, extending your glass, offering it to him. He shook his head. “Well they all got something from you that you just - haven’t given me. And I consider it to be quite rude.”
His lips pressed into a straight line.
“Come on batty-boy, you can give me something, can’t you? I promise I’ll be a good girl. No crimes for a week. Promise.”
“No crimes ever,” He countered, making you chuckle.
“You know me better than that. Two weeks.”
“You’re bartering for a kiss?”
“Is that really so surprising?”
“Two and a half,” He mumbled.
“Sold!”
And you bounced on in, pressing your lips to his. It was tempting to try to use the closeness to knock that cowl off of his head but - much like your friend’s ex, the joker, you thought it was more fun not knowing. You loved the mystery of it all.
And he kissed back - oh, that devil was trying to get a little fresh, his tongue popping out between those lips, tasting you, making you smirk into it.
“Naughty boy,” You chided, licking his lip playfully. “A kiss and a vacation, I’m a lucky gal.”
After you pulled back, Batman steeled himself again. “Who are-“
“Come on, detective, you shoulda known I’m not gonna tell you. Enjoy the mystery, darling.”
bat-magnet. dark! kate kane & bruce wayne x fem!reader headcannons.
𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: Your life has gotten ten times more interesting once you learned that Batman and Batwoman have been fighting in the shadows for your attention. It's also gotten both ten times more annoying, and ten times more dangerous.
𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: possessive behavior. stalking. breaking and entering. obsessive behavior. bats watching you sleep. general creepy behavior. mention of drugged drinks.
𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑠: both of them are final boss yearners. dark! kate kane & bruce wayne.
𝑎/𝑛: need them to fight over me omfg..s.g......gg.g....
⏾ You don't know how long exactly they'd been watching you, been fighting over you, but you assume it started about a week ago.
⏾ A week ago, when you were held at gunpoint by three armed men, asking for your purse. Typical Gotham. What wasn't typical was when Batwoman dropped from a rooftop directly on top of one man, and Batman emerged from shadow itself to deliver a punch to the man who had you at gunpoint with enough force that the man spat out three teeth once he hit the concrete.
⏾ Once the group was dealt with, you thanked them both politely as they glowered at one another and walked away before they could speak.
⏾ You don't know what exactly was said after you left, but you had a gut feeling that you had two pairs of eyes on you all the way home.
⏾ After that, every time you got into trouble either Batman or Batwoman appeared within the minute to act as your savior. Sometimes, they appeared together, and each time the look they sent the other were particularly sour.
⏾ Your friends start calling you the bat-magnet. You're the only one who didn't think the joke was funny.
⏾ For the third time this week Batwoman emerges from the shadows to frighten away some suspicious folk, her clawed glove landing on your shoulder in a claiming grip. She says your name with a droplet of fondness in what was an otherwise stern voice. You never told her your name.
⏾ "Getting into trouble again?"
⏾ It was your first time speaking to one of them. You couldn't help but feel like she was smug because of it. Like she felt she had a hold over her male counterpart.
⏾ Uninvited, Batwoman walked through the streets at your side.
⏾ "Making sure you don't get into any trouble," she says when you ask.
⏾ By the time you reach your front door and unlock it, you turn back around to see her gone as if she was never there.
⏾ Around a week later, you start seeing things moved in your apartment. A TV remote shifted to the left instead of the right. A picture of you and your friends missing dust along the side. You wouldn't have even noticed it if it wasn't for the near eternal feeling of paranoia that had blossomed in your hindbrain.
⏾ They were inside. You knew only because they wanted you to know. Wanted you to know that they were watching you, guarding you. Both Batman and Batwoman were shadow incarnate, they could appear and disappear without a trace. They left these little hints on purpose.
⏾ It started with moved objects, then as days past they seemed to grow bolder. hungrier. Perhaps you were a heavy sleeper, or perhaps the water you drank before bed tasted a little too funny in a way that wasn't just heavily filtered Gotham tap-water.
⏾ In rare moments while you slept, you swore you felt clawed gloves trace along your cheek. If this was either Batman or Batwoman, you couldn't tell.
⏾ In even rarer moments you'd wake up to harsh whispers, hushed arguments. It was so quiet you'd never make out what they were saying before sleep took you again.
⏾ Only once did you wake up and look into the bathroom mirror to see red lipstick printed on your forehead; a claiming brand.
⏾ And only once, the night after, did you smell expensive cologne on your pajamas when you woke up.
⏾ They were challenging one another, putting a claim on you like you were a prize, something to be won, to be owned. Batman would leave a black bat-arang on your nightstand, and Batwoman would take it one step further and leave a red bat-arang on your pillow. When one did a simple act, the other pushed it further.
⏾ Clothes started showing up in your closet; a black cocktail dress, not your size nor your style. A black silk tie, made of fabric so expensive it'd likely be able to buy you a new apartment should you sell it. You didn't, you knew he wouldn't like it if you did.
⏾ Sometimes, when you made a passing comment to yourself in the safety of your home, either a complaint about a squeaky door, or a curse at your competitive stalkers, you'd get a ping on your phone from an unnamed number, replying to what you said. When you asked them to stop, to leave you alone, to lose your number, or even who the hell they were, they never replied. At times, who you thought was Batwoman would send a singular red heart.
⏾Your pantry and your fridge start being filled with expensive, organic foods you know you didn't buy. Your security system, formerly a non-Gotham brand, is replaced by top-of-the-line Wayne-Tech systems.
⏾ On Arkham breakouts, your front door and your windows locks and do not open until it's over.
⏾ Word starts going around, you get more attention from criminals who start calling you the same thing your friends called you, except far more seriously.
⏾ "Bat magnet."
⏾ Wherever you were, Batman and Batwoman were never too far behind. They circled you like vultures over carrion, eager for a bite. You were the perfect bait. You knew this, the bats knew this, and most importantly, the criminals of Gotham knew it, too.
⏾ It was only a matter of time before either of them made a move.
Pairings: Bruce Wayne x f!reader, Dick Grayson x f!reader, Jason Todd x f!reader, Tim Drake x f!reader
Synopsis: How they like to eat you out.
Word Count: 1,046.
Warnings: NSFW! Oral sex f!receiving.
Bruce:
Bruce is surprisingly tender. He’s spent so much of his time playing up his persona and acting wild, that when he’s with you, he wants to take things slow, to pull you apart and put you back together. He doesn’t really care about prepping you to take him, because that’s not just what this is for.
That being said, he wants you to sit on his face. And I mean sit.
His movements are sweeping and carry a depth that makes you writhe. He’s at his best when you drag your hips across his face, catching your clit on his nose while his tongue bullies its way as deep as possible into your cunt. Bruce doesn’t care if your thighs are trembling and barely able to hold yourself–in fact, he’s more likely to push your knees further apart and force you to sink lower. He doesn’t often add fingers into the equation, content to take his time with you, to squeeze your hips and urge you to ride his face, to take whatever you need.
It’s hard for him to turn his brain off, but moments like this are when he can actually sit back and relax. He’s methodical, knowing exactly what movements make you twitch, what brings you closer to the edge, what makes you grasp the headboard in a white-knuckled grip, and he uses all of that to his advantage. He knows precisely what to do to drag the exact sound he wants to hear out of you. Sure, he could get you to your peak quickly, but where’s the fun in that?
Dick:
Dick unapologetically loves to eat it from the back. Don’t get me wrong, he’s just as happy to watch your face twist with pleasure when you’re on your back, but there’s just something about having you from behind.
Dick likes how easy it is to manhandle you, to drag your hips up until you can barely keep yourself balanced on your knees with your chest pressed to the bed. God, or better yet when you’re standing at the foot of the bed with him kneeling behind you. He’d happily bruise his knees every day if it means he gets to see you arch on your toes and sway, chasing his tongue. If you try to lift yourself up on your elbows, you know he’s just going to push you back down with a firm hand just below your shoulder blades. His hands are most often on your hips, dragging you impossibly closer, or massaging the globes of your ass because Dick is an ass man at heart.
He’s messy about it too. He’s sporadic, trying to be everywhere at once because he wants to experience all of you at once. He never lingers anywhere for very long, swiping a tongue through your folds, then a harsh suck to your clit, then burying his tongue as deep as he can get it. You’d think it would be hard to reach your peak with how often he shifts tactics, but really his voracious need to taste every bit of you pulls the knot in your belly tight far faster than you would ever expect.
Jason:
Jason likes to have some sense of control–not authority per se, because this should be entirely mutual. Rather, he wants to know that either of you can change the pace at any point. He might be quick to anger after a lifetime of hardships, but he’s also just as quick to soften. Jason is ultimately indecisive.
He likes to have you on your back where he can see your face, gauge your reactions, and most importantly reach all of you with ease. One moment he’s taking his frustration out on you, leaving bruising bites on your thighs and sucking harshly on your clit, and then next he’s slowing his pace at the sight of your watery eyes and dragging his tongue gently through your folds.
He’s a whirlwind, but not one that you would ever describe as inconsistent. When Jason eases back, it’s not like his touches become any lighter. No, they just become slower, more tender. A sharp nip at your skin turns into a longer, shallower press of teeth punctuated with a kiss to your bruised flesh. He’s harsh, all rough edges, but he knows how and when to use those edges like a whip rather than a bludgeon.
Jason is a romantic to his very core, as much as he sometimes tries to hide it. He wants to see you, hear you, know that he’s the one making you feel this way. He wants your eyes on him, and if you look away he’ll surely drag you into a messy kiss while his thumb presses roughly to your clit.
Tim:
Similar to Jason, Tim likes having you on your back so he can see your reactions. He’s always evaluating, never satisfied with assuming he knows what makes you tick. He wants to know precisely what angle to crook his fingers at to make your arch your back and whine.
Part of the excitement is you never know what he’s going to do next. Tim doesn’t necessarily mean to keep you on your toes, but he certainly wants to keep you engaged. He'll alternate between sucking on your clit or massaging it with his thumb, curling his fingers into your cunt or lapping at your folds. He likes to hear what he’s doing well, even if it’s through half choked words and moans. If he’s feeling mean, which he insists isn’t that often, he might even slow down until you can force a sentence out.
He does have a bad habit of accidentally edging you, switching his tactic just as you’re nearing your peak so that he can press his lips to yours and swallow your noises. You’ll feel the knot start to tighten then unravel just as quickly. Sometimes you think he maybe does it on purpose–with how thoughtful he is, how well he knows your body, he must, right? Definitely, you think he does it on purpose just so that you’ll push his head back down and squeeze your thighs around his head until his wet fingers are digging into your soft flesh and he’s sucking so hard your eyes roll back. It’s totally on purpose.
one step ahead. yandere bruce wayne x procog!reader headcannons.
𝑠𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: every move Bruce makes, you're aware of it before he even goes through with it. How? You're driving him crazier than you already do. The cameras in your room? turned just out of frame. the tracker he put in the sole of your shoes? you buy a new favorite pair the next day. Batman is fighting to be one step ahead of a civilian, and he's never been more in love.
𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔𝑠: yandere/dark bruce wayne. obsessive behavior. stalking. cameras. trackers. paranoid bruce behavior. possessive behavior. slightly crazy bruce wayne.
𝑡𝑎𝑔𝑠: reader with precognition. dark fic. headcannons. reader is a willing darling.
𝑎/𝑛: yandere bruce with a reader that was always one step ahead has been rotating in my mind for so so long. it'd drive him crazy. im also on a batman fix so expect more. i also love the concept of precognition so expect more of that too. ive got like 16 drafts rn and they're all bullshit.
↪ New in his fascination, Batman planted a tracker onto your shirt to find out where you lived. You walked in circles for three hours before finally going home, leaving Bruce sitting at the bat-computer staring at the red line of your path with utter confusion.
↪ Did you know? If you knew, why didn't you remove the tracker? Why did you let him figure out where you lived if you knew? You couldn't know, could you?
↪ Curiosity piqued, two days later Bruce finds the time to slip inside your apartment, his figure pure shadow as he looks around, clawed gloves prodding at items and keepsakes. He takes care to always leave them back exactly where they were, and to not disturb the dustier items. He could be in and out of a government building without so much as a trace, there was no way in the world that you would notice he was here.
↪ The next time he breaks in, this time to plant cameras, you're sleeping on the couch, the TV playing something on low volume.
↪ He prowls around the side of the couch to stand by the arm, casting a shadow over your sleeping form as he listened to your steady breathing. The sound both settled him and made something ugly in his chest twist. He wanted to touch, wanted to hold, wanted to sink his claws and teeth in until you were stuck so thoroughly against him that you'd never be apart.
↪ In. Out. In. Out. Then, it shifted, just barely. You were waking up.
↪ Bruce was out the window by the time you opened your eyes. He would plant the cameras later. Quietly, he cursed the loss of the opportunity.
↪ He didn't let that stop him. While you busied yourself with outside hobbies, groceries, and the like, Batman was slipping back into your home and setting up sleek black cameras in spots he assumed you didn't frequent.
↪ For three days you carried on with your usual tasks, and Bruce silently preened at the assumed victory. On the third day, you glanced at a camera and smiled. The interaction lasted half a second, but it caused Bruce's heart to beat out of his chest.
↪ So you knew. But again, why not do anything about it? He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he couldn't help himself. It was either clutch you against his chest and never let go or be chained up in Arkham right beside the Joker. He needed this, he couldn't lose this. Something about you settled a part of him that was all sharp edges and jagged lines. Something about you made him feel alive and made him think in ways he never did before.
↪ Two months passed of the most intriguing interactions Batman ever had before. Every move he made, you either knew about it and allowed it to happen or knew about it and made an attempt to prevent it, an attempt that usually succeeded.
↪ It was when Bruce stood at a dead end in an alley, looking at a tossed tracker that used to be in your shoe he decided to forgo the subterfuge. If he was right in assuming that you somehow, someway, knew what he was going to do before he did it, why try hiding it?
↪ He made a beeline for your apartment. The locked window he usually went through was cracked, letting in cool night air. Letting in the Bat.
↪ You were sleeping sweetly in bed, and right by the edge was a packed suitcase.
↪ Batman smiled and prepared the syringe. Both of you knew it was time for you to come home.
Hi I read your Plus One fic and I was wondering if you could do a Bruce version... if not that is totally fine 🫣
Uncharted
navigation , dc navigation
requests are open
dividers by @cafekitsune
Bruce Wayne does not have a plan.
This is, in the context of Bruce Wayne's life, genuinely unprecedented.
He has contingencies for alien invasions. He has protocols for scenarios that have a statistical likelihood of approximately zero, and he has prepared for them anyway because zero is not the same as impossible, and Bruce learned that lesson early and has never unlearned it. He has files. He has backup files. He has backups for the backups, nested in systems that would take a significant portion of the world's intelligence community a significant portion of their careers to find.
He does not have a plan for this.
He's standing in the bathroom doorway — your bathroom, you'd done the test in your bathroom because the manor felt too large for this, too many rooms for something this small and this significant — looking at you sitting on the edge of the tub holding a small piece of plastic that has just rearranged everything.
You look up at him.
"So," you say.
"So," he says.
The test sits between you like a fact, which is what it is. Bruce deals in facts. He respects facts. He has, on multiple occasions, built entire strategies around a single fact that other people missed.
This fact, he does not know what to do with.
"Are you okay?" you ask, which is — and you know this, you know him — the wrong question to ask Bruce Wayne, because Bruce Wayne's answer to " Are you okay is reflexive and automatic and tells you nothing.
"I'm — " he starts.
"Don't say fine."
He closes his mouth.
He tries again.
"I don't know," he says, which from Bruce is an extraordinary sentence. An almost unprecedented one. "I don't — I need a moment."
"Take it," you say.
He takes it.
He's standing in a bathroom doorway and he's Batman and he's the most prepared person he knows how to be and he has never been less prepared for anything in his life, and the thing on his face — the thing you can see because you know where to look, because you've spent enough time learning the geography of Bruce Wayne to find the places he doesn't guard — is not distress exactly.
It's something that doesn't have a clean name.
Something large and overwhelming and not entirely bad.
"I've done this before," he says, finally, carefully.
"I know."
"The boys." He says it like he's checking a fact. "I've — I know how this works. I've raised children."
"You have."
"It's different," he says, and something in his voice shifts. "This is — this wasn't — with the boys, there was always a crisis first. There was always something that had already happened, and I was responding to it. This is — "
"Preemptive," you offer.
"Yes." He looks at the test. "There's no protocol for preemptive."
You look at him for a long moment.
"Bruce," you say.
"Yes."
"Come sit down."
He comes and sits on the edge of the tub next to you, which in any other circumstance would be almost funny — Bruce Wayne, in his own manor's guest bathroom, sitting on a bathtub edge at eight in the morning, looking like someone has removed a load-bearing wall from a building he was standing in.
You take his hand.
He holds on.
"I need to think," he says, not to you exactly. To the middle distance. "I need to — there are things to consider. Logistics. Security concerns — "
"Bruce."
"The manor's security is sufficient, but there are gaps in the residential wing that I've been meaning to address, and this would accelerate that timeline, and the question of whether the mission — whether the boys are — "
"Bruce."
He stops.
"How do you feel?" You say. Not are you okay? Not is this okay. "Right now, in this moment, before the logistics. How do you feel?"
He's quiet for a long time.
A long time, for Bruce Wayne.
"Terrified," he says, eventually.
"Yeah?"
"Profoundly." A pause. "And something else."
"What else?"
He looks at the test.
He looks at you.
"I don't have a word for it," he says, which Bruce Wayne rarely says, because Bruce Wayne has words for everything, has catalogued and categorized and filed the entire observable world. "It's — it's very large. And it's in the same place as the terrified."
You squeeze his hand.
"That sounds about right," you say.
Alfred knows before Bruce tells him.
Alfred, in the way of Alfred, simply knows. You find this out at breakfast two days later when he puts down a cup of tea in front of you and says, quietly, "Congratulations, if I may," and then continues on with breakfast service as though he has said nothing, leaving you sitting there with your tea and the specific warm weight of being known by Alfred Pennyworth.
Bruce, across the table, looks at Alfred's retreating back.
"How," he says.
"Master Bruce," Alfred says, from the kitchen, "I have been in this house for thirty years."
Bruce looks at you.
You look at Bruce.
"He always knows," you say.
"I'm aware. I've never determined the mechanism."
"Maybe there isn't a mechanism. Maybe he just — knows."
Bruce looks profoundly unsettled by this, which is fair because Bruce likes mechanisms.
Alfred reappears with toast and a look of deep, genuine pleasure that he is not bothering to moderate.
"The east residential wing," he says, setting down the toast with perfect composure, "could be refitted within three months if we begin planning now. I've taken the liberty of drafting some preliminary thoughts on the matter."
He produces, from somewhere, a folded piece of paper.
Bruce takes it.
He unfolds it.
It is three pages, dense with Alfred's neat handwriting, covering residential refitting, medical arrangements, staffing considerations, and, at the bottom of page three, a small section titled initial requirements that is the most efficiently organized baby checklist you have ever seen.
"Alfred," Bruce says.
"Yes, sir."
"When did you write this?"
"Yesterday evening." A pause. "I've been waiting for some time for the occasion, if I'm honest. I updated the draft accordingly."
Bruce looks at the three pages.
Something crosses his face that you don't see often.
"Thank you," he says.
"Of course, Master Bruce," Alfred says, and there are thirty years in it, there is every version of Bruce he has known, there is a warmth so deep and established it's become structural. "Of course."
The difference between Bruce Wayne preparing for something and Tim Drake preparing for something is this:
Tim makes documents. Color-coded, cross-referenced, living documents that he updates in real time as new information becomes available.
Bruce makes decisions.
They happen quietly, without announcement. You notice them by their effects — the security consultation that appears on his calendar, the three medical specialists he has apparently spoken to without mentioning it, the morning you come downstairs to find him and Alfred in a room that used to contain archived case equipment, both of them looking at the space with the focused quality of people measuring something.
"Are you converting a room?" you say.
"Assessing the space," Bruce says.
"That's the same thing."
"It's preliminary." He looks at you. "Is the east wing acceptable to you? It's quieter than the main residential wing. Better light in the mornings."
You look at the room.
At Bruce, who has mentally converted it already, you can tell who is standing in the future version of it in his head.
"Yeah," you say. "East wing is good."
He nods, once, and makes a note on his phone, and that's it, that's the entirety of the exchange, but later Alfred will tell you that Bruce stood in that room for twenty minutes after you left and didn't do anything except stand there.
Alfred tells you a lot of things these days. You think he considers it part of his role.
The thing about Bruce and the mission is that it lives in everything.
You'd known that before this. You know the shape of it — how it takes up space, how it makes calculations out of everything, how even love gets filtered through it, whether he means it to or not.
You watch him figure out what to do with that.
It's not a clean process.
There are nights he goes quiet in a way that has a different quality to it now — not the mission quiet, not the grief quiet, the specific ones you've learned, but something new. Something he's working out.
"The boys were in danger," he says one night. Not out of nowhere — you'd been talking, though the conversation had moved somewhere quieter. "Because of me. Because of what I am. Because being close to me makes you a target, and I've always known that and I've always — "
"Bruce."
"It's a real concern," he says. "It's not — I'm not spiraling. It's a real thing to consider."
"I know it's real," you say. "I'm not dismissing it."
"I don't know how to do this without the risk being — without it being — "
"You can't," you say, simply. "You can't make it zero. You know that."
"Yes."
"You made the choice with the boys. Every time."
"That was different. They came to me with danger already present. This is — I'd be choosing it. Choosing it for someone who can't choose."
You look at him.
"That's the thing you're really sitting with," you say.
"Yes." The word is effortful. Honest in the way Bruce is honest when he trusts you enough, which he does, which took time and was worth it. "Yes."
"Then we sit with it," you say. "You don't have to resolve it tonight. You just have to sit with it."
He looks at you.
"You're very calm about this," he says.
"One of us has to be."
Something shifts in him. "That's what you said when — "
"When you told me about the mission, the first time. Three years ago." You remember it clearly. "You laid out all the reasons it was dangerous to be near you, and I said one of us has to be calm, and it's going to have to be me."
"I remember."
"Same principle," you say. "You carry the weight of the risk. I'll carry the calm. We've managed this division of labor before."
Bruce is quiet.
Then, very quietly: "I'm glad you're calm."
"I know you are."
"I couldn't do it otherwise. Any of it." He looks at his hands. "I need someone who isn't frightened of the thing I am."
"I'm not frightened of you," you say. "I'm aware of you. Different thing."
He looks at you with an expression that you've catalogued, over time, as the Bruce Wayne expression for I don't know what I did to deserve this, but I'm not going to examine it too closely in case the answer is nothing.
"Come to bed," you say.
He comes to bed.
The appointment is at ten on a Thursday, and Bruce has rearranged three things to be there, which Alfred informed you of without being asked, and you chose not to tell Bruce that you knew, because Bruce doesn't like it when his efforts are made visible, preferring them to simply exist, unnamed.
In the waiting room, he sits next to you with his hands on his knees and looks at the room with the careful neutrality of Bruce Wayne in public, the mask he doesn't take off because here, in a waiting room full of strangers, he is always in public.
"Are you alright?" you ask, because here you can ask it.
"Yes," he says, and this time you think it might even be true.
In the room, the doctor is professional and warm and does not visibly react to Bruce Wayne sitting in the chair next to you, which you appreciate.
And then the screen.
And then the sound.
Bruce Wayne goes very still.
He goes the kind of still that means something has happened to him that he doesn't have immediate access to, that has bypassed the usual processing, that has gone somewhere deeper and more immediate than thought.
You look at him.
His jaw is doing something. His eyes are fixed on the screen, and they're doing something too, something you've seen before in private moments and never in public, never anywhere someone else might see.
"That's — " he starts.
"Yeah," you say.
"It's — "
"I know."
He doesn't finish the sentence.
He doesn't need to.
He reaches over, not looking away from the screen, and finds your hand.
Holds on.
The doctor talks. You answer. Bruce doesn't say anything for the rest of the appointment, but he doesn't let go of your hand either, not once, not when he shakes the doctor's hand after, a brief release and immediate return, like he's established a base and needs to come back to it.
In the car, he's quiet.
A different kind of quiet from the bathroom doorway. Less like a wall and more like — water, maybe. Like something that has found its level.
"The east wing room," he says, eventually.
"What about it?"
"Alfred has sourced someone to do the refitting. He wanted my approval on the color." A pause. "He suggested something warm. I told him you should choose."
"Smart man, Alfred."
"He's usually right." Bruce looks out the window. "I'd like it to be warm. Whatever you choose. I'd like the room to be — " he stops.
"Warm," you finish.
"Yes," he says. "That."
You drive through Gotham, and Bruce Wayne holds your hand in the back of the car and doesn't perform any of it, doesn't make it anything other than what it is, which is a man who has operated in the dark for so long that warmth has become something he has to remind himself he's allowed.
Reminding himself, apparently, is something he's willing to do.
For this. For you. For whatever is on that screen, that small impossible thing with a heartbeat too fast to count.
He reads.
You discover this by accident — coming into the study to find him with a book that is not case files, not strategy, not anything you've seen him read before. He closes it when he hears you, and that means you only catch the spine for a second.
You say nothing.
Two days later, you find three more in the drawer of his nightstand. Development guides. One attachment theory that has a bookmark in it halfway through.
You say nothing about those either.
But that night, when you're almost asleep, he says, quietly, into the dark:
"The attachment research is interesting."
"Is it," you say, not moving, keeping your voice even.
"There's a consistent finding about — about what children need to feel secure. What are the actual requirements?” A pause. "It's less complicated than I expected. Then I made it, possibly, with the boys."
"What are the requirements?"
"Consistency," he says. "Presence. A reliable person." Another pause, longer. "The research suggests you don't have to be perfect. You have to be there."
You turn your head to look at him.
He's looking at the ceiling.
"You're good at being there," you say.
"I've been better at it some times than others."
"You're getting better."
"I'm trying to." He's quiet. "I want to get it right this time. As right as I can. Which isn't — I know it won't be perfect. I know — "
"Bruce."
"Yes."
"You don't have to be perfect," you say. "The research says so."
A beat.
Something in his face that might be, very quietly, relief.
"The research says so," he repeats.
"Peer reviewed and everything."
He turns his head to look at you.
"You've also been reading," he says.
"I also have a nightstand."
He looks at you for a long moment.
Then he reaches over, the same way he reached for your hand in the car — certain, deliberate, the gesture of someone who has decided — and finds your hand in the dark.
"Okay," he says.
"Okay," you say.
Outside, Gotham makes its sounds. The cave below the manor is quiet tonight. The mission is there, it's always there, but tonight the study has books with bookmarks and the east wing is being made warm, and Bruce Wayne is in the dark holding your hand and learning, from peer-reviewed sources, that being there is enough.
He's going to be there.
You know it the way you know things about him that he hasn't said — in the marrow of it, in the base fact of who he is underneath everything he's built over himself.
With Every Heartbeat • Bale!Bruce Wayne x fem!Gordon!reader (Chapter XV)
Requested: No
Pairing: Bale!Bruce Wayne x fem!reader
Story's synopsis: When y/n Gordon learned her billionaire boyfriend was also a vigilante at night a year ago, she knew it could be dangerous for her. But she listened to her heart and decided to choose to be happy with the man of her dreams. And after all, Bruce and her had agreed to keep their relationship secret - for her sake. But when the wrong person understands her closeness to Gotham’s protector, the reality of how cruel and mad some people are comes running back, and all is left to do is holding on. For as long as one’s heart beats.
Word count: 2K
Chapter warnings: Abduction; punch in the face
A/N: So sorry for not posting in a while, Uni and my mental health drove me crazy. Hope you guys enjoy the chapter please don't let this flop. Couldn't find a better GIF smh. I also posted an OC version on Ao3 here and on Wattpad here. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE.
Tag list: @helendeath @im-jesus
Tag list for this story: @deadofnight0 @unclearblur @christianbalefanatic @triptuckers
Series Masterlist
PREVIOUS CHAPTER
A few hours ago.
You were awakened by someone touching your shoulder.
“Wake up, lady.”
Still half-asleep, you realised the basement’s light wasn’t turned on and immediately saw two flashlights pointed at her. Raising your head a bit, she looked at the two men in front of you, and was startled by the fact they weren’t wearing clown masks like all the Joker’s men who had been guarding you. In the dark, you only saw that one was tall, had a beard and that the other was blond, and was smoking a cigarette.
“Com’ on,” the first man continued. “We don’t have much time.”
He bent and grabbed your arm to make you stand.
“What- What’s going on?”
You were barely on your feet when the man led you impatiently towards the door. The other didn’t speak, but gave you an annoyed look, as if he thought he had something much better to do.
“Don’t ask questions.”
Now fully awake, you tried to struggle to free your arm from his grip but to no result. You had to follow the man’s quick pace as they walked across the empty basement, and when they climbed the stairs, he walked in front of you, so quickly that you almost tripped two times.
“We need to move,” the blond man behind you said, “right now.”
“What do you think we’re doing, bumbass?”
They were in what seemed to be an abandoned living room, but it was hard to tell when the only lights came from the street lights outside. Considering how stressed the two men seemed and sounded and how quick they were moving, you realized it could only mean one thing: either Bruce or the police were close. Your heart, which was already beating fast thanks to having been awakened so abruptly, started beating even faster, and once they got out of the house, you frantically looked all around, with the hope to see the Batmobile but the street was mostly empty except for cars and houses asleep at this hour. It took all of your focus, but you still noticed the two men did the same thing; which confirmed your theory.
He’s close.
He’s close.
He’ll come and get me.
The three of you walked down the street, even more quickly now, until you reached a car. The man holding you opened the rear passenger door, finally letting go of your arm.
“Get in. Quick.”
You didn’t answer, still looking around with hope and listening to any sound that could be a familiar police siren sound or the Batmobile's roar. The blond man grabbed your shoulders and pushed you down on the back seat with an annoyed sigh, so hard that you found yourself on the back seat not even a second after. You immediately tried to leave, but the blond man closed the door and immediately went to sit in the passenger seat, while the tall man sat behind the wheel. The car started moving and suddenly, the blond man turned around towards you and threw a larger blanket at you, which fell on your knees.
“Lay down, and put this on you.”
You looked at the blanket, and then at the man. After a second, you shook your head.
“No. I won’t.”
The blond man cursed with an exasperated sigh and punched you in the face. Your upper body lost balance and fell on the back seats but you managed to use your elbow to steady yourself. You felt blood coming down your nose.
“Shut your month, lay down and put the fuckin’ blanket on you.”
“What the hell- What is wrong with you?” the other man said angrily. “We aren’t supposed to hurt her.”
“It’s a punch, relax. Never could stand a bitch with a big mouth.”
The car was going fast, and you felt dizzy. If you hadn’t felt so weak after not eating for a few days, you probably would have been embarrassed to not be able to fight back. You thought of just strangling the blonde man. Or at least trying - a Gordon always fought back. The man behind the wheel would have to stop the car eventually, and then you could get out the car and run - and they couldn’t kill you, because as the tall man had just said, they weren’t supposed to hurt you. Probably an order from the Joker. Plus, the thought was very tempting after the punch. You grabbed the large blanket so it could be used to do what you had in mind, your grasp firm against the fabric.
Then it hit you. The Joker. The video he had made inside the basement.
If you leave, people die.
You didn’t believe the Joker was a man of a word as he himself said, and certainly didn’t trust him. But you couldn't take the risk.
You run - and then what? The two men simply tell the Joker, who happily goes on a killing spree. All because of you. A victory brought on a silver platter.
You lowered the blanket.
*-*
“Hi.”
Sitting on the hard ground, you slowly opened your eyes, and then jumped and gasped at the sight of the Joker’s face a few inches away from yours. You immediately used your arms to retreat until your back met with a wall. It only took a few seconds, as the room the two men had taken you to was another basement - this time filled with old objects instead of being empty - but much smaller. Your heart was beating so fast so you could hear it in your temples. Feeling a bit ridiculous, you rose on your feet as the Joker raised his eyebrows - not that you could see them under the black makeup all around his eyes.
“Aw, did I startle you?” he asked in a sugary voice, pretending to feel bad.
You didn’t answer. What could you say? Yes, you did. You would not - could not - give him the satisfaction. He took two steps towards you, and you felt your body tense and your eyes focusing not only on each of his moves, but also the ones he could make. You barely noticed his henchman behind him.
“I was told you barely ate the food you were given,” he continued, his tongue flicking out of his month. “That’s rude.”
“Not as rude as kidnapping someone and forcing them to stay,” you retorted.
The Joker looked taken aback, and his white face took a surprised, almost sad expression.
“Forcing? I’m not forcing anybody. Wasn’t the door open in the other basement? Knowing you, you might have not checked, but this door is also open. I told you, you can leave whenever your little heart feels like it.”
“And then you’ll kill people,” you snapped. “And nothing is telling me you did keep your word and hadn’t killed anybody since I’ve been here.”
Maybe I’ve been staying for nothing.
The Joker seemed to think, and nodded once. He gestured towards the man standing behind him, and the latter took out a newspaper out of his pocket and threw it at your feet. You hesitated before taking it and read the front page.
THE JOKER KEEPS HIS WORD.
There was an image of him - scary, but much less than in person - and only one sentence under it.
No deaths or attacks since y/n Gordon has been in captivity.
You blinked once. He kept his word. He did what he said he’d do.
I can’t leave. They can’t find me.
“See? I kept my word. And you stayed there like a good little girl. We both did what was expected of us. One could argue that it gives us something in common.”
Your head immediately rose from the newspaper to look at him.
“We have nothing in common, you-”
“Ts, ts, ts. It’s beneath a Gordon to use those unpretty words, don’t you think? Just like it’s beneath a Gordon to not look for his daughter. Your old man and your dear big brother are looking for you, did you know that? Same for Batman. As for your little rich boyfriend, well, I’m starting to think he doesn’t care.”
When you stayed silent, he continued.
“You know..." he said softly while walking slowly towards you, “people think chaos is easy. It's not. Takes work.” He nodded, then stopped, and his tongue flicked out again. “Do you have any idea how hard it's been, hum?”
You didn't answer.
“I've got people calling me all day. Asking if I’m gonna blow up a school or a hospital, shoot a random father of three, or set something on fire.”
He stopped again. "'No. I’ll confess, it gets very frustrating for someone like me."
He shook his head once to replace the green strand of hair that bothered him.
"But that's the funny thing, little dove."
He pointed at you, now only barely a foot from her.
"You're worth more to me alive than any of them are dead."
*-*
“I promise you, I don’t know anything! I don’t work for him! Please!”
If Bruce had the energy or the time, he would have rolled his eyes. James was holding a drug dealer by the collar on the edge of a roof. The man’s back was arched back, and if James let him go a bit abruptly, chances would be the man could just fall off the roof.
Bruce saw one of James’ hands leave the man’s collar to reach in his pocket, probably for a gun. Bruce took a few silent steps, James not hearing him once. He was proven right when a gun appeared in James’ hand. The latter pointed it towards the man’s throat and was about to bring it closer when Bruce grabbed his wrist.
“Do not.”
James’ head snapped towards him in surprise, and he then looked around for a short second. The criminal’s eyes became wide and he muttered a small “Dear God”.
“I guess I should get used to you arriving out of nowhere by now,” he said coldly, before he jerked his wrist out of Bruce’s grasp.
“This maj doesn’t know anything,” Bruce said calmly. “Let him go.”
“You don’t know that,” the younger policeman retorted.
Familiar quick steps - Jim’s - were heard behind them. The latter arrived, and grabbed James’ hand, which was still gripping the drug dealer’s collar.
“What’s wrong with you?! Let him go.”
James appeared deeply annoyed, angry even, but did what his father said. Once freed, the drug dealer ran away, muttering a mix of curse words and religious ones. The older Gordon man turned to Bruce, looking more tired than ever.
“Our team didn’t find anything in the basement, except y/n’s bit of hair and her DNA on the blanket. It’s likely you got there shortly after she changed your location.”
“What does it change?” James retorted. “We still have no clue where she is.”
Bruce didn’t answer. James was technically right. And the thought he may have missed you by a few hours, minutes maybe, had not left Bruce’s mind ever since he had left the basement.
“Since the Joker is keeping his word, we cannot charge ahead headfirst. Finding y/n is not an option, because the Joker will also do what he said.”
There was a short moment of silence, then James ran a hand over his face.
“Then we do it backwards.”
His father frowned. “Backwards?”
“The Joker’s promise is what is keeping us from finding y/n,” James explained. “Both because he changes her location, and also because he said her leaving or being rescued results in killing people. To me, it means we focused on the wrong thing. The Joker is the problem-”
“So the solution is to find him first,” his father continued. “Him and his men. He won’t talk, but maybe his men will.”
“He wants her alive”, James continued. “Needs her, even. That gives us the advantage of her always being alive.”
His father looked at him. “But in what condition?”
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