“Nightwing is apparently the sexiest vigilante according to the Gotham’s times.”
Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader Fluff 0.7k wc
── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ── Lynn ── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──
"I should sue this reporter and all the people who work there."
Bruce Wayne was mad. He had been mumbling and frowning around the manor for hours, huffing here and there or closing doors with too much force.
You were lying on the living room couch, reading a book —at least trying to— but your husband just didn't want to stop fuming around.
"Bruce, I swear if you don't move outta here, I'm ending my life." You slammed your book onto your lap with a frustrated noise.
"I'm calling Gordon." He said after taking another lap around the room.
You just groaned. "What is wrong with you!?"
"Hey..."
You turned your head towards Cassandra's voice. Her eyes moved between your exasperated face and your husband's angry one, a confused look crossing her features.
"Is everything alright?"
She walked towards her father, standing close enough to give him a soft kiss on the cheek, but she didn't give him the chance to answer the gesture because she was already stepping towards you.
"Yes, everything is perfectly normal."
You opened your arms, inviting her in for a hug. She leaned over your sprawled form and wrapped her arms tightly around you.
"Please don't divorce him." She joked.
"It's hard not to." You mumbled.
"I don't like that. You're underestimating the situation."
Bruce came over lifting your legs and moving them he could sit down on the cushions, once he was settled, he pulled your legs back over his lap. He grabbed Cassandra's hand as she stood beside the couch and placed a quick kiss on it.
"You're pretty." He complimented her, and she smiled like some toddler.
Your husband's attention went back to you. "This is completely illegal."
"What is wrong here?" Cass decided to ask.
"I've been shown a terrible sight."
You tsked at the dramatics of your husband. "The Gotham Times published a ranking about vigilantes." You explained to her.
"Oh! Dickie is the sexiest." She stayed quiet for a moment before grimacing. "Actually, I don't see why..."
"That's because you got some common sense, sweet. This is a kid. My kid. Since when did we normalized sexualizing kids? Gotham can't go that low." Bruce's answer came immediately, his expression twisting into genuine offense.
You shot a distressed glare at your daughter-in-law. She just giggled, patting her father's shoulder before slowly backing away, already preparing to leave you alone with the man.
"B, you're very sweet, but I can't stand on your side for that one. I'm out with Babs." She waved a hand as she turned towards the hallway.
Bruce's eyes widened. Why would his daughter, who was always on his side, be against him?!
"Please don't divorce my poor dad." Cass finally said, before disappearing down the hallway.
"See?" You smiled victoriously. "Even your daughter thinks I'm right." You emphasized it childishly.
He sighed, his head falling onto your lap. Your hands naturally found his hair, playing with it because even though he'd been annoying you for hours, you still felt bad for him.
"I should call Gordon." He whispered.
"Honey, there's nothing wrong with it. He's not a kid anymore."
"He is though. He still wants to race against me in the streets."
"Yeah, because you'll always be his dad. But kids grow up. And sometimes, they grow up so much that they're called 'the sexiest' by the whole city."
He groaned, wrapping his arms tightly around your waist. "Don't say that. He's my kid."
"Give him a call so you can hear his manly voice. Maybe it'll work better." You said jokingly.
"I'm calling Gordon when the sun is up."
You smiled flattered instantly, and you pushed his head off your laps, rolling your eyes. "I'm going to bed now."
"I can't let that happen, honey! First Dick and then who? Tim?!" He seemed horrified at the thought, still trying to hold onto you from where he sat.
You managed to free yourself from his embrace, finally standing up a few feet away from him.
"I give up." You raised both hands in surrender, your expression completely defeated. "You won. You can sue them all."
His eyes brightened, and Bruce immediately took his phone, already starting to email his lawyer.
You just walked away, tired of the afternoon and night you'd spent arguing with the fucking mama bear you chose to marry.
Summary: an unusually slow morning for you and Bruce
Warnings: implied unprotected pinv
The first thing to wake you up isn’t an alarm, or the sun that managed to slip through the curtains, or the usual chaos that came with living in the Wayne Manor. No, this morning you woke up to the feeling of your husband’s lips on your shoulder. Slightly chapped and moving slowly from your shoulder, to your neck, and right up to that special spot behind your ear. Your eyes flutter open and you sigh in Bruce’s embrace. You can feel him smile as he continues to kiss your skin.
“Good morning, my love,” he says in that gravelly voice you love. That voice that tells you he just woke up too.
“Morning,” you mumble back, turning your head so you could press a proper kiss to his lips. A kiss that deepens quickly, your hands getting lost in Bruce’s dark hair. His large hands cradle your face while he slips his tongue into your mouth. He is gifted with a moan from you as your tongues dance together. The two of you stayed that way, tangled in one another, kissing like it was the air you needed to live. Bruce pulls away to pepper kisses over your face and move down your body.
“You tryna have a repeat of last night?” You ask, eyes closed and voice airy as Bruce hits all your sensitive spots. He smirks against your skin before responding.
“I always want a repeat of last night,” he states confidently. Before he could continue down your body, you push him onto his back. His initial surprise turns into gratitude as you climb on top of him, straddling his middle. His hands find your hips like magnets and he takes his time appreciating your body. Still naked from the events of last night, he follows the curve of your waist, your breasts, to your neck, and finally your gorgeous face. You flash him your million dollar smile and he swears he would give you whatever you wanted when you looked at him like that.
“Well, we might as well change it up a little. Keep it interesting, hm?” You ask, not waiting for a response as you reached for Bruce’s length, stroking it in your hand. He was already hard and ready for you, sleep doing nothing to quell his need for you. You line yourself up with Bruce’s cock before sliding down slowly. The air leaves both of you as he fills you to the hilt. Your hands are on his chest for leverage, and you whimper as Bruce stretches you for all you’re worth. Bruce’s hands squeeze at your hips, not wanting to rush you, but, also not being able to bear the way your walls are fluttering around him. Before he knows it, you are lifting yourself off of him and lowering down.
You are in heaven right now. Still half sleep while your husband’s cock hits all of your spots. Your moans are soft, your pace steady as your hips rise and fall in a rhythm. The longer you go, the more lost in pleasure you get, while Bruce worships you from below you. “So fucking beautiful. You’re all mine, ain’t that right? My beautiful girl taking my cock so well. So perfect aren’t you,” he praises. His hands come up to tweak your nipples which causes you to moan loudly for him. “Good girl. My fucking good girl,”
Bruce notices your pace beginning to falter before you do. The way you slow down, how your arms shake gently, and without you having to ask, he takes over. Sitting up to better position himself and pressing a hot kiss to your lips. “I got you. Just relax baby, I’m right here,” he whispers against your lips. You wrap your arms around his neck, and your eyes go wide as Bruce begins to thrust into you.
“Fuck Bruce. Feels so good,” you keen, pressing your lips to his again. He loves the feeling of you breaking up kisses in order to moan for him. You feel your walls flutter when he hits that spot near your cervix, “So big Brucie. So fucking big,” you moan, your words starting to slur as you drop your head to Bruce’s shoulder. He raises a hand from your hips, to the center of your back to keep you close.
“You are so warm baby, and taking me so well. You gonna cum for me? Be good and cum for pretty girl.” It isn’t a suggestion, but a request. He holds your hips down so your clit grinds against him with every thrust of his hips. You gasp, and begin to fall apart against Bruce. Your hands moving to grab his biceps for support, digging your nails into his warm skin.
“I’m coming. Bruce, god Bruce please. Please don’t stop baby, please,” you beg in rapid pleas.
“I’m right here. I got you baby. Go ahead, I got you,” he whispers in your ear, and that is all it takes for you to hit your peak. Your moans muffled by Bruce’s shoulder, but still beautiful to him. Bruce’s hips falter, your orgasm spurring his own. The way your walls squeeze and flutter around him has him groaning in your ear. You always loved it when Bruce lost control and let you hear all the sexy sounds he made when he came for you. After a few more thrusts, he is following you, releasing his warm load inside of you.
Bruce squeezes you tight as you both bask in the moment. Between last night and tonight, the room is beginning to smell of sex. Both your bodies sweaty and sticking together. You are the fist to break the silence, absentmindedly tracing Bruce’s biceps. “What time do you have to be in the office today?”
“No time soon. There’s some stuff I need to do, but I can do it from here. I told them I wanted to spend the day with my wife,” he says, and you look up at to find his blue eyes already looking at you. “Seriously. Just me and you… well Alfred too,” he states flatly, but you can’t help but laugh. The thought of spending the whole day with your husband brings a smile to your face, and you press a kiss to his shoulder.
“Well, I am in desperate need of a shower. Let me do that and then we can go eat,” you say and start to get off Bruce. He stops you and holds your body tighter against his. Instead, he stands up with you two still connected, causing you to gasp, and walks you two to the bathroom.
“When I said I wanted to spend the day with my wife, I meant it,” he says pressing a kiss to your lips.
After showering, with a lot of kissing and other things in between, you and Bruce get dressed for the day. Going downstairs, you find Alfred making breakfast. He greets both of you warmly as always, two cups of coffee waiting for you. Bruce’s black and yours prepared perfectly to your liking. You grab yours and walk over to Alfred, “Do you need any help?” You ask, and as always, he shoos you away causing you to laugh.
Bruce beckons you over, and you think it is just to see something in the paper. He pulls you into his lap and goes about his daily reading of the Gotham Gazette. You can feel the heat warming your face as you get comfortable against Bruce’s chest. It wasn’t that Bruce wasn’t physically affectionate to you, but you also knew it wasn’t the primary way he showed love. So, this big display, you sitting in his lap, surprised you. You turned your head to press a kiss to his cheek and read the paper with Bruce. When he flips the page you point at the crossword.
“Let’s do it. Bet ya I solve more clues than you,” you challenge Bruce with a smile. He was never one to turn down a competition, just as Alfred places breakfast in front of both of you, along with two pens. You smile and thank Alfred before saying,
“Alfred you wanna join? Bet I can beat you too.” Hoping to entice the butler, who fights the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.
“I believe it would be unfair since I have already completed today’s crossword,” he replies before leaving you and Bruce in the kitchen with your puzzle. You turn your attention back to Bruce and hand him a pen with a smile. For the first time in a while, you two enjoyed just the presence of each other. No work or crime fighting threatening to steal your attention or time. A perfect morning, complete by beating your husband in the crossword.
the night is filled with distant glances and longing sighs as bruce wayne mingles with people he would much rather ignore for his beautiful wife.
he finds your eyes from across the room, silently pleading like he wanted to leave his own event even while he held conversation with some ceo. you’d return a pitiful glance, halfhearted pouts that he’d accept with a slow blink. though while he listened to a new proposal, one that didn’t make any sense to him, bruce struggled to look in their eyes when he knew you were so near yet out of reach.
everyone knows about bruce wayne’s wife. the party is aware of how he melts around you and shows teeth rather than a scornful look when he’s annoyed. his poker face is a lot better too. but when he truly feels like he’s suffocating, as though someone was restricting his ability to be unapologetically himself, bruce can’t hide it. at least not from you.
your husband is overworked and most definitely overpaid. though there isn’t a man in the world more deserving of such freedoms you’re sure. humanity his compass and the broken system of justice which dictates his own. faith driven by pure blind vengeance that has softened in the years you’d come to love him so deeply. compassion and outward appearances of affection you’d cherished. his shoulders relaxing around you.
tonight, he sent the driver home early. he’d let him take one of the cars in his garage and paid him anyway with a tired smile he always gave you when he’d get home late. loosening his tie with one hand, he watches as you play with the stereo. he’d usually just drive in silence, now he’d become accustomed to your taste.
but you knew he still needed the silence sometimes.
the drive home tonight is epically quiet. his voice a sound you wished you could hear but know you won’t because he needs a moment. peers using him as means to their own ends, seeing dollar signs where human emotion should be considered. bruce internalizes it. he pushes it all down until he snaps and it all falls on himself or his sons. you remind him of the fact when he scratches his chin too hard and the red mark remains. when you see the bags begin to form or the line between his brows. he lets you smooth it out with a gentle smile that melts your heart like ice.
now his hands find their way to you anyway, sitting warm as he grips your thigh. fingers idle on the bare skin, still as if in waiting. he catches your eye at the red light, watching as it illuminates your skin amid the dark gotham night. like a sterling path of light through his dark thoughts. you pretend not to notice him staring at the side of your face when you stare at the side mirror.
bruce doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s deep in thought. he doesn’t enjoy company that is uninvited. but with his wife, his beautiful loving wife, bruce has immense patience.
no one else can gauge his moods in the way you can. no one else sees how anger is truly concern or how his indifference is really acceptance.
he’s a man who has put all his faith into a broken system that has beat down his loved ones time and time again. bruce has to believe that it’s all for something. that he did this for a reason behind superficial tangibility. he admits to you in the quiet moments that it’s for you. for his family. for the child he hopes you’ll let him give you. admits that you ground him and keep him sane from the thoughts that whirl him into the dark.
for now, he keeps his palm on your knee, sliding up and down to your thigh like he’s soothing. though you know it’s more for him than for you. then he’s bringing your hand on your thigh up to his lips. he reminds you that even without words that he loves you bad, until it makes him devoid of anything else. delicate presses of his supple skin to the back of your hand before he nuzzles his nose against it. watching him completely turned now, you smile to yourself and graze his cheek with your freehand before he turns to kiss the palm of that one too.
existence was simply sufficient for him. your presence all he needed even when words failed to find him. though you’d also learned to love the silence and how his embrace was enough to warm your soul.
{summary} He thinks he’s slipping. You think he’s hotter. Obviously, you’re right.
{content} bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment, body image insecurity
You weren’t even supposed to be in the bedroom yet.
You were looking for your phone.
Instead, you stop dead in the doorway.
Bruce is standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, hair still slightly damp like he just got out of the shower. One hand is braced on the dresser, the other… hovering over his stomach, pressing lightly, then pulling away like he doesn’t like what he feels.
His expression?
Critical. Focused. Annoyed.
“…Great,” he mutters.
You raise a brow, leaning against the frame. “Wow. Who pissed you off this time?”
He doesn’t turn around immediately.
“…Me,” he says flatly.
That gets your attention.
You step inside, slower now. “That sounds dramatic. Should I be concerned?”
Now he glances at you through the mirror.
“Probably not,” he says. “Unless you’ve developed strong opinions about poor discipline.”
You snort. “Oh, I have plenty of those. Just not about you.”
He gestures vaguely at himself, like the answer should be obvious.
“This,” he says.
You look.
And look a little longer than necessary, just to make a point.
“…Yeah,” you say.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
You hum, walking closer, circling slightly so you’re not just another reflection behind him.
“Yeah,” you repeat, “you look good.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that thing where you pretend—”
You reach out and poke his side.
He stops mid-sentence.
“First of all,” you say, completely ignoring his complaint, “rude. Second—what ‘thing’?”
“That,” he gestures again, more annoyed now, “where you act like there’s no difference.”
You tilt your head, considering him.
“There is a difference.”
He nods once, like finally, finally—
“Yeah,” you continue, “you’re hotter.”
Silence.
He turns his head, actually looking at you now.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You step right into his space now, no hesitation, your hand sliding lightly across his stomach—not critical, not analyzing, just there.
His breath catches, subtle but there.
“You feel nice,” you say casually.
“…Nice,” he repeats, like the word personally offended him.
“Mhm.” You nod. “Very. Ten out of ten. Would absolutely ignore responsibilities to touch again.”
He lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff. “That’s not helping.”
“It is,” you argue. “You just don’t like the method.”
He shakes his head, stepping back half a pace—until his back nearly hits the dresser.
“I’ve lost definition,” he says. “I’m slower. I should’ve noticed sooner.”
There it is.
You soften—but only a little.
Instead of arguing, you step closer again, closing that half-step distance like it never existed.
“Bruce.”
He doesn’t answer.
Your hand slides up his chest, steady, grounding.
“You know what I see?”
He gives you a look. “Apparently something fictional.”
You roll your eyes and—without warning—lean in and press a kiss to his collarbone.
He freezes.
Another one, just above it.
“I see someone who hasn’t slept properly in weeks,” you murmur.
A kiss to his shoulder.
“Someone who’s been carrying half the city on his back.”
Your fingers curl lightly against his side.
“And someone who still looks—unfairly—good doing it.”
He exhales, slower this time.
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“You’re allowed to change,” you say. “You’re not a statue.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
He hesitates.
And that hesitation says everything.
You sigh softly, but there’s no frustration in it—just understanding.
“C’mere.”
You don’t wait for permission. You take his hand and guide it—gently—back to his own stomach where he was just criticizing himself.
He tenses at first.
“Feel that?” you ask.
“I know what it feels like.”
“Yeah,” you say, your hand covering his, pressing it there just a little more firmly, “but you’re feeling it like it’s a problem.”
You shift closer, your other arm sliding around his waist.
“I’m feeling it like it’s you.”
He goes quiet.
Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles.
“And I like you,” you add, softer now.
He watches you for a second—really watches you this time, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.
“…You’re biased,” he says.
You grin. “Hopelessly.”
That finally cracks something.
A small smile. Barely there, but real.
You take advantage of it immediately, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips—light, teasing.
“Also,” you add, not moving far, “for the record?”
He hums faintly.
“You’re hot.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no heat in it anymore.
“…You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” you say, backing him lightly against the dresser now, hands still on him, “you’re smiling.”
He pauses.
Realizes.
And—yeah.
He is.
You soften again, just a little, your forehead brushing his.
“Stop picking fights with yourself,” you murmur. “You’re on my team.”
His hand comes up then, settling at your waist, grounding himself there.
“…Stay?” he asks quietly.
You huff a small laugh. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”
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.
The first time he noticed yours, he was absolutely in a trance. It caught the light just right, sparkling and gleaming like it was begging for his gaze.
After that, it only gets worse.
Every once in a while, you'll find new belly rings on your jewlery tray in your favorite colors and metals. They're all so beautiful that you think they might cost more than your house.
Bruce's favorite on you, though, is diamonds. They shine almost as beautifully as you, looking absolutely radiant as they dangle from your midsection. Plus, it gives him an excuse to buy you diamond "rings" before proposing.
He's insufferable in bed, though.
As soon as he's sure the piercing is healed, his tongue is tracing all around it like he's been starved. Bruce isn't above sinking to his knees just to nose at your perfect stomach.
Something about it just absolutely draws him in, and who are you to tell him to stop?
Main Masterlist
A/N: sorry i posted this a little late, i was having a sleepover with my lovely boyfriend<3 i think this is day 11? Or 12? Anyway, this is super self indulgent bc i just changed my jewelry for the first time since i got it done in january! Its now a silver playboy bunny
summary: Mrs. Wayne is just as accomplished as her husband
warnings: none :)
Everyone knows Bruce Wayne. Even if you weren't from Gotham, you had some sense of the orphaned billionaire turned philanthropist CEO. You couldn't walk ten feet in Gotham without being reminded of Wayne Enterprises in some way. It was on buildings, hospitals, schools, churches, youth homes, you name it.
Being married to a man like Bruce Wayne made it easy to feel small. Bruce never intentionally made you feel that way, but it was easy to get lost in the glamor of his world. Even without knowing the double life he balances, Bruce Wayne is a man not many can compete with. However, this was not the case for Mrs. Wayne.
A firecracker in her own profession, it was one of the many reasons Bruce loved you. While he was ensuring Wayne Enterprise's future, you had established a name for yourself in your own field. Never intimidated by your powerhouse husband, because you were a powerhouse in your own right. You even chose to stick with your maiden name in professional capacities, which Bruce supported 100%. You had already established a career before Bruce came into the picture, and you planned to keep going if he was not.
Bruce was constantly being celebrated. By the press and his peers alike. He was on magazine covers, sometimes on billboards, and in an occasional viral social media post. But tonight, he dictated was all about you. You were being awarded for your outstanding accomplishments in your field, and Bruce was beyond ecstatic to be at your side and support you.
Bruce looked up from his watch when he heard the sound of your heels clicking. When you come into view, you are wearing a sleek black dress Bruce made sure was tailored to your body, and a matching pair of his heels. You give him that beautiful smile before asking, "How do I look?" When you get close enough, he pulls you in for a kiss.
"Do you still have to ask that?" he asks, a playful smile on his face.
"Probably not, but it is still nice to hear."
"You look postively radiant my love," he says giving you another kiss. "The car is waiting. Let's go, beautiful"
The reception was beautiful. It was great to watch your peers get recognized for their incredible work. You were one of the last ones to be called on stage to accept your award. You smiled as you stepped up to the podium
"Good evening, everyone. I know the night is getting late, and it is almost time for dessert, so I will try not to hold everyone too long," you say, causing soft laughter to erupt around the room.
"Tonight, I am beyond honored to receive this award. Never in a million years did I think I'd be up here receiving this, nor did I do any of my work for an award. If you know me, I've always been motivated to do good in the world. In a world of so much brutality, in a city like Gotham, where good things feel few and far between, it has always been my goal to be a beacon, if only a small one of light. Receiving this award feels like I'm on the right track in that mission.
I would be remiss if I stood up here and took all the credit. Nothing is ever accomplished alone. As honored as I am to accept this award, which reflects the hard work I've put in, I did not do this by myself. I have an incredible support system that has backed me every step of the way.
To my amazing, amazing team. You guys are truly my backbone. They push me every day to be the best version of myself and are my constant reminder that I don't walk this path alone. To my mentor. You sparked this passion in me and reminded me I was good enough. Your leadership and belief gave me the confidence to pursue my dreams and to be the change I wanted to see in the world.
Lastly, but certainly not least, my amazing husband Bruce. I'm sure most of you know who Bruce Wayne is, but I am blessed to see a side of him the public doesn't. To you he is the CEO of one of the biggest companies in the world, but he is also the man who brings me tea and kind words when I bring my work home. To you he is the mysterious philanthropist, but he is also the man who makes me feel beautiful on my worst days.
Bruce has always been my biggest cheerleader. Sometimes, I think he wants to see me succeed more than I do," you laugh softly, taking a deep breath as emotion sits right at the back of your throat.
"He insisted that tonight be all about me. But part of the reason I am up here is because of him. He would say he is the luckiest man in the world because he is married to me. I would say I'm the lucky one. Lucky to have found a partner who makes me feel seen and supported every single day.
I thank him. I thank everyone I mentioned, everyone here tonight, and the committee for recognizing my hard work. Thank you all, have a great night," you state in finality. You hold up your trophy with a lasting, award-winning smile as the cameras go off in rapid succession.
Bruce is the first person to jump up and clap enthusiastically for you. He would never admit it but his eyes were glassy with unshed tears. "That's my girl," he whispers to himself, not having the words to describe how proud he is of you.
When you get back to the table, he embraces you tightly and presses a passionate kiss to your lips, uncaring of the eyes that were currently trained on you. You were his world, the center of Bruce's universe.
