— “I’m giving into you again…” Bruce Wayne x f!reader
— ♪ Out on a limb , Teena Maria
Summary: You’re a private investigator, uou haven’t spoken to Bruce Wayne in five years. But a difficult case on his end changed things.
cw : p in v, unprotected (wrap it before you tap it), making out, lmk if I forgot any ..
a/n: yeah I just finished Jessica Jones. so what.
Your office looked like the sort of place respectable people avoided.
Dimly lit, crowded, heavy with the scent of old paper, coffee gone cold, and rain carried in from Gotham’s perpetually leaking streets. Filing cabinets lined the walls like exhausted sentries, their drawers overstuffed with reports, photographs, loose notes, and secrets people paid generously to keep buried. Bookshelves bowed slightly beneath the weight of law books, forensic journals, old case records, and dog-eared detective novels you swore you did not enjoy as much as you actually did.
To anyone else, it would have appeared catastrophic.
To you, it was meticulous.
Every stack had purpose. Every loose page belonged somewhere in the labyrinth of your mind. Even the clutter resting atop the client chair—a camera, two unopened letters, a half-disassembled handgun, and yesterday’s newspaper, had been left there intentionally.
Or mostly intentionally.
A vinyl record spun lazily nearby, low jazz crackling softly through the office and melting into the steady percussion of rain against the windows. The warm amber glow of your desk lamp carved sharp shadows across the room while cigarette smoke curled slowly toward the ceiling in thin, ghostlike ribbons.
You sat behind your desk with your sleeves rolled carelessly to your elbows, one leg crossed over the other as you flipped through a case file abandoned at your office door earlier that evening. Missing persons. Young woman. Twenty-three. Last seen near the Narrows. Weeks without a trace of her, warning signs filled your head.
Your pen tapped idly against the paper as you skimmed witness statements, unimpressed.
Then—
Three knocks against the office door.
Slow, calculated, measured.
You hated how familiar it was. The fact it made your hand stopped moving instantly. For a moment, the only sound in the room was the record player humming low beneath the rain.
Five years. That’s what you thought of.
Five entire years, and somehow you still recognized the rhythm of his knock.
You leaned back in your chair slowly, gaze lifting toward the frosted glass door at the front of the office.
“Well,” you said flatly, voice carrying easily through the room, “that’s either Gothams most annoying pest or I’m being haunted.”
Silence lingered briefly from the other side.
Then came the low, unmistakable voice you had spent half a decade trying not to remember too fondly.
“…Can I come in?”
Bruce Wayne.
Or rather—
Batman. It was modulated.
Your jaw tightened before you could stop it.
God, you hated that voice.
You hated the calm restraint in it. The impossible steadiness. The way it always sounded like he was carrying the weight of the city in his throat and refusing to let anyone help him with it.
More importantly, you hated the fact that some deeply pathetic part of you still recognized it instantly.
You exhaled sharply through your nose, tossing the file onto your desk with deliberate carelessness.
“The door’s unlocked,” you replied, mentally preparing yourself for his bullshit.
A beat passed before the handle finally turned.
And there he was. Bruce filled the doorway like something pulled from Gotham itself—his tactical Batman attire dampened by rain, broad shoulders still carrying that same impossible gravity he always had. Age suited him unfairly well. It sharpened him rather than softened him.
More dangerous.
Your eyes dragged over him once before you looked away first.
A mistake. A stupid, small mistake.
Bruce stepped inside slowly, gaze sweeping across the office with quiet familiarity. Not judgmental. Never that. But observant in the way only he could be.
“You’re still listening to records,” he noted quietly.
“You’re still showing up uninvited.” You scoffed in return, cocking an eyebrow up at him.
His eyes returned to yours then. There it was.
The tension that never left.
Old and unresolved and heavy enough to choke on.
Five years ago, the two of you had detonated spectacularly. Not one singular fight, but dozens of smaller fractures finally splitting something neither of you had known how to salvage. Bruce kept secrets like breathing. You asked questions like warfare. Eventually, one of you was always going to bleed for it.
You just had not expected it to be both of you. Your pestering and constant need to be right frustrated him. His recklessness and illusiveness to your questions only made you push harder.
“You look tired,” you said coolly.
Bruce’s mouth twitched faintly. “You always say that.”
“You always are.”
Another silence settled between you, thick with everything you both never said, never will say.
Then Bruce reached slowly into his coat and placed a thin case file onto your already cluttered desk.
Not a social visit, then.
Of course not. What did you expect?
You glanced down at the folder but didn’t move to touch it.
“…You came all the way here because you need something,” you observed.
Bruce held your gaze evenly.
“Mhm.” He nodded, completely unashamed.
You laughed softly at that. Dry. Disbelieving. Already irritated.
“God,” you murmured, leaning back into your chair. “You really must be desperate.” You tilted your head, refusing to touch the file.
Bruce removed the cowl with the same deliberate composure he did everything else, peeling it back slowly until the face beneath finally emerged from the shadows.
That face.
You had grown to hate it in a very particular way over the years. Not merely because it belonged to him, but because Gotham adored it so blindly. It stared down from billboards and magazine covers with polished perfection—‘Bruce Wayne, beloved philanthropist, billionaire playboy’. The city spoke his name with admiration so unwavering it bordered on worship.
If only they knew.
If only they knew what existed beneath the expensive suits and practiced charm. The man who lied as naturally as other people breathed. The man who carried entire wars behind his teeth and called it protection. The man whose perfect mouth you had split open with your fist more than once.
And, irritatingly enough, he still looked unfairly beautiful afterward.
Now, however, he looked exhausted.
Not ordinary exhaustion, not the sort cured by sleep or a long weekend away from Gotham. No, this was something older. The kind of weariness that rooted itself into bone marrow and remained there until it became inseparable from the person themselves. Seeping into every crevice of who they are. It lingered in the faint shadows beneath his eyes, in the tension carved permanently between his brows, in the slight heaviness pulling at his posture despite all his efforts to hide it.
Bruce Wayne was tired in the way dying stars probably were.
“I wouldn’t have come to you if it wasn’t important,” Bruce said at last, exhaling quietly.
Without the modulator, his voice filled the office differently. Smooth. Deep. Familiar in ways you refused to examine too closely. Hearing it again after all this time made your hands tighten instinctively against the arms of your chair.
You masked it with irritation. Well, partially masked. Most of it was real.
Raising an unimpressed brow, you leaned back slightly. “Don’t you have an abundance of…” You paused, searching for a word charitable enough not to betray your annoyance. “Acquaintances for this sort of thing?”
You refused to say children.
Or worse—family.
Absolutely not. The fact that this man had a.. semi-functioning support system? Perish the thought.
Bruce noticed the omission anyway. Of course he did.
His gaze lingered on you for half a second too long before shifting away again. “They’re occupied.”
You laughed softly under your breath. “Right. Of course they are.”
God, they were impossible to avoid.
Everywhere you turned in Gotham, one of them appeared eventually. A blur some hideous colour combination dropping onto rooftops uninvited. Someone hacking into your files “for safety reasons.” One of them lurking around your crime scenes.
Bruce’s strange little bat-cult irritated you almost as profoundly as he did. They meddled constantly.
Interfered with investigations. Tampered with evidence. Asked invasive questions while pretending they were subtle about it.
To their credit, they had never seriously harmed you.
To your credit, you had absolutely no issue harming them.
Not fatally, obviously.
But you distinctly remembered breaking one’s nose after he attempted to handcuff you during an investigation three years ago.
In your defense, the boy had started it.
“…The red one still hates me, by the way,” you remarked casually.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose immediately.
“You stabbed him.”
“He was being condescending.” You scoffed. Waving your hand in dismissal.
“You stabbed him with your letter opener.”
“Tell him to respect his elders.”
Bruce closed his eyes briefly, as though physically restraining himself from responding.
You smiled faintly into your cigarette smoke. God, you had missed irritating him.
Which was pathetic. The realization soured almost immediately in your chest.
Because despite everything, despite the anger still curling between your ribs every time you looked at him, despite the years apart, despite every ugly thing left unresolved.. Bruce still carried that same terrible gravity about him. The sort that pulled people inward whether they wanted it to or not.
You hated that it still worked on you.
Bruce stepped further into the office at last, rainwater still clinging darkly to the shoulders of his coat. His gaze drifted briefly across the room before settling back onto you with unnerving steadiness.
“You haven’t changed much,” he observed quietly.
“Neither have you,” you replied. “Still breaking into places dramatically. Still pretending you know best.”
Something flickered across his face then. Brief enough most people would have missed it.
Regret, perhaps. Or exhaustion. With Bruce, the two often looked identical.
“You stopped answering my calls,” he said eventually. “Didn’t want to resolve things?”
The room went still.
Then there it was. Not the case. Not Batman.
The pain beneath it all.
Your expression cooled immediately. “You survived, didn’t you?” You shrugged.
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
“No,” you said softly, voice sharpening like a blade dragged slowly across silk, “it wasn’t.”
Silence swallowed the office whole after that.
The vinyl crackled softly somewhere behind you while rain battered against the windows hard enough to sound almost violent.
Bruce looked at you the way people looked at old scars, carefully. Like he remembered exactly how they were made.
You drew in a long, measured breath through your nose, the sort that carried the weight of deep reluctance. It left you slowly a second later as you straightened in your chair, one hand dragging back through your hair before falling heavily against the desk again.
“…What’s the case?” you asked at last.
Bruce said nothing immediately. Dramatic bastard.
You reached forward before he could begin one of his agonizing explanations, pulling the thin file toward yourself and flipping it open with visible impatience.
Your irritation faded almost instantly into concentration.
The victim was a twenty-six-year-old investigative journalist named Yvaine Mercier. Missing for eight days. Last seen leaving her apartment in the Financial District shortly after midnight. No signs of forced entry. No ransom. No body.
Ordinarily, Gotham swallowed people whole every day.
But this woman had been working on something before she disappeared.
You scanned further down the report.
Wayne Biotech.
Your eyes narrowed slightly.
“Cute,” you murmured dryly. “Nothing says healthy work environment quite like a missing reporter connected to one of your companies.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened faintly. “It isn’t one of my companies anymore.”
“Mm. Right. One of your companies with a different logo now. Massive distinction.”
“She was investigating illegal human testing.”
That made you pause.
You flipped through several attached photographs—financial transfers, employee disappearances, medical records partially blacked out. Then finally—
A symbol.
Small, but repeated throughout the file.
Your expression shifted immediately.
Bruce noticed.
“You recognize it,” he said quietly.
You leaned back slowly in your chair, cigarette lowering from your mouth.
“…I wish I didn’t.”
The symbol belonged to a Gotham trafficking ring dismantled nearly seven years ago. Experimental drugs. Human testing. Disappearances buried beneath corporate funding and political silence.
You had worked that case.
So had Bruce.
It was also the case that ruined whatever existed between you.
How fitting.
“Jesus Christ,” you muttered softly. Running a hand over your face.
The office fell quiet after that.
Rain battered steadily against the windows while the record player spun low jazz into the room, the warm crackle of vinyl softening the silence between you into something almost dangerous.
You kept reading.
Bruce kept watching you. That irritated you most of all.
“You could stop staring holes through my skull,” you said eventually without looking up.
“You still read too fast when you’re annoyed.”
“And you still sound insufferably observant.”
A faint flicker of amusement crossed his face.
Gone almost instantly.
—
Hours passed without either of you noticing.
The city outside darkened fully into night while files accumulated across your desk in uneven piles. Coffee turned cold. Cigarettes burned down into crowded ashtrays. At some point you removed your coat and draped it silently across the back of the client chair buried beneath your clutter.
The office grew warmer the later it became.
Smaller, somehow.
You sat beside each other eventually—not intentionally, merely out of necessity while comparing reports and photographs beneath the weak amber desk lamp. Bruce’s shoulder brushed yours once accidentally.
Neither of you moved away afterward.
“You missed this,” He said quietly at some point.
You glanced over. “Missed what?”
“This.” A vague gesture toward the desk. The files. The tension threaded through the room like wire. “Working with me.”
Silence lingered.
Then:
“You make things move faster.” You hummed.
The honesty startled you more than it should have.
You looked down too quickly afterward, pretending sudden interest in a witness statement. That was a mistake, because Bruce leaned closer at that exact moment.
Close enough now that you could feel warmth radiating from him. Close enough to catch the faint scent of rainwater, leather, and smoke still clinging to him after patrol.
Your pulse betrayed you immediately.
Bruce noticed.
Of course he noticed. When does he not?
“You’re nervous,” he murmured.
You scoffed softly. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Wasn’t planning to.” He had to hold back a smug smile. You could hear it in his voice, it lowered slightly.
God.
That voice.
You finally turned your head fully toward him then—and immediately regretted it. Too close. Far too close.
The years between you suddenly felt dangerously thin.
Bruce’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning upward, restrained enough that most people would have missed it entirely.
You didn’t.
The room felt unbearably quiet.
“You’re still a terrible idea,” you said softly.
Something in Bruce’s expression shifted at that. Tired. Wanting. Almost pained.
“You think I don’t know that?”
The tension snapped taut between you both after that.
Not anger anymore.
Something infinitely worse.
Your hand moved before your better judgment could stop it, fingers brushing briefly against his wrist where it rested beside the file. The contact was light—barely there—but Bruce went perfectly still beneath it.
Like a man standing too close to fire.
Neither of you spoke. Neither of you moved away.
And for one terrible moment, with Gotham roaring outside and the office dim around you, it felt painfully possible to ruin yourselves with each other all over again.
Bruce moved first.
Not abruptly, not recklessly, Bruce Wayne had never done anything without intention, but with the sort of careful inevitability that made it impossible to look away. His hand lifted slowly, fingers brushing against your jaw with startling gentleness, as though he expected you to pull away at any second.
he definitely expected you to hit him.
It would not have been unprecedented.
“You should stop looking at me like that,” you murmured, though your voice lacked any real conviction.
Bruce’s thumb paused lightly beneath your chin. “And how am I looking at you?”
You laughed softly under your breath, strained around the edges. “Like you miss me.”
Something flickered across his face then—brief and unguarded enough to hurt.
“I do,” he admitted quietly.
The honesty settled heavily between you.
You had spent five years trying to bury whatever still existed between you beneath anger, pride, resentment, anything sharp enough to make it easier to carry. Yet here Bruce was, sitting close enough for you to feel the warmth of him, looking at you like he remembered every version of you all at once.
And worse—
You remembered him too.
Your gaze dropped briefly to his mouth before you could stop yourself.
Bruce noticed. Of course he noticed.
The tension in the room shifted instantly, tightening low and dangerous like a wire pulled too taut. Outside, thunder rolled somewhere over Gotham, rain continuing to lash against the windows hard enough to blur the city lights beyond them.
Neither of you spoke.
There was nothing left to say.
When Bruce kissed you, it was restrained for all of three seconds.
Soft at first. Careful. Almost hesitant in a way that felt deeply unfair coming from him. His hand slid fully against your jaw as though grounding himself there, the familiar weight of it sending something aching through your chest.
Then you kissed him back.
And suddenly five years of unresolved anger collapsed inward all at once.
The restraint vanished quickly after that.
Your hand caught against the front of his suit, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened into something bruising with old want and worse history. Bruce exhaled sharply against your mouth, the sound low and rough enough to make heat coil embarrassingly fast beneath your ribs.
God.
You hated how familiar this felt.
Bruce leaned into you instinctively, one hand bracing against the edge of the desk while the other remained at your face, fingers slipping briefly into your hair. The files scattered beneath your elbow as you shifted closer without thinking, papers sliding carelessly onto the floor.
Neither of you cared.
The record player crackled softly somewhere behind you, jazz still humming low beneath the storm outside while the office seemed to shrink impossibly smaller around the two of you.
You pulled back first. Just to catch your breath.
Bruce’s forehead rested briefly against yours, both of you quieter now, though the tension between you had only sharpened into something infinitely more dangerous.
“We shouldn’t,” you said softly, slightly breathless despite yourself, “bad idea..”
Bruce’s eyes remained fixed on you. He let out a small huff of something — amusement? Finally letting his guard down? Hard to tell.
The rain hadn’t let up. It hammered against the windowpanes in sheets, mingling with the crackle of the vinyl still spinning—low horns and a lazy bassline. The jazz melted into the dark, threaded through the smoke that still hung in ribbons near the ceiling.
Bruce’s mouth found yours again, harder this time. Less tentative. The kind of kiss that stripped away the five years of silence and left nothing but raw nerve beneath. His hand slid from your jaw down your throat, past your collarbone, fingers dragging against the fabric of your shirt until he reached the first button.
You didn’t wait.
Your hands went to his belt before you could talk yourself out of it, working the buckle with practiced, impatient movements. The leather slid through the loops, the clink of metal loud in the quiet room.
Bruce exhaled a low sound—half groan, half warning—against your mouth. “This isn’t—”
“Shut up, Bruce.” Your voice came out rougher than you intended. “Just shut up.”
He did.
And then his hands were beneath your thighs, lifting you, setting you back on the edge of the desk. Papers scattered beneath your weight—witness statements, case files, the report you’d been pretending to read. The lamp wobbled, casting wild shadows across the room as his body pressed between your knees.
Your fingers found the waistband of his suit pants, shoving them down over his hips. The black tactical fabric pooled around his thighs. Beneath it, he was already hard—the heavy shape of his cock pressing against the thin cotton of his boxer briefs.
You hooked your thumb into the waistband and pulled them down.
He sprang free, thick and flushed, the head slick against the dim amber light. You didn’t look away. Neither did he.
“You’re sure?” he asked, voice sandpaper rough.
You answered by reaching down and wrapping your hand around the base, stroking once, slow. Bruce’s jaw tightened. His breath hitched.
“Does that answer your question?”
He didn’t need another.
His hands found the hem of your slacks, having the fabric up slide down to your feet as you kicked it off. His fingers pressed against the damp heat between your legs through your underwear. A single thumb dragged over your clit through the fabric, and you bit down on the sound that wanted to escape.
“Christ,” he breathed. “You’re already soaked.”
“Five years is a long time,” you said, voice tight. “Don’t make me wait any longer.”
Bruce pulled your underwear aside. The cool air hit your wet cunt for a moment before he pressed the head of his cock against your entrance, teasing, just barely pushing in before stopping.
Your nails dug into his shoulders.
“Bruce.”
He pushed.
The stretch was immediate, deep, almost punishing—filling you in a way that made your thighs tremble and your spine arch. He buried himself to the hilt in one slow, deliberate thrust, and the sound that left your throat was raw, unguarded.
Bruce held still for a second, forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged. “Fuck. I forgot how good you feel.”
“Don’t. Stop.” You wrapped your legs around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. “Move.”
“Bossy.” He muttered.
His hips pulled back and slammed forward, the desk shuddering beneath you. A coffee cup tipped and rolled, spilling cold dregs across a stack of file folders. Neither of you gave a shit. The lamp flickered once before steadying, casting the rhythm of his body against yours in sharp, unsteady light.
He fucked you hard—deep, driving thrusts that knocked the air from your lungs and pushed your head back against the scattered papers. One of his hands found your hip, gripping tight enough to bruise, while the other pressed flat against the desk beside your head, knuckles white.
You matched his pace, rolling your hips into every stroke, taking him deeper. The wet sound of your bodies meeting filled the room, drowning out the jazz, the rain, everything but the heat and the friction and the ache.
“Look at me.” His voice was a command roughened by need.
You did.
His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide, jaw set. He looked like he was holding onto control by a thread.
You almost came right there.
He angled his hips and drove into you again, hitting that spot inside you that made your vision blur. Your mouth fell open, and the sound that came out was broken, desperate.
“That’s it.” Bruce’s voice dropped lower. “Give it to me.”
His thumb found your clit, pressing hard, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation pushed you over the edge—your climax crashed through you like a wave, your body clenching around him, pulling him deeper, your cry swallowed by the rain and the static of the record.
Bruce cursed under his breath. He drove into you once, twice more, then buried himself deep and came, hot and thick, spilling inside you. His hips stuttered against yours, his breath ragged and uneven against your neck.
Neither of you moved for a long moment.
The rain kept falling. The record clicked softly as it reached the end of its side.
Bruce pulled back slowly, his softening cock slipping out of you with a wet sound. A slick thread of his cum trailed down your thigh as you sat up, your body aching and satisfied.
He looked at you. At the mess of papers, the knocked-over mug, the sheen of sweat on your skin as you caught your breath, and he his.
The stillness after the first round hung thick between them, the only sounds the rain hammering the grimy window and the soft crackle of the vinyl winding down. You could feel his heartbeat hammering against your sternum, still fast, still furious. And his cock, still half-hard, still slick with the mess of their shared orgasm, was twitching against your thigh.
You didn't get a chance to catch your breath.