"sweetheart, are you sure you don't want to wear a different coat?" bruce asked. he had been trailing behind you as you tore both closets apart in pursuit of warmth.
you had decided on his navy coat. the one with italian-imported cashmere, hand stitched hemming, and too many visits to the tailor for alterations. you'd sworn up and down it was "so extra" when he first commissioned it.
"no, i do not, honey." you replied, a tad bitterly.
stubbornness. that was great.
bruce tried to keep the edge out of his voice, "what about that jacket you bought in–"
"none of mine fit me." you snapped, slipping the coat on. "maybe you should have put more thought into that before getting me pregnant, bruce."
"that's..." bruce let out a long sigh as he rubbed his temple. he gave a moment's consideration to his words before he spoke again, "y/n. i love when you wear my clothes, you know this. it's just..maybe we should look for a different coat? that color doesn't really go with your outfit anyways. fault of the coat of course."
"i don't care if the coat matches my outfit or not! i'm about to have a baby in like three weeks. so long as something fits and is warm, fashion is the least of my worries."
bruce's jaw worked for a moment before he let out a small disbelieving laugh, "baby, you cared yesterday.."
"yes, well, that was yesterday." you muttered as you shoved your hands into each respective pocket of the coat.
bruce visibly winced, which you raised your eyebrows at.
"if you're hiding your burner phone in here, you should have found a better–" the words died on your tongue as your fingers closed around something small in one of the pockets. you glanced at bruce.
he stared back with a small grimace on his face, his lips pursed into a thin line.
you pulled the little object out before staring at it.
a square...box.
oh.
oh.
a ring box. in your favorite color.
you let out a gasp as you hurriedly looked back at bruce. he stared at the box for a moment more, an "oh well" expression blossoming across his features.
bruce met your eyes finally. "i was going to get a different box–"
you made haste shoving the box back into the jacket pocket before he could completely begin his tangent. "maybe we should look for another coat," you said, slipping it off and handing it off to him.
bruce smiled as he took the coat back from you, holding back a laugh, "you think?"
"yeah. this one doesn't go with my outfit."
note: bruce wayne who can't keep his soon-to-be-wife out of the loop for long, so he immediately starts spilling every thought he's had and every step he's taken during the proposing process to her the moment she finds out 🥹
yesterday, you and bruce had an argument. nothing major, just a slight one. and today he was apologizing to you— in his own way
“bruce! slow— fuuuuck, slow down!”
you’ll be damned if he slowed down. your mind was dizzy from bruce’s mouth practically leeched on your cunt, his tongue lapping your clit at a pace that made breathless gasps of his name leave your gaped lips, almost seeing stars in your vision.
his large arms were hooked under your legs and pulled you closer, making sure you didn’t move an inch and that your legs were still spread while he got to work
“im so sorry for the other day” bruce murmured, his tongue not stopping for a second and way too focused on how good you tasted. “wasn’t in my right mind, mm”
he moaned a low sound of pleasure from how good you tasted, burying his face in between your legs more and applying more pressure with both his tongue and the tip of his nose. that sent a buzz through your body, a moan immediately leaving your lips before you could control yourself
bruce’s blabbers didn’t stop and in fact, only grew with each second of suffocating his face in your pussy, apologizing while talking about how good you tasted at the same time.
and all your efforts of trying to at least be stubborn all went down the drain the moment your orgasm washed into his mouth, so intense it had you arching your back more to his mouth.
even as you soaked his chin and mouth, bruce didn't stop for a second and licked every drop of your mess with a victory smirk hiding between your legs
damn you, bruce wayne
—————————————————————————
and now back to your daily programmmm (ill admit my brain blanked when i was writing this)
normally, if someone ever came back from an event or gala as prestigious as the ones you and bruce often go to, they would be knocked the fuck out and drained from all the social interactions and boredom
dont’t get me wrong, both you and bruce do get tired from them. but tonight said otherwise.
because here you were, lying on your stomach and arching your back, your dress rolled up to your waist so bruce could feel the warmth and flesh of your ass pressing on his hips. the rhythmic, deep pace of his cock stuffing your pussy did nothing but make you whine and claw your manicured nails on the leather seats of the limo, feeling the cold metal of his belt meet with your ass and your necklace bounce on your chest
“take it baby, take all of me”
“gonna leave this limo all filled up with my cum, yeah? you want that? you’re gonna have to speak louder, dear”
“keep that ass up for me, sweetheart”
was bruce fucking you in the back of the limo with the partition rolled up? yes. were you two loud? also yes. and did the driver hear anything? with the headphones that were blasting music in his ears, he didn’t even know that the richest and most powerful couple in all of gotham were getting the seats dirty
“gorgeous” he groaned, giving you another deep thrust and feeling his grip on your waist tighten. “absolutely gorgeous” bruce’s tie was thrown somewhere in the limo, the first few buttons of his collar were undone and the sleeves were pulled up to his elbows, his armani belt unbuckled and hanging from the belt loops of his pants
“couldn’t focus at that damn gala with you lookin’ like that” you felt bruce’s large hands slither under your dress to squeeze your boobs and pinch your nipples, making your body immediately jerk and his name leaving your stuffed mouth with a moan
“all i could think about was bending you over. your dress —hah— ripped in shreds, your body under my touch and squeezin’ my cock dry with that pretty cunt, just like now”
your sounds were muffled from the panties stuffed in your lipstick-smudged mouth thanks to bruce, spreading your legs more and arching your back to take more of his length— as if its entirety wasn’t already buried in you
bruce leaned forward to bury his lipstick-covered face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your perfume that had been clouding his senses all night as his chest was pressed to your back, groaning on your skin. “my gorgeous wife—” thrust. “my wife—” thrust. “mine” thrust.
his tip pressed on a spot that felt so good it made your pussy flutter— almost clenching more than it already was— over his cock, a choked groan of your name leaving his lips and his pace now speeding up and getting irratic to chase the high that was approaching both you and him
the gala may have ended, but the fun was about to start
—————————————————————————
masterlist!
(a/n: if asia asks, asia gets <3 little long for a drabble but we ball. im so shocked as to how i never wrote this for bruce.... good thing thats changed)
“I love you” are very difficult words for BRUCE WAYNE to say.
He’s not good with his words, and he is not good with his actions either, but he tries.
The second Bruce starts taking you as his plus one everywhere, or when you start staying at the Manor some nights, or when you finally get to meet his children formally, you know you have started a relationship with Bruce Wayne.
To have a relationship with Bruce is a big deal. Anyone could end up in his bed, naked and satisfied. But not anyone can say they are formally dating him. That’s your privilege.
Still, he has never said “I love you”. Not once.
You love him, and he knows it—you’ve told him many times. In a lazy, honeyed voice right after you woke up. In an enthusiastic voice, full of affection, every time he gives you a new gift he bought for you for no reason at all. Whispered, like a secret, every time you comfort him. Moaned when he touches you…
You love Bruce Wayne, everything about him, without exceptions.
He knows.
But does he love you?
He cares about you—he cares deeply. Your wellbeing is important to him. He often calls you, or texts you to check up on you. He prioritizes you over anything else, even himself.
He admires you, worships you. He never misses an opportunity to compliment you. How beautiful you are, how your dress enhances your beauty impossibly more. For him you’re ethereal, too good to be true, too good to be his.
And he for sure makes you remember you’re dating the billionaire Bruce Wayne. He showers you with presents. But each one has value, meaning, a story behind them. He’s thought each one through carefully before giving it to you. He also takes you to every gala and stays by your side, making sure you’re comfortable with the place and the people.
He cares for you, admires you, and gives you everything you could ask for.
Then he must love you.
But you’re longing for him to tell you. You want to hear those three words come out of his mouth. You want him to confirm it—for your sake and for his own.
And maybe you think that, after all this time with Bruce, you could guess the moment when he’d finally say it. Maybe one day, whispering it in your ear at a gala. One day, moaning as you make love. One day, with a painful physical effort, while you’re by his side after a tough night as Batman.
But not now. Not like this.
“I love you.” His voice has that normalcy not many have the privilege to know, because they only know the charismatic Bruce, but not the relaxed, off guard Bruce you love.
He had cut you off. You were telling him about your day at work, complaining about the people, about how much your body ached from the exhaustion, and meanwhile you were walking around Bruce’s room. While telling your story you had picked up your nightgown from the closet, then walked towards the bathroom to clean your face, then walked towards your bag to pick up something. You hadn’t stopped moving nor talking.
Meanwhile, Bruce was looking at you, following your every movement and listening to your every word attentively. He even hummed in approval at some of the comments you made. And then he cut you off.
You were at the climax of the story, and then he cut you off.
To say “I love you”.
Everything stopped, and suddenly you felt the room fading. It was only you and Bruce.
He had a small smile on his face and his eyes never moved away from your figure, never hesitated.
Then he said it again.
“I love you.” Followed by your name.
Bruce Wayne loved you, and so did you.
And those three words were complicated for Bruce Wayne, until he met you. He just needed to find the right time to say it, so you would believe him.
Summary: the boys are shocked by other men’s behavior
Warnings: shitty boyfriends (scary)
Dick Grayson
You and Dick were out enjoying the rare nice weather in Bludhaven. He took you to your favorite ice cream shop before the two of you walked across the street to the park. You were now parked on a bench, talking about nothing in particular. The subject of conversation wasn’t nearly as important as enjoying the other’s company. Your words slowed when another couple walked by who were clearly having a much worse day than you and Dick. They were arguing, engaged in a screaming match with each other. Dick gave you a quick glance before you both piped down, not having to do much to hear the conversation.
“I just feel like you don’t see me Rich! Everything I do, everything I say is a fucking problem to you!” The woman yells.
“Yeah? Well if you would just shut the fuck up for once, maybe I could fucking think! I can’t do shit with you constantly nagging at me Jessica!” He yells back. Dick’s jaw literally drops and he can’t do anything to stop it. He immediately turns to you eyes wide as the scene plays out before you. Pure disbelief was written all over his face, even your own brows shot up in surprise. The woman slaps her, hopefully soon to be ex, boyfriend before storming off. He stands in stunned silence before looking around at the small crowd of onlookers who gathered to watch the spectacle. He huffs and storms off in the opposite direction of his girlfriend. Once the crowd disbands, Dick starts talking, immediately ready to debrief the whole situation.
“Babe… that was insane. Have you ever seen anything like that in real life? You know I’d never talk to you like that, right?! I think I would rather die,” Dick emphasizes, still in awe about what he just saw. Even when you two argue, you were still the love of Dick’s life. He would never disrespect or yell at you over a disagreement. You smile at your kind-hearted man and press a sweet kiss to his cheek.
“Thank you baby, I know.”
Jason Todd
While at lunch with your friends, you were showing them some of the photos Jason took of you on your date. “So I’m thinking about posting these, but I’m not sure. What do you guys think?” You ask, passing your phone around the table so they could look at it.
“You should def post them girl! They are so cute! Where’d you take these anyway?” Your friend asks curiously.
“Jason took me to this breakfast place last weekend. The photos online looked like it might make for a cute photo op, so I got more dressed up than usual. When we got there, it was literally the perfect scenery so I had him take these,” you respond. Your friends are immediately looking at you, confused looks on their faces. You raise an eyebrow as you look back at them, “What?”
“Are you telling me Jason, your boyfriend, took these stunning photos of you?” Another of your friends asks and you nod.
“Uh yeah? Isn’t that what I just said?” You say confused.
“Wow. I can’t believe it. It is worse than pulling teeth to get my boyfriend to take photos of me,” your friend says. Apparently it is a shared experience because all your friends sitting at the table nod to agree.
“Facts. Even if he does, they are always fucking terrible. The angle is all wrong or I look god awful. I would never post a photo he took of me,” your friend laughs, but the sound is hollow. Clearly, a disguise for some complicated feelings. Your friends eventually get your phone back to you and you can’t help but to shrug your shoulders.
“I guess you guys just need to train them better. He didn’t take super amazing photos at first, I had to give him some pointers. Jason is a more artistic guy than he lets on, and he likes to make me happy so he learned my angles. Maybe I’ll have him teach a class on how to take photos of your girlfriend,” you state, making your friends laugh. Maybe you could also have him teach your friends to not accept the bare minimum, but you kept that part to yourself. You open your phone, going to your messages with Jason to shoot him a quick test.
You: I have offered you up
Jay❤️: I am literally scared to ask
You: To teach other boyfriends how to take good photos of their girlfriends. Apparently this a problem other people have??
Jay❤️: 🤦🏻
Jay❤️: Lack of home training
Jay❤️: Lemme know when
Bruce Wayne
You and Bruce had just finished taking photos and answering press questions before the annual Wayne Enterprises’ charity gala. It was a mission you and Bruce shared to constantly donate, both time and money, to the charities and causes that were important to you. But, this event was the Super Bowl of fundraising. Millions would be raised and sent to charities doing amazing work in and around Gotham.
The event was being hosted in an older building that maintained its old money aesthetic. There were wide, grand stairs that led to the front door. You groaned at the base of the stairs and looked up. Roughly thirty stairs loomed largely before you. “Next time I insist on wearing my brand new red bottoms, remind me these events love buildings with a ridiculous amount of stairs,” you say. Bruce smiles at you and before you can start your ascent, he carefully picks up the train of your dress. Making sure it doesn’t get caught, dirty, and it makes your steps easier.
“You know my offer is always on the table, I’ll just carry you up these. Promise I won’t even break a sweat” he states, standing close to your side just in case you trip or lose your footing. You smirk and look back at him, all the trust he would catch you before you could fall.
“Bruce Wayne! Think of the scandal and gossip you would cause. I can see the headlines now. Crown prince of Gotham breaks every high society rule by carrying beautiful girlfriend up flight of stairs,” you tease with a faux gasp. Bruce shakes his head at your antics which makes you smile. When you two are almost at the top, you hear grunts. Looking back, you find a woman tugging desperately at her dress. It was stuck on something you could not see, maybe a chip in the stairs. She looks at her useless date for help, who is engaged in conversation and walks inside without her. You immediately recognize the look in Bruce’s eye. The silent battle he fights whether to leave you or help her.
“Go, Bruce,” you reassure softly, putting a hand on his chest. “I’m okay, we are almost there anyway. Meet me inside.” He looks grateful, taking your hand off his chest to press a tender kiss to it. You take the last couple stairs to the top and turn around to find Bruce. He is on one knee, delicately removing the woman’s dress from whatever it was hooked on.
The media were already having a field day with this, lights flashing rapidly in Bruce’s direction. You could see the stories the tabloids were going to spin as if you wrote it yourself. One might read “Playboy Back Again!: Bruce Wayne flirts with Mysterious Woman?” Or another one might say, “Wayne to the Rescue: Bruce Wayne Saves Woman from Fashion Emergency." You can’t help but smile and shake your head at yourself. How sad was the world that a man showing basic chivalry was front-page news?
Wally West
Wally was lying on the couch in your apartment, his head in your lap. You were nose deep in your newest read, draped comfortably in a blanket. The quiet atmosphere had a calming effect you both enjoyed. With your lifestyles, you and Wally didn’t get a chance to relax nearly enough. The tranquil environment was disturbed when Wally spoke up,
“Babe, do you think I like you too much?” He asks. The question throws you for a loop and has you immediately putting your book down.
“What?! Why would I think you liked me too much? I actually don’t think it is possible to like your partner too much. Where is this coming from?!” You ask, almost bewildered by Wally saying that. He was definitely clingy and loved to be in your space, but you always found it extremely endearing. It was your whole thing. You would pretend to be annoyed that he wouldn’t leave you alone, he would bother you until you stopped complaining, and then you would be together for hours. Did something happen that Wally thought you were no longer joking?
“When I was hanging out with the guys, I made a joke about you keeping me on a tight leash. They did not find it funny and said I was 'too into you,' and eventually it would 'scare you away,'" he whispers solemnly. Anger is the first thing that overcomes you. Next time you saw Wally's friends, you were going to give them a verbal lashing they would never forget. Then you look at your usually happy boy, whose whole demeanor has deflated. You grab his chin softly so he is forced to look at you.
"Wals, I have never thought you were 'too into me.' One of the reasons I agreed to go out with you was because of how adamant you were about your feelings for me," you reassure, cupping his face, which he affectionately leans into.
"I didn't think it was possible to be too into your partner, either, until they said something, then I got it into my head. I always thought boyfriends were supposed to be obsessed, in a healthy way, with their girlfriend," he states. You smile at him and lean down to press a kiss to his lips.
"And you are absolutely correct, Wally. Nonchalant is in style, and not enough people think it is cool to be unapologetically in love with their partner the way you are, Wals," you affirm.
"That is sad. That is very, very sad."
"I know, baby. That is why you are the only one of your friends in a long-term relationship. Remind them of that next time they try to give you shit for loving your girlfriend," you reply, pressing one more kiss to Wally's lips, who smiles against you.
how does your other half, Bruce Wayne, treat you during the galas you attend? well, like royalty obviously.
Bruce Wayne Masterlist ◞ follow for more. 2k event soon!
Bruce Wayne, who at every gala, the first thing Bruce does when you arrive is subtly check the back of your dress. He’ll step behind you under the pretense of adjusting your shawl or necklace, running his fingers lightly along the zipper or hem to make sure everything is secure. “Just making sure you’re comfortable,” he’ll murmur in your ear, but the way his hand lingers shows how much he loves taking care of you.
Bruce Wayne, who when walking down stairs or across marble floors, always positions himself slightly in front or to the side, pointing out any uneven step or slippery spot with a gentle touch to your elbow. “Careful here, love,” he’ll say softly, offering his arm so you can hold on. He never makes it obvious to others — it’s just for you, quiet and protective.
Bruce Wayne, who if your dress has a long train or flowing fabric, he’ll discreetly hold it for you when you sit or stand, making sure it doesn’t get caught or stepped on. He does it so smoothly that no one notices, but you always feel his careful fingers brushing the material, like he’s shielding you from even the smallest inconvenience.
Bruce Wayne, who during conversations with other guests, he keeps one hand on your lower back, thumb stroking gentle circles through your dress. It’s his way of staying connected, reassuring you he’s right there if you need an escape or just want to lean on him. When you get tired of small talk, he’ll smoothly change the subject or pull you away with a polite excuse.
Bruce Wayne, who if you’re wearing heels that start to hurt, he notices immediately. He’ll guide you to a quieter corner, kneel down discreetly, and massage your ankles or calves for a moment, completely unbothered by who might see. “You don’t have to suffer for beauty,” he’ll whisper, kissing your knee before standing back up.
Bruce Wayne, who when photographers ask for pictures, he always pulls you close, angling his body to shield you slightly from the flashes. He makes sure your dress is sitting perfectly, tucking a stray hair behind your ear or adjusting your necklace, treating you like the most precious thing in the room.
Bruce Wayne, who can tell when the gala gets too overwhelming — loud music, crowded rooms, flashing cameras — he senses it before you say anything. He’ll wrap an arm around your waist and guide you to a private balcony or side room, holding you close until you’re ready to go back. “We can leave anytime,” he’ll murmur. “You come first.”
Bruce Wayne, who at dinner, he makes sure your plate has everything you like and nothing you don’t. He’ll quietly switch glasses if the wine isn’t to your taste, or pass you the bread basket before you even reach for it. His attention is constant but never overbearing — just steady, thoughtful love.
Bruce Wayne, who when you’re dancing, he holds you like you’re made of glass — one hand on your waist, the other cradling your hand, guiding you effortlessly across the floor. He whispers compliments in your ear the whole time, telling you how beautiful you look, how proud he is to have you on his arm.
Bruce Wayne, who if your dress slips or a strap falls, he fixes it immediately, fingers gentle and quick, shielding you from view with his body. He never makes you feel embarrassed — just cared for. “I’ve got you,” he’ll say softly, kissing your shoulder once it’s fixed.
Bruce Wayne, who after the gala, when you're both exhausted in the car ride home, he pulls you into his lap, letting you rest your head on his chest. He'll manage your feet if your heels hurt, kiss your temples, and tell you how much he loved having you by his side. "You make every night better," he whispers.
Bruce Wayne, who even when you're not at galas, the habits carries over. he checks your outfit before you leave the house, makes sure you're warm enough, carries your bag without being asked. its never showy - just quiet, consistent love. you're always his priority.
Bruce Wayne, who on nights when you feel insecure about your dress or your appearance, he pulls you close and reminds you how stunning you are - not because of the clothes, but because you're you. "you could wear a paper bag and I'd still think you're the most beautiful woman in the room. no, the world."
Bruce Wayne, who keeps a small photo of you in his wallet. ones from a previous gala where you looked especially radiant. when he's stressed during the day, he looks at it and remembers why he fights so hard. you are his reason.
Bruce Wayne, who at the end of evert night, when the dress comes off and you're both in bed, he holds you like you're the only thing that mayors. "thank you for being mine," he'll whisper against your hair. "I don't deserve you. but I'll spend every day trying to."
a/n : can you tell this is so inspired by Tom Holland and Zendaya or am I crazy. also sorry for disapearing
Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night and go to the BatCave to check up on your husband through his comms. (wc: 2k)
Tags: Fluff. A bit of angst. So fluffy. Tooth-rotting sweet. Female!reader. Husband!Bruce. Batmom!reader. Dick is twelve years old. Dick isn’t Robin yet. No use of y/n. Soft!Bruce. Established relationship. Battinson.
Painting's description: Painted in 1872, Claude Monet's Impression, Sunrise depicts the misty port of Le Havre, France, at dawn. It is famous for its vibrant orange sun, which pierces through a hazy blue and gray atmosphere to reflect on the rippling water, while silhouetted boats and smokestacks emerge from the fog. The masterpiece is known not just for its subject, but for its revolutionary impact on art history.
Estimated value: between $250 and $400 million.
The worst thing that could have happened to you was to wake up in the middle of the night. When the bed was too cold, and your husband isn’t there to warm you right back up.
Waking up at 4:37 AM wasn't just a nuisance; it was a sensory disruption. You hated the specific chill of the master bedroom when it was empty—the way the expensive, high-thread-count sheets felt less like luxury and more like a cold marble slab.
You tossed and turned, your chest tightening. Dating the Batman had been an intellectual challenge; marrying him was an exercise in preservation. You hadn’t just married a man; you had legally bound yourself to a triptych. There was Bruce, the raw canvas. There was Bruce Wayne, the heavily varnished, superficial portrait presented to Gotham's high society. And there was the Batman—the dark, brutalist sculpture that demanded all of his shadow.
Living with all three was exhausting.
Giving up on sleep, you slid out of bed. You threw on a soft silk robe, though you didn't bother changing out of the ridiculous plush bunny slippers—the single, absurd piece of kitsch Bruce absolutely hated but secretly smiled at.
The hidden elevator ride down to the Batcave always felt like descending into a subterranean vault of stolen artifacts. The air down here smelled entirely of cold limestone, damp leather, and high-end server coolant. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, your fingers moving across the master console with practiced, fluid precision. You knew the keystrokes by heart now.
When the massive monitors flickered to life, the primary feed displayed his line of sight.
You weren't looking at Bruce. You were looking at Gotham through his cowl. The city was rendered in harsh, high-contrast digital blacks and neon whites—a living chiaroscuro painting. The camera tilted slightly as he sat on the stone ledge of a cathedral, looking down at the fog-rolling streets. Nothing was happening. He was just watching. Monitoring the borders of his canvas.
You leaned against the cold metal desk, pressing the comms button.
"Hi, Batman," you murmured, your voice soft, cutting through the heavy hum of the cave's cooling fans.
On screen, the camera feed didn't jerk, but you caught the subtle, micro-fractional stabilization of his posture. He always reset his baseline when he heard your voice. Through the audio receiver, his breathing shifted, slowing down.
"What are you doing up?"
The cowl's vocal modulator rasped through the cave's high-end speakers. It was the heavy, gravelly baritone designed to strike terror into Gotham's criminal underworld—but after three years of marriage, you knew the exact frequency of the hidden cadence beneath it. It was a voice that made you hyper-aware of the bare skin of your legs against the cave's draft.
"Needed to check the alignment," you replied, leaning closer to the microphone, your tone small, intentionally stripping away the professional distance you usually kept. "Wanted to make sure my favorite piece wasn't damaged."
On the monitor, the digital horizon tilted slightly. A nod. Perfect, silent comprehension.
He didn't say I'm fine. He didn't say I miss you. As Batman, he was a man of minimalist composition. But the camera feed lingered on the empty sky for one long beat before he finally spoke
“How’s Dick doing?” his tone softens up a little when he brings up the kid you two had adopted. Dick Grayson. He was barely twelve years old, but he had the same look Batman had sometimes. That vengeance look.
“He’s sleeping. I didn’t check up on him before coming here.” You see how his head tilts and you know that’s a nod.
The feed remained still on the dark gothic skyline, the digital white noise of the comms the only sound filling the damp expanse of the cave. Even through the cold, synthetic filter of his cowl, you could hear the microscopic shift in his posture—the heavy, protective weight of a father balancing the darkness of Gotham against the fragile peace of his home.
"Go check on him," Bruce murmured, the gravel in his voice smoothing out, yielding to the quiet, exhausted father who worried about the ghosts haunting the boy down the hall. "He had... a rough afternoon."
You frowned slightly, leaning a hand on the edge of the sleek, cold console. "A rough afternoon? What happened?"
"A bird with a broken wing in the gardens," Bruce said quietly, his gaze on the screen panning slightly to the left, tracking the silent movement of a police cruiser miles below. "He spent three hours trying to build a splint for it. He wouldn't leave it. He wouldn't let me help, either."
A soft, bittersweet smile touched your lips. Dick was so incredibly stubborn, carrying a fierce, quiet intensity that mirrored the man currently crouching on a freezing stone ledge in the rain. They both wanted so desperately to fix everything that was broken, no matter how small.
"He's like you," you murmured into the microphone. "He doesn't know how to walk away from a tragedy."
"He needs to learn," Bruce replied, though the flat, minimalist delivery carried a rare trace of self-reckoning. "I don't want him to be like me."
You sigh, a quiet, knowing sound escaping your lips as you stare at the digital terminal for a fraction of a second too long. “I’ll go check on Dick, he’s probably still out cold. I’ll wait for you in bed, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the modulator rumbles, carrying a thread of rare, private warmth.
Without another word, you sever the link. The elevator whisks you back up to the quiet, ancestral halls of Wayne Manor, where the cold brutalism of the cave yields to high-vaulted ceilings and heavy Persian rugs. You pad down the silent hallway to Dick’s room, pushing the door open just a crack.
Inside, the boy is splayed across his mattress like a living Jackson Pollock canvas—limbs thrown in chaotic, energetic vectors, practically dripping and splashing across the sheets. That was Dick Grayson’s version of sleep; even at rest, he was a burst of kinetic energy. He doesn't seem bothered by the weight of his dreams, and honestly, who would be at five in the morning? A small spike of affectionate jealousy pricks at your chest; he isn't the one keeping vigil over Gotham's protector tonight. You smile to yourself, pulling the door shut. Your little bird is safe, grounded in his nest.
When you return to the master bedroom, the heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, and there he is. Bruce is caught mid-motion, his broad shoulders tensed as he struggles with the stubborn latches of the remaining back plating. For a split second, he looks like a wild creature cornered by a sudden spotlight—vulnerable, stripped of his shadows.
“Need some help?” you ask softly, crossing the room.
You slip into the adjacent bathroom, returning with a warm, damp towel. Bruce lets you guide him to the edge of the bed. He sits, letting his heavy head drop slightly, completely yielding his formidable frame to your hands. He lets you in. You are the only person in the world he allows to touch him like this—to strip away the armor he built to keep the rest of humanity at bay.
You press the warm cloth to his temple, dabbing softly, carefully lifting the heavy black paint from his skin. You treat him with the same painstaking, reverent touch you use on the priceless masterpieces at the museum. In your mind, Bruce isn’t just a husband; he is a Monet—built from heavy, textured strokes of light and shadow, delicate under the surface, and utterly irreplaceable.
As the last of the greasepaint is wiped away, he leans forward. His hands rise to find your waist, his large, scarred fingers digging gently into the silk of your robe to pull you flush against him. When his lips find yours, the kiss is slow, heavy, and thick with unspoken gratitude. He tastes of dark espresso and the lingering cold of the Gotham night, a soft, grounding pull that makes your knees weak. His lips are your beautiful, inescapable perdition.
“Hi,” he murmured once he pulled away from you to look into your eyes. His light blue orbs were observing your face as if you were the only person in the world that mattered. He always made you feel like that. He flashes a small smile, not the one he uses when he’s on the cover of magazines, nor the one he uses when he talks to his associates. No. This kind of smile was only for you in intimate moments like this one. When he’s holding your body against his, and he smells like sweat, a bit metallic like blood, and inherently him. You press a kiss on his chest, bringing goosebumps on his arm. “Wanna watch the sunrise, sweetheart?”
You raised your eyebrow, looking at the covered windows of the master bedroom. The blackouts didn’t allow any light to come in, but he most likely knew what time the sun was coming up. It felt like his duty, somehow. You nod and let him guide you towards the large balcony in the living room. He opens the sliding window to let you step outside. The cool of dawn hits you immediately. He’s only wearing his sweats, hanging low on his hips and allowing all the scars on his torso to stay on display. You always told him you loved his scars, that they were his won battles.
As you hold onto the balcony railing, his warm arms embrace you from behind. His eyes are closed as he breathes your shampoo in, his warm chest against your covered back. He leans in, starting to kiss your neck and the sensitive joint of your neck and shoulder. The place where, according to him, you smelled the most you. Your hand curls around his arm and you tap him gently.
You’re going to miss the sunrise,” you whisper against his lips, a small, amused huff escaping you as you tilt your head back to accommodate the warm path of kisses he’s tracing down your jaw. It’s a beautifully transparent lie. You don’t care about the sky; you only care about the heavy, possessive way his arms are locked around your waist. And by the tight, unyielding grip of his hands, it’s clear the Dark Knight doesn’t care about the daylight either.
He nips teasingly at the crook of your shoulder—just enough pressure to make you gasp, but gentle enough to leave nothing but a warm sensation on your skin.
The first soft, orange rays of dawn begin to bleed over the horizon, cutting through the heavy Gotham mist. The sky above the distant harbor is finally waking up. You let out a soft, contented hum, looking past his shoulder at the view.
“It has the exact same palette,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his damp, messy hair.
Bruce chuckles, the low sound rumbling directly against your spine. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his dark eyes turning to the window to watch the violet and orange paint the clouds. A knowing, incredibly soft smile touches his lips.
“You’re right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and affection. “Maybe Monet actually knew a thing or two about his colors.”
A bright giggle escapes you, warm and light in the quiet dawn. You turn in his embrace to face him, burying your hands in his chest. “Cheesy,” you tease, poking his chest.
Bruce just smiles, his eyes soft and entirely resting on you, his own perfect masterpiece.
putting on a fashion show for OLDER HUSBAND BRUCE WAYNE .ᐟ after spending an absurd amount of his money on high end designer clothes and pretty high heels. he doesn’t move an inch. he sits back relaxed on the leather couch in his study, black shirt unbuttoned and rolled-up sleeves, arms crossed against his chest. he looks as handsome as ever, with black hair disheveled slightly from the ride back to the manor.
you couldn’t help yourself but lean over and mess with it, smooching his face, cupping it sweety and being rewarded with a gentle kiss on your wrists. his eyes are always on you; his gaze tracks you around the room in permanence while you dance, giggling and spinning around, pretending to be a his model.
you bend over to pick up one of the many shopping bags you left on the floor. it’s intentional and controlled. you’re performing. you’re the exhibitionist and he’s a mere spectator. just because you like to put on a show and have his eyes wander all over your body, while you try on your new expensive clothes.
he understands. he enjoys it. you remove each piece slowly, face turned away from him, ass up, begging to be touched. you adjust the straps of your tight dress and again, you turn around, trying on a new pair of pumps, adjusting the glittery strap. you bend over, close enough for bruce to place his hands on your waist and pull you in.
you end up in his lap with your panties pulled to the side and undone bra laying somewhere on the ground, together with your pretty new dress. his cock slammed inside deep your cunt. it doesn’t take much. bruce hasn’t even tried to resist you today. he’s been thinking about fucking you the moment you started loading your shopping bags in the front trunk of the lamborghini, wearing your short floral dress and high heels, a pair of sunglasses on top of your nose, leaning over just the perfect amount.
