a little snippet of something i’ve been working on because im not a coward (after i just said i was too scared to post my fics)
bruce may be ooc!! i’m mainly basing his character off of the batman (2004) cartoon
String of Pearls
“Trouble” was always what Batman had called you. Not by your name, or what you had told him that you’d like to be called. No, it was always trouble. You weren’t sure why. So, tonight when he showed up in your apartment the first word out of his mouth was “Trouble.” With a slight upturn of his mouth, he collapsed onto your couch.
“What a way to make an entrance, Bruce.” You mutter, hand on your hip. “You know, for how often you show up here beaten and bruised, I should be the one calling you trouble. You seem to always drag it to my doorstep.” Despite all of your teasing, you still made your way over to your medicine cabinet where you stored the first aid kit. Since knowing him, you’ve used it more than you ever have. It was a surprise that your sewing skills came in handy for more than just sewing.
The first time you ever had the pleasure of the Batman falling into your apartment was about 6 months ago. It wasn’t planned, and he definitely didn’t know you or trust you. You were just some random civilian whose home he happened to crash into after an encounter gone bad. He demanded “no hospitals,” and had attempted to reach presumably for his phone, but passed out before he could get to it. That’s what had started the habit of you patching him up after particularly nasty nights. You weren’t sure why he called you trouble, though. Maybe it’s because wherever trouble went, you followed. You were always there when he needed you.
It wasn’t often that you left your apartment anyway. Other than for work. Not having many friends in the city or much of a night life would do that to you. Instead, you had hobbies. Things that you could do at home. You never had to worry about getting lost or mugged that way. Something that you probably wouldn’t have to worry about anyway because of how close the Bat always was. It seemed like he was never too far.
It definitely came as a surprise to you when you found out that the Batman was in fact billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne. You hadn’t found out the way that he had intended you to. One night that he had come in, he was particularly incapacitated. Unsure of where he was, but he still found his way in. Somehow. He kept calling for Alfred, and pleading once again “no hospitals.” There was only one person in Gotham that you knew of with a butler, let alone a butler named Alfred.
“What can I say, I like to make a dramatic entrance,” He teases with a wince as you lift the mask to inspect his face. He got beat pretty good. There would probably be a few bruises along his cheek and jaw. Something he might be able to play off as a nasty fall, or maybe he got a little too drunk and got into a wrestling match with one of his buddies thinking that he could win.
“Well maybe you could try making a more subtle entrance. Something that doesn’t make me think you’re half dead. Who knows what authorities would do if they found billionaire playboy Bruce Wayne half dead in my apartment on my couch. In a Batman suit no less.” You were half joking, trying to mask your worry so that he wouldn’t get worried as well. You didn’t want to make him feel bad. You knew that he had a reason for doing what he did, and it wasn’t that you were judging him, it was just disheartening to see him so hurt.
This is more of a fluff/comedic tone of a fic compared to the last one I requested. Involving Damian. The relationship would be Bruce Wayne x male reader but I feel like it centers a little bit on Damian.
Anyways
In this the idea I had was that at the beginning Damian is eating dinner with them and he overhears them arguing and assumes the worst and thinks they are on the verge of breaking up so he formulates a plan to patch up their relationship because this relationship seems to be doing good for his father and definitely not due to the fact that he's found himself getting attached to his father's boyfriend in a family way)
He probably does ridiculous and funny stuff like orchestrating romantic moments that I feel like would go wrong in comedic ways or seemingly make things even worse and I feel like Damian would get even more upset and when they finally have enough of Damian's weird behavior and like he basically tells them what he's upset about and begs them not to break up because it'll benifit his father if he holds a stable relationship for once. (I just feel like he wouldn't admit it would be because he doesn't want male reader to leave)
And they are confused because they didn't plan on breaking up and the argument they had that night wasn't that serious and was literally over something really silly.
A Father's Love x2
Warnings: None! Slight angst with comfort. Male reader. Established relationship. No use of y/n.
Note: Damian calling Bruce 'Baba' and Bruce calling Damian 'Habibi' on top. It's a little hard to write for Damian, but I had fun with this!! I also had Bruce and the reader have a more serious disagreement, but nothing major. Enjoy!
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There are certain things children grow up being sure of, and other things that they are not. Damian knows that he is loved, that he is valued. His mother loves him; his grandfather loves him, in strength and in weakness...even if that certain strength is preferred. Life is a learning curve after all.
So it's humiliating how much Damian is constantly learning: from the stoic way he used to carry himself to the way he spoke. It's all wrong, at least in Batman's eyes, his father's, and that hurts most coming from the person whose shadow he's lived his entire life in. To strive for perfection for so long only to find out that the very groundwork had been laid incorrectly. Damian is still strange to Bruce, even after all these years, but it's always improving.
Recently...Damian learned that he really likes you too, his father's boyfriend. At first it was odd, since Damian knows his mother still harbors a great sea of affection for Bruce, but you're not so terrible in the face of it. You're rather strong, resilient, good at handling all your responsibilities and helping out with Bruces. Both in the knight's suit and crisp tux. You're good for each other.
Which is why Damian feels a little sick overhearing the two of you go back and forth in hushed spits at dinner tonight. You're trying to keep it cordial, but once you disagree on one thing, it's easy for it to snowball into a full-on fight. It ends with Bruce excusing himself from the dinner table early and with Damian and you silently cleaning up after. It's...the first time Damian thinks he's ever seen the two of you really fight. The boy leans close to you while he helps with the dishes, but inside he's already formulating a plan.
"You don't have to worry, my father's an idiot."
You hum, patting his shoulder before sending him off to his pre-patrol rest. Bruce may be an idiot indeed, but he's got some pretty cute kids.
Damian isn't as cold-hearted as he might seem; he's simply stoic (something he, as the blood son, and his father have in common). So he doesn't need to refer to all those books and movies for reference in this scheme of his (though...if he does take some manga inspiration, that's no one's business but his).
First, Damian snuck into your bedroom to shut off both of your morning alarms and discouraged Alfred from aiding in your rising. The rush and panic of the morning forced you and Bruce to lean on each other for support before rushing out the door. It isn't quite the romantic swan boat ride illustrated in those old magazines, but it was enough for the duo of you and Wayne to join hands and brush shoulders plenty of times. All good, healthy things for the soul.
You shared an indirect kiss, too, with the two of you planting a brief peck on Damian's cheek before leaving. It's a win in Damian's book.
Though...that same night, the two of you didn't share a kiss of departure before patrol, so clearly his work isn't over yet.
The next week goes on just like that, with father and you seemingly more distant than you've ever been. Conversations are cut short, and so are displays of affection. The cold front is almost more terrible than the original argument itself, or any bigger tiff you might find yourself in. It's almost unnerving how comfortable Damian had found himself in the face of your healthy relationship.
He does everything from ordering flowers on Bruces card to your workplace, asking to be taken out places only to cancel last minute so that you're forced to spend time together, and organizing fake plans that you both assume you've forgotten about and scramble to cover for. Nothing seems to be working! Damian doesn't understand why people have to be so confusing.
Damian doesn't want you and his father to 'break up'; he's had enough stability ripped away from him already, and he's barely a teenager. You were here long before Damian even came to Wayne Manor, and you're half of the reason he's been able to integrate properly afterwards. Damian...well, Damian loves you like a second father, even if you don't have a ring just yet.
Though overworked and undercommunicated, you know your partner, and Bruce knows you. Better than anyone else, really. Once is coincidence, two is unlikely, but this many times with Damian on the edges of it all? Alright.
"Be gentle, but honest. You know how he gets," Bruce reminds, though mostly to himself as you both approach the boy's bedroom. He's been holed up for the past few days, all upset about something; only now do you have an idea about why.
You take the lead in knocking, and after a tender pause, Damian begrudingly allows entry. "Whatever it is, make it quick." He mumbles from his curled place at his desk.
"Actually, chum," Bruce sighs, finding the edge of Damian's bed a proper place to sit. "It's important."
You can practically feel the waves of emotion rolling through the childs stiff muscles, all swallowed down and flattened before he turns to face you. Arms crossed and frowning. "Yes?"
You find your place beside Bruce and lace your fingers together. Damian knows that you and his father love each other very much, doesn't he?
"...yes, that much is obvious." Though you can tell he's unsure when he says it. Not from an uncomfortable twitch or really any que, but just from Damian's...well, Dami-isms.
"Then can you explain what you've been trying to do these past few weeks? Have we done something to upset you?" Bruce frowns earnestly.
You've always been a pillar for Bruce and for his children. You've been through so much together, and the very notion that something could be adrift between his littlest baby and his lover breaks his very heart.
"No." Damian snarks before he settles back down and readjusts himself. "I...yes. I am upset." He then corrects. Ah, just as you and Bruce had suspected. Over what, though, was still the question. "...ever since that argument at dinner, you have been uncharacteristically cold to one another, and it is unnecessarily odd. Unless you are planning to split, that is."
Then Damian stands, his fists balled up at his sides. "Which would be absurd. It's much more beneficial for not only the family but Batman and Wayne Enterprises for you to stay romantically engaged with Father. He's hopeless without you. Everyone knows that."
Aw...
"Well, I can't argue with that last bit." Bruce smiles some. "But habibi, no one is breaking up here." You nod, extending your other hand for Damian to take. Stubbornly, he stares at it before coming forward. "That argument...I do admit I got a little frustrated and removed myself before it got out of hand, but nothing could ever be so serious that it would cause [name] and me to split."
"Baba..." Damian mumbles, staring at his father whilst tracing the lines of your fingers. He swallows, and away that soft sentimentality goes. "Then what about this conservativeness? You haven't so much as kissed in a week from what I've seen." It's said with a slight pout.
With the same inkling, both you and Bruce turn to share a small but intentional peck of the lips before tugging Damian down to join you.
"Gross." He grunts while clinging all the same.
You love him too. Damian, Bruce, and everyone else who enters these halls as family. You wouldn't trade any of them for the world. You're exactly where you want to be.
"...promise?"
With Bruces hand rubbing down your lower back, you nod. You promise. Cross your heart and hope to die. Pinky swear it. Whatever he needs to believe it.
Summary: You were the reason Bruce enjoyed his birthday, but then he lost you
Warnings: heavy angst no comfort (I literally cried multiple times writing this), character death, slightly suggestive
Bruce always hated his birthday. Every year, it felt like there was nothing to celebrate. Being a year older meant he was closer to the age his parents were when they died. Soon enough, Bruce would have spent more time alive than his parents did. That always sat wrong with Bruce. Why did he get to live a long life when they didn't? Then Bruce fell in love with you, and you made birthdays special.
You made Bruce's birthday feel special in a way that only you could. You didn't try to do anything extravagant, a huge surprise birthday party, or a frivolous gift he didn't want or need. Bruce had always been adamant that he did not want to celebrate his birthday, so you respected that, to a certain extent. You made his birthday feel intimate, special. Now, instead of feeling like he was chasing a marker, a milestone his parents could not get pass. Bruce felt like every year brought something new for him to live for.
Bruce's day had been wonderfully normal. He woke up next to you, went to the office, came home, and was now in bed waiting for you. Alfred wished him a happy birthday, and he got text messages from his children expressing the same sentiment, but that was as far as his birthday celebrations went. Bruce was happy this way, and he hoped to keep it this way.
"Baby, come to bed already. I miss you," Bruce calls from his spot in bed. He was sitting against the headboard, looking longingly at the ensuite bathroom, waiting for you to emerge. A few seconds later, you come out wearing a sexy slip he had never seen before. The color and the lace complement your skin perfectly. In your hands was a cupcake with a candle in it. Bruce is immediately confused as he watches you walk towards the bed.
"What are you doing? What is this, my love?" He asks as you get into the bed next to him.
"I know you didn't wanna do anything big for your birthday, and you don't like celebrating. But it felt wrong for me to do nothing, to get you nothing. So, I bought this new sexy slip for your eyes only, and I'm gonna sing you happy birthday," you state with a smile. Bruce can't help but smile while you sing him happy birthday. During your song, Bruce pulls you into his lap, causing you to giggle. You hold the candle in front of his face when you are done, and he gently blows it out.
"This was incredibly thoughtful, my love, thank you," Bruce says, taking the candle out of the cupcake and pressing a kiss to your lips.
"Anything for my favorite guy. Now c'mon, have a bite," you urge, holding the cupcake to Bruce's face. He smiles and takes a bite to appease you. After sharing the cupcake, Bruce rolls you to your back. His hands immediately explore your body.
"Now, I'd like to enjoy my other birthday present," he says against your neck, causing you to giggle. Bruce has his way with you that night and it is the beginning of a new birthday tradition.
Then you died. All of a sudden, Bruce's world shifted. For all his money, his wealth, his connections, he couldn't save you. He brought you to see the best doctors in the nicest facilities, none of it mattered. You were dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
Bruce was entirely helpless. After his parents died, Bruce swore he would never feel that way again. He spent his entire life trying to make sure he never felt like that helpless little boy again. But watching you die, that was the hardest thing he's ever had to witness. He was once again unable to save the person who mattered most to him. He could beat up villains all night. He could rough up Bane, outsmart Riddler, and throw Scarecrow in Arkham, but none of it made things better. Every punch, every bloody nose, prisoner, bad guy, none of it alleviated the pain of losing you.
Today was Bruce's first birthday without you. The first one in a long time. When he opened his eyes, he stared at the ceiling. For hours, he lay there, in his massive bed, and stared at the ceiling. When you were here, you would roll over, press sleepy kisses to his shoulder while whispering happy birthday. Bruce rolls over and looks at your side of the bed. It had been months since you lay next to him, but sometimes he still reached out, expecting to feel you under his touch. Hear you whine that it was too early to be up or giggle when he touched one of your funny spots.
When he finally got out of bed, Bruce shuffled to his office and closed the door. He made his way to his desk, grabbing the top-shelf liquor he kept there. He poured himself a glass of amber liquid and downed it in one go. He quickly poured himself another and drank this one slightly slower. Alfred usually had wise words during times like this. Encouragement that would push Bruce out of his funk. But this time, he felt it was important for him to sit with his grief for a little while. Allow himself to feel everything, even the stuff that hurts.
Bruce drinks until his thoughts are muddled. Until all the images of you blur into one. Bruce's pain is temporarily numb. For half a second, he feels weightless, the pain of losing you not weighing him down. Then he remembers. Remembers that you aren't here, that he couldn't save you, and he drinks some more. He drinks into the night when Alfred comes through the door. It pains him to see Bruce in this condition. Bruce is about to dismiss him, believing he was here to try to force Bruce to eat or perhaps do anything besides wallow in his loss. Before he could be sent away, Alfred spoke up.
"Master Bruce. This was left at the door for you, I believe you should open it," he says simply, giving Bruce a sad smile before walking out again, closing the door behind him. Bruce is immediately confused as he inspects the small box with the decoratively tied ribbon. His confusion quickly turns into anger. Who the hell would send him a gift? Why the hell should he care what moron sent him a birthday gift? He finds the tag on the box and reads it.
To the love of my life, Bruce
Bruce drops the box when he realizes the words are in your handwriting. His blood immediately goes cold, and a chill runs through his body. He stands up so quickly that the chair makes a sound as it scrapes against the hardwood. Bruce starts anxiously pacing the room, never taking his eyes off the box. Irrationally fearing that if he took his eyes off it, it would magically disappear. He paces so long he feels himself beginning to sober up. When Bruce checks the time, he realizes not only that hours have passed, but also that his birthday is almost over. The day is almost new. He takes a deep breath and finds the courage to open the box on his desk.
When Bruce sits before the package, his mind is mostly free from the bottle of liquor he consumed today. He carefully removes the bow and opens the box. The first thing he sees is a neatly folded piece of paper. He opens it to find a handwritten letter from you. Underneath that letter is a singular cupcake, with a lighter and a candle. Bruce can already feel the tears well in his eyes. You weren't here, yet you made sure the birthday tradition you started continued. Bruce picks up the letter to read it,
To my love, Bruce,
By the time you receive this, I will have left you. When I realized I would not live to see your next birthday, I was absolutely heartbroken. Because I know how much you love your birthday (wink, wink :) ), even though I can't be there physically, I wanted to continue our birthday tradition.
As I write this, I know my fate is sealed. It would be a lie for me to say I wasn't scared or I have made peace with what is coming for me. I am actually petrified. I'm not scared of death, or what may be next; I'm scared of the things I'm going to miss.
I'm going to miss Gotham's snowfall. You know I loved to walk through the gardens after a snow. The beauty of undisturbed snow is one of my favorite things in nature. I'm going to miss the way the sun feels on my face. How it warmed my skin and caused me to sweat. I'm going to miss our kids. Their faces. The sound of their laughter or bickering meant, at the very least, we were together. Most of all, I'm going to miss you, Bruce.
Having you by my side as I navigate this journey has brought me immense peace of mind. I am still going to miss the way you pretended not to laugh when I said something stupid or corny. The way you brought me gifts when I was having a bad day. It was never the monetary value of the gift, but the way I knew you poured over every single one, wondering if I would like it. I'm going to miss holding you. The feel of your skin on my hands, the warm planes of your chest, the soothing sound of your voice.
But today is about you, Bruce. It is your birthday, and as much as you would hate to say it, today should be all about you. I don't want this whole letter to be sad, and I don't want you to be sad. Not on today of all days. I want you to remember the good things, too. I want you to remember the time we were both sick and lay in bed together. Alfred bought us soup. Oh, we ate so much soup. And enjoyed being in each other's company. Remember the way we made love. How we always connected in the most beautiful ways. It felt like our souls became one. Remember our wedding day, surrounded by our closest friends and family. We were so happy (and you looked so handsome in your suit!). We had so many good memories together, Bruce. Please remember those as much as, preferably more than, the sad ones.
Bruce, I hope this next year brings you growth, love, and happiness. Please remember to be kind. Not only to others, but yourself as well. There are a lot of people who care about you. They can only help you if you lean on them, if you ask them for help. Take care of our kids. They always saw me as the soft one, the person they could turn to. I need you to remind them how much you love them and that you are there for them. They are grieving too, and they need you now more than ever. It is important that you all lean on each other in my absence.
I want you to love again, Bruce. I know you have closed your heart to love in any form. But, my love, I need you to open it up again. I need you to be willing to love again. I don't want you to become the hollow, angry man you always feared you could be. I know how hard Bruce Wayne can love, and I don't want my absence to rob the world of that.
Happy Birthday, Bruce. While I might not be there with you, I am here in spirit. I am always watching over you, at your side, and in your heart. For all the words I could put on paper, none of them would come close to describing how much I love you.
Your Beloved,
Bruce reads your signature at the bottom, then starts at the top and reads the letter again. And again. And again. To the point where he feels like he can quote it from memory in one sitting. He places the letter down and inspects the cupcake. It was in his favorite flavor (which was really your favorite because he always shared with you and wanted it to be something you enjoyed). Bruce places the candle in the soft frosting. When he picks up the lighter, there is an inscription etched on it.
When you use this lighter, let this be a reminder of the spark we had
Bruce laughs sadly. He can imagine the words in your voice, as if you were next to him and whispering them in his ear. You loved to say corny things around him because it always brought a smile to his face. He lights the candle and whispers to himself,
"Thank you, my love. Happy birthday to me. I love you, and I miss you dearly. I wish you were here," before he blows out the candle. As the smoke from the candle rises, Bruce lets everything go. Everything he has been holding in since you passed leaves him. He doesn't cry; crying is for those who haven't lost what Bruce lost. Bruce sobbed.
High on a hill, Bruce could see the city from his rooftop. And he watched. Lamps on carriages moved through the streets like ants. Moving inevitably towards the city center. To Theaters, parties, and vice.
Somewhere deep in his chest, under the beast he was now, he remembered. And it stung. It burned.
10 years ago, he'd been free. 10 years ago he'd been in the center of it all. A Prince. The world laid out a head of him. Anything he wanted could be his as long as he snapped his fingers and said, "Now!"
He'd been a jumped up little shit, as his Butler turned keeper never failed to remind him.
But now?
Now he was this.
If he walked into a ballroom now, claws scraping the polished floor, hunching down to whisper in someone's ear- god it would be absurd.
Even more absurd than the accident that caused it.
Staggering home drunk and being attacked by some monster from an old wives' tale.
At first he thought it was just the wounds. Deep gashes across his chest. Flesh torn from his shoulder. He lay near death for days while household staff panicked and doctors assumed he was a goner. They wept and burned. A fever raged and left him babbling.
Your boyfriend finds out about your crush on the Dark Knight and he can't let it go.
cw: jealous bruce, reader gets drunk, cheating but not actually u cheat on bruce w batman...it all works out in the end I swear 🤞, ooc bruce? he says more than one sentence responses and he's a little jokey which some people may think is ooc but I think it fits, ending kinda rushed
note: i had another idea that was quite similar to this but kind of different may write it may not we'll see. actually had another bruce x reader draft that I started and then this hit me...and that one is also semi similar. 10/10 originality guys. also never actually made a fake imessage before what a hassle that was. im an android and ms owner so
...
The pillows are being fluffed. You've readjusted the throw blankets. Your sheets have been changed. All the dishes are clean. The pantry is stocked. You broke out a new tablecloth for the dining table. The lights are dimmed. The rug has been straightened. Your plants have been watered.
Everything is perfect for Bruce to come over tonight.
You haven't been dating billionaire playboy Brucie Wayne very long, still a little pleasantly confused as to how you got yourself in a position to be called his partner. You've often spent evenings at his place, the grand Manor he modestly calls home, but somehow, in the busyness of both of your lives (and perhaps due in part to your embarrassment over how wealthy he is and how average your place is) Bruce has never been over. All that changes today. A showing of The Outlaw Josey Wales awaits you - Bruce's turn to pick - along with an expensive bottle of bourbon to hopefully make up for the lack of generational wealth your apartment exudes.
The doorbell finally rings and you eagerly open the door. The sight of your newfound partner greets you, in a fitted black sweater and pleated grey slacks, boots already coming off as you let him in. He holds a lush bouquet of carnations and begonias as he pulls you into a sweet kiss, the scent of his cologne mixing with that of the flowers.
"Hi," he settles on with a smile, soft and low as he pulls away from your lips.
"Hey," you smile back, pressing another kiss to his jaw before he's holding the bouquet between your bodies. "You didn't have to get me flowers, Bruce..."
"Alfred said it'd be impolite to not get you a housewarming gift. Duke and Cass said the diamond necklace I was eyeing was overkill..." he grins lopsidedly, leaning in for another kiss as you laugh.
"Please, no diamond necklaces, you don't have to go through the trouble. Anyway, aren't housewarming gifts supposed to be for the house?" you tilt your head slightly, dodging his lips to talk.
"A Meissen vase, then," he suggests, still leaning in.
You avoid his kiss again, "Bruce, I don't even know what Meissen is-"
"A German porcelain manufacturer- stop talking," he muses lowly, before pressing a more insistent kiss to your lips again. He draws out the moment, pressing kisses to your cheek and then your jaw.
"Okay- okay, I get it, you're happy to be here. You're like Ace," you chuckle softly, half-heartedly pushing him away with a hand on his shoulder.
Bruce's expression sours, "I'm not a dog." He straightens up a little, hands still on you as he looks around the open living room and dining area. "You have a beautiful home."
"Thank you," you nod, "it's no Wayne Manor, but-"
"It's perfect," he cuts you off firmly, softening a little as he looks at you, "I know I joked about the expensive gifts, but I don't want my wealth to become a divider between us. Your apartment is more than enough," he pauses, "...I can appreciate the normalcy of it. Wayne Manor can get to be too much."
You smile a little, reassured, "...as long as you're comfortable."
"I am."
"Good."
You take the next moment to grab the TV remote and get the movie up, and Bruce watches for a moment before his voice makes you pause, "...you're not going to give me a tour?"
You blink from the TV screen to him, "You want a tour?"
He shrugs, "I'm interested in your space."
Slowly, you put the remote down and step back over to him, "...this is the living room," you point to your dining table, "that's where I eat."
"Riveting."
"You asked!"
"Is emotion too much to ask for? Maybe an anecdote?"
"Ugh..."
Bruce folds his arms over his chest and taps his foot, raising an eyebrow, "...I gave you the history of Wayne Manor, all the dents and cracks in the walls courtesy of the kids- I showed you where Damian's cow lives..."
"Alrught, fine, I'll entertain you," you roll your eyes. You tell him that you've slept in your bathtub and it's quite comfortable, so long as you have a pillow. You dive into the details of how you stole your parents CD player (you had the most CDs before you moved out, it was your right). You start a spiel about how you argued with an old man for the rug in your home office.
Bruce is enraptured by it all, by you letting him into your life piece by piece. He's deliberately avoided researching you in depth just so he can ascertain the little details about you on his own, hearing them from your lips (he also knows it's wrong to cyberstalk your partner. Very wrong. He definitely did not have to be told that by Babs of all people).
But it's in your bedroom where Bruce's focus falters. Not because of anything less than appropriate, he's not the type to get excited just because he's in someone's bedroom. It's your bed that fascinates him. Specifically, the pillows and plushies on it. There's an old bunny rabbit and one shaped like a star.
And then there's Batman.
Well, Bruce can hardly call the mess of polyester on your bed Batman. It doesn't have his impeccable physique- instead, the poor imitation of his alter ego is a large cylinder of soft fabric with little bat ears and his cowl, four tiny, disproportionate nubs for his limbs, his body clad in his blue and grey suit, yellow utility belt sewn and black bat symbol embroidered in.
Bruce picks up the rotund mimicry of his fearsome hero persona and he can feel how soft it is. Up close, it smells of your shampoo and lotion, and there isn't a stain or blemish on it, but the label is worn and fraying, indicating just how well-loved it is.
"Oh. You like him?" you ask casually.
Bruce pauses for a long moment, unsure of how to answer. He decides on a tentative, "...'him'?"
"Yeah. Batman," you naturally fall back into feeding him little stories about yourself, "a friend got him for my birthday a few years ago."
"Why?" Bruce asks slowly.
You shrug, "well, it's a bit of a gag gift. I've had a celebrity crush on Batman for ages."
"You what," Bruce's expression buffers.
You blink, "oh, c'mon, you're not jealous, are you? It's a celebrity crush, I've never actually met him."
Bruce pauses for a long moment, "Batman isn't a celebrity."
"Yeah, but he's famous," you take the plushie from his hands and wrap your arms around it, giving it a soft squeeze, "they make merch of him. He show up on the news. And...he's handsome."
Bruce's eyes widen a little, his ego swelling with the more you reveal about your crush on Batman, "You can't see his face."
You scoff like he's stupid, "You can see the bottom half of it. And, I don't need to- you can hear his voice in clips, you can see his body, you can see how he moves, how he acts- that's enough to have a crush. Way more than enough," you shrug, "he's a superhero. People have crushes on Wonder Woman and Superman and-"
"That's different. They embody truth and hope, they're ideal people saving the world, of course people become infatuated with the idea of them," Bruce reasons.
You blink, "Batman is justice. He saves Gotham all the time, and the world with the Justice League- he's a hero. He's the city's hero. It's the same. Batman is our hero. So many people admire him, I'm sure some of those people also crush on him, me included."
Bruce pauses for a long moment, soaking in your words. It's touching, so incredibly reassuring, to hear someone talk about him like that, even when they don't know he's Batman. The burden of choice weighs heavy on his shoulders each day he goes out in that cape and cowl, and to think that you admire him, think of him as your hero, the city's defender, and even have innocent feelings for him, an attraction to his nobility and altruism, to the point of sleeping with his cuddly resemblance- it warms something in him. It also stirs some pride in him, that you could fall for him either way- if you knew he was Batman.
He doesn't forget about that moment. Not as you keep showing him around. Not when you finally get to the couch and watch the movie. Not when he has to leave and he's out on patrol as the hero you like so much. Not for weeks after that.
That's when Bruce decides to do something out of his comfort zone. Something a little dubious, even. He doesn't consult the kids or Alfred on this one, he knows it's probably a strange and unusual idea, but he can't stop thinking about it. Which is why Batman ends up in the alley next to the bar you're singing inside, your friends rallied up for a karaoke night, buzzed and content as all friends should be on a night out.
You told him you'd be out, even sent a few fun photos and flirty texts to him during your night, a video of your friends' missed high notes with you giggling behind the camera. And now he's waiting outside like a creep. He's starting to realize this is probably not an idea he should've executed when you finally step out of the bar, you and your friends saying goodbye on the street, getting picked up by partners and housemates or calling rides as you hug and wave them off. You make your way down the sidewalk and before Bruce can truly consider the implications of doing this, he's silently stepping out of the alley, right in front of you.
Not Bruce, but Batman.
You gasp and jump a little before your eyes widen in awe, "Batman?"
He doesn't nod, doesn't move for a moment, before gritting out in that low tone, "You shouldn't be going home alone at this hour, especially not drunk."
You blink, "I'm not drunk..."
"You've been drinking."
"How do you know?"
Batman stays silent for that one, the white slits in his mask staring straight through you. You acquiesce, "I don't live far."
"I won't let you get hurt," he ignores your words, opening the passenger door of the Batmobile.
You find yourself nodding before you can really think it through, a slightly dopey smile on your face.
Batman carefully guides you inside before settling into the driver's seat and pulling out of the alleyway, heading down to your apartment automatically. He drives in silence before briefly glancing at you and the dreamy stare you're giving him, "something wrong?"
"I can't believe I'm getting dropped home by Batman..." you whisper with a floaty laugh.
Bruce feels his heart squeeze at the sound of you, sounding so awed and admiring, but he maintains his composure, replying, "you're a fan?"
You nod with hum, "Mhm."
He doesn't respond, driving in silence the rest of the way. He doesn't stop right in front of your apartment, instead stopping in a dark alleyway nearby.
You frown softly, "What are we...?"
"I can't be seen near your apartment. For your safety," he lies.
Your intoxicated brain takes it, "Right. Okay, well, it's just there so I'll walk-"
"Wait."
You turn back to him, seatbelt unbuckled, and blink, waiting for him to continue. Your face flushes when he leans over the console.
Batman stares at you through those white lenses for a while, "I appreciate your support of me. What I do."
It's a clumsy, awkward, out of place statement from a superhero. Your brows furrow in confusion but you nod, "Oh, uhm...'kay..."
He leans in closer and your face burns. "I mean it," he mutters lowly.
You nod, but move back a little, "I- I have a boyfriend," you whisper, but your eyes flickering down to his lips betray you. You feel guilt and shame curl in your gut, but somehow it's quelled with a silent reassurance. Your mind fills with Bruce, but it melds with the image of the Bat in front of you, and the longstanding admiration and attraction you've had for the masked hero.
You swear you see his lip quirk up a little, not cruelly, just amused, "he won't mind. I need all the encouragement I can get."
In your tipsy haze, you find yourself nodding, but only press a kiss to his cheek, not wanting to betray your beloved, adored partner.
Batman looks so soft after the kiss, despite most of his face being covered. He lets out a soft sigh of your name, and recognition stirs up in you at his voice. He smells like something familiar too, under the scent of metal and rain. You swear you've felt his skin somewhere before, under your lips in just the same way.
"Thanks, Batman," you say softly, and he nods as you get out of the car.
You make your way down the sidewalk and fumble with your keys, heading up to your apartment door and crashing onto the couch, fiddling with your bag for your phone. You frantically open up your texts and tap on Bruce's contact, typing your confession at lightning speed.
You stare at Bruce's response for a long moment, your brain too muddled from alcohol and kissing a superhero and texting your billionaire boyfriend about said kiss. You read his last response over and over before burying your face in the throw pillows. You must be imagining things. You'll answer in the morning.
summary: bruce comes back into your life, though not in the way you want him to. for the bat must work, the element must be dealt with, and you must be protected. but despite it all, he is yours, and you are his, hearts bleeding out for each other until someone has to give.
pairing: battinson! bruce wayne x fem! reader
content: yearning, attempted kidnapping, violence, angst angst angst, implied exes/fwb, no use of y/n, reader uses she/her pronouns and wears heels, takes place right after the batman 2022
word count: 3.9k
a/n: this one has been cooking for a while! i love battinson hehe :) likes, shares, comments and reblogs always appreciated! <3
Bruce watches you from across the room.
You’re even prettier than he remembers. Under the ballroom lights, your whole visage sparkles. Poised, refined. You’ve grown into the perfect image of Gotham royalty, it seems.
You’re in the middle of talking to someone, a guest that he’s done a full background check on, when you catch him looking from the corner of your eye. He immediately averts his gaze to the floor, pretending he wasn’t watching you like a hawk (or a bat), but it’s too late. You’ve already excused yourself from your previous conversation and are walking over to where he’s standing, body pressed into the corner of the ballroom and concealed in shadow.
“Bruce,” you greet him with a sweet smile as you approach, and he’s forced to look at your bright eyes. He tries to offer you a smile back, but his lips fail him, pressing into a slanted line. “I…didn’t think you would come.”
He shrugs and fidgets with the glass of cider in his hands, gaze falling to the floor once again.
“It’s for charity.”
He can’t say that someone is waiting for your charity gala to end so they can do god knows what to you. That the remnants of the Riddler’s followers have marked you as their next victim. That would scare you.
“Charity, yes, but I didn’t expect the city’s prince to show up,” you point out and take a sip of your champagne. “This is the first public appearance you’ve made since the memorial, no?”
He nods.
“With everything that’s happened, I thought it would be best if I used my family’s wealth to help the city recover,” he explains. It’s a half-truth, a practiced lie.
You hum thoughtfully, your champagne glass still at your lips.
“I see.”
You consider Bruce with a long gaze and a tilt of your head. He still won’t look back at you. You wonder if it’s because of what was exposed about his family, the stress of the flood, or something else.
You know that people are probably staring, whispering amongst themselves that you’re speaking to Bruce Wayne, the recluse, the bachelor, the prince. But you still see him as Bruce. Your Bruce, who would sneak you candy behind Alfred’s back as a child. Your Bruce, who broke your heart as a young adult.
You feel multiple pairs of eyes on you, scrutinizing you like you're a bug under a microscope. You know he does, too. The two of you talking will surely cause a stir in tomorrow’s Gotham Gazette gossip column.
Slowly, you lean closer to him and whisper, only loud enough for him to hear.
“Want to get some fresh air?”
Bruce’s eyes snap up. They’re blue and wide and surprised and asking, “are you sure?”
You answer by taking a step away from him, nodding, and gesturing for him to follow you. He does, setting his untouched cider down on a passing waiter’s tray. Silently, he follows you through the crowd of your gala, weaving through crowds of potential donors. They were all clamoring for your attention, and yet. You shut them down with a gentle gesture of your hand. Tell them you’ll speak with them later. You choose him over all of them. Always him. He feels something in his chest he hasn’t felt in a while.
He keeps following you until you’ve both reached a private balcony overlooking Gotham. You’re already leaning over the railing, the night breeze shifting your hair. He sidles up next to you and stares down at the city. From this high up, he couldn’t see the ugly underbelly he dealt with every night. Gotham almost looks like a starry sky, a sea of flashing lights. You seem to be captivated by it.
You don’t acknowledge him yet. Neither does he.
“Did Alfred get the flowers I sent him?” You break the silence first, eyes still on the city below.
“He did,” Bruce answers in a hushed voice. He remembers how Alfred’s face lit up when they were delivered to his hospital room. Sat up so fast that Bruce had to scold him.
“That’s good.”
Bruce hums in agreement. He notices how your eyes flicker to him and then away, something caught in your throat, but doesn’t say anything. The breeze passes you both by.
“You know,” you finally muster, shifting to face him. “I missed you.”
Bruce looks away, continuing to focus on the view below, and scoffs.
“You know I don’t deserve that,” he says bitterly, brow pressed down and shoulders hunched in his tailored suit. Shame bubbles in his chest like tar.
You frown at that, leaning further over the railing to try and catch his gaze.
“You’re my friend,” you insist, emphasizing the word by bumping his shoulder with yours. “I’m allowed to miss you.”
“Friend” is far too light to describe what you have with Bruce. You both know it and the word torments you with a cackle. Warm limbs tangled in sheets and kisses, handwritten letters and confessions taped with pressed flowers. A “friend” isn't exactly what Bruce is to you. A companion, a confidante, a lover, something in between. He’d been all of them.
You've known him since you were a baby, your parents being business partners. You were bound to be close. Some days, you worry that a part of you will always belong to him, his name carved into your soul. Maybe a part of him will always belong to you. You think it fate that you were meant to be intrinsically woven together, an invisible string connecting you, no matter how wide the chasm grew.
Bruce is silent. Replaying that night in his head, when he said, I can’t do this anymore, and you’d demanded to know why. Bit his tongue, didn't tell you the truth. Nearly did, though, turning the thought around in his head again and again and again. Considered your reaction to him saying, I'm going to fix Gotham. Fix me. Considered it until he deemed it unsafe, until you were sobbing and already out the door, leaving him alone in Wayne Tower.
Yet despite it all, you’d been kind to him. Gentle in a way he could never understand. Patient with him the way one would be with a wounded animal, still offering a hand even after he’d scratch it away. It disarmed him. You were the one thing he couldn’t predict, the one thing he couldn't make a plan for. He almost wishes you’d hate him instead. At least he knew how to respond to that.
And here you are again, standing next to him above Gotham. Preferring to mingle with him above the other socialites at your gala, even if it meant sitting in silence. You’d wait for him, as you’d always done. Wait until he lets his walls down and lets himself breathe.
Wait until he allows himself to look at you, to study and memorize your pretty face all over again.
Wait until he allows himself to admit, in a tired grumble that you almost don’t catch, “I missed you too.”
Your lips curl up at that. You feel his pinky brush against yours until they're linked together. His cold, blue eyes firmly stare back into yours with a gentle glow. It’s a quiet renewal of unspoken vows.
He’s as much yours as you are his.
The air between you is buzzing, heavy, and filled with hope and longing. The chasm shrinks, the string gains slack. You see Bruce part his lips hesitantly, like he’s about to say something, when you hear someone calling for you.
Bruce’s hand swiftly flees from yours. You feel a chill from where it was. Turning, you see one of your assistants peering through the balcony door.
“Pardon me,” she says, one arm clutching a tablet. “But a representative from Luthorcorp would like to speak with you.”
You quickly straighten up, face and posture returning to perfect professionalism.
“Tell them I’ll be there soon,” you respond smoothly. “Mr. Wayne and I were just having a discussion about his company.”
Your assistant nods, closing the balcony door behind her.
Once she’s gone, you turn back to Bruce and wordlessly begin fixing his tie, just like you always used to. He lets you, watching as you adjust it into place.
“Have to make sure you look good,” you murmur as you straighten his shirt collar. “Can’t have Bruce Wayne looking bad, can we?”
“No, we can’t,” Bruce replies softly. His eyes flutter as you push his mousy hair back. You feel the subtle weight of his head in your hand. He pushes into your touch like it's instinct with a sigh. You allow it, tracing your thumb along his cheekbone before withdrawing your touch.
Lapels are saved for last. Your hands wander over the firm planes of his chest before you tug on them. He feels the same, all electric and warm. You let your hands rest against his body, savoring the feeling of closeness. You can feel his heartbeat through your palms. Bruce’s gaze is trained on you through hooded lashes, breath in time with yours, lips almost touching.
You’re being greedy. So is he.
“I'll see you in there?” you ask him quietly, barely a whisper, afraid that any louder would scare him away.
You see him glance away from you. Nervous. Hiding, like always.
“Maybe,” Bruce answers. There’s that familiar tone in his voice, the one that tells you he’s keeping something from you in partial truths and broken promises. “I might go soon. Check in on Alfred.”
Your brow furrows in suspicion. He notices, jaw tightening. You know he does.
“Okay,” you start slowly. “Just…don’t be a stranger, okay?”
“I won’t.”
Liar, you almost utter. You don’t. You drop your hands from his lapels and take a step back. Bruce swallows thickly, blue eyes darting back and forth from you to the ground.
“I- I can call later-” he tries, and you nearly roll your eyes at his attempt.
“It’s fine.” You cut him off, raising a hand to stop his feeble efforts. “I know you’re busy after…well, everything.”
Bruce stands awkwardly in front of you for a second, staring blankly and fidgeting with his gold cufflinks before realizing that was his signal to leave. He gives a hesitant nod before slipping inside, taking one last glance at you over his shoulder. You don’t look back.
Once you hear the balcony doors shut behind you, you let your posture sink, cursing to yourself. You try to blink away the tears that threaten to spill from your eyes as you rub your brow.
You’d lost him again. Just when you thought you had him, when you thought he could be yours again, he slips from your fingers like smoke. And you let him.
“Damn it,” you mutter to yourself, staring down at Gotham’s city lights one last time before willing yourself to return inside.
The chasm grows. The string goes taut.
It seems Bruce has left the gala. As expected, of course, but you can’t help the pang of disappointment that has made its home in your chest for the rest of the event.
Without Bruce, it's back to your usual dance of charming potential donors, trying to sway rivals to your side as allies. Unsurprisingly, it’s hard to convince rich people to donate a sliver of their money to charity. You find reprieve in speaking to some people, like the newly elected Mayor Bella Réal and Lieutenant Gordan. But nothing compares to Bruce.
As you meander around the ballroom, you think of those steely blue eyes of his. Cold like winter, yet with a hidden softness beneath the surface. You’d seen them euphoric, infuriated, and tonight, utterly defeated like a kicked puppy. Trying not to linger on the thought, you chew the inside of your cheek and take another flute of champagne from a nearby table. You'll need it if you're to survive the night.
After a few more hours of giving the same spiel to donate over and over again until you were sure your tongue would fall off, you finally say goodbye to your last guest before exiting the ballroom yourself. You only have to wait for a moment in the Gotham cold until your car back home arrives, sleek and discreet in black paint, and punctual as always. You step into the back seat with a sigh, waving at the driver to start the car again. You watch as the Gotham skyline flies by. The gothic architecture of Wayne Tower in particular catches your eye, towering over the city like a goliath. You wonder if Bruce was home yet.
But suddenly, your view of the skyline is interrupted by darkness. You realize your driver had taken a turn they didn’t normally take. You had every driver you had remember a strict route that they weren’t to deviate from as they drove you, for your own safety and to prevent scenarios like this. You conceal your mistrust under a practiced smile as you question the driver- if it was even one of your drivers, at all.
“Excuse me, how close are we to home? I’m awfully tired after the ball.”
You hear him swallow heavily before he speaks.
“Just around fifteen minutes. Please sit back and relax.”
You spot the faintest hint of anxiousness in his eyes in the rearview mirror, and that’s enough for you. Too nervous, too vague. This was not your driver.
You give the man another faux smile, perfectly playing the part of dumb rich socialite that they expected from you. But slowly, you reach your hand out to your side, feeling for the door handle. Whoever was trying to kidnap or kill you right now was an amateur. He hadn’t even bothered to lock the damn door.
In one swift movement, you swing the door open and throw yourself out of the vehicle, grunting as you tumble down the rough asphalt. You move to stand, wincing at the small scraps now on your body when you hear the screech of tires and an angry yell. Before you can even anticipate what’s happening, more men come out of the dark alleys surrounding you, all of them wearing the same question mark masks the Riddler wore.
Maybe these guys weren’t amateurs after all. They just stand around you, like a predator waiting for its prey to run. And you do. Bolting down the dimly lit street, you run like hell. But you then learn that your gala outfit is no good to run in. Your first mistake of the night. You can’t fully extend your legs the way you want, and your feet are killing you from wearing your heels for so long. You can’t help what comes next- tripping over the bottom hem of your gala outfit like a fool, crying out in pain as you feel all your weight put onto your ankle. You fall back to the ground with a thump, and soon, one of the Riddler goons is in front of you.
You hear the heavy breathing behind his mask as you attempt to get up and run again, but your ankle burns too much. You try to avoid him as he reaches for your hands, grunting as you struggle against him.
“Don’t resist,” the man says to you. “You’ll only make it worse.”
“Fuck you,” you hiss through gritted teeth.
The man only laughs, belittling and demeaning.
“You silly, poor fool. Soon the truth about your crimes will be revealed, and-”
You interrupt his monologue by kicking him square between the crotch with your knee. Your second mistake of the night.
You see the anger rise in his eyes, and he grabs your shoulder, pinning you to the concrete below. It’s only then you realize how much bigger this guy was than you. The rest of the men slowly surrounded you, and you hear their jeers and mocking voices as they watch gleefully for what was going to happen to you. Maybe you were in danger, after all. You almost think you see your life flash before your eyes. You hoped all the money you received as donations today would go to the right place. You hoped Alfred could leave the hospital soon. You hoped Bruce was home, safe.
You wait for the man above you to deal a blow, knock your teeth out, anything. But nothing comes.
Then- you feel it before you see it. A burst of wind, the man’s hand pried off your body. An inky black flourish of a cape billows before you and settles. As it does, you begin to recognize the figure. Heavy armor, dark as night. A cowl pointing up on both ends like horns. Vengeance, as street gossip called him. The Batman, as the news had recently dubbed him. The men surrounding you turn to cowards as they cry out and run in fear.
You let out a quiet gasp, heart still pounding against your rib cage. Despite the recent positive press about the vigilante, all the good things you heard about him, you instinctively cower away.
And maybe you're right to do so, as the Batman swiftly hits your perpetrator over the head (multiple times, in fact) before tossing him aside like a rag doll. Dread crawls up your spine.
You listen to him mutter to himself, cursing about something you can't quite hear. Then his hunched shadow straightens up, as if remembering you were right behind him. He turns to face you fully, revealing himself in his full, dark glory. Under the Gotham streetlights, he looked more beast than human.
You swear your heart stops beating.
“He’s alive,” he gruffly states, nodding his head to the passed-out lackey on the sidewalk.
You don’t say anything. You can’t say anything, frankly, still too stunned by his sudden appearance and actions, eyes as wide as saucers.
“Are you hurt?” Batman tries again, kneeling to your level, extending a hand to you. “I'm here to help.”
His voice is just the slightest hint gentler this time, as if he was attempting to soften his edges as to not scare you.
You look at his gloved hand, then the unconscious men behind him. You swear Batman’s shoulders slump at your hesitancy for just a second.
“Who are they?” you finally manage to ask, voice hoarse from the shock of it all.
Batman lets out a tired sigh, shaking his head.
“Remnants of the Riddler. They still have an ongoing hitlist, and you were next.”
“Oh,” you dumbly respond.
“Are you hurt?” Batman asks again, a bit more urgently this time.
“I- I don’t think so,” you mumble back, attempting to stand but wincing once you put weight on your injured ankle.
In one swift motion, Batman slips your heels off your feet with practiced precision and hooks them on his fingers. Next, he scoops you up in his arms, carrying you bridal style. His armor feels cold against your exposed, scraped skin.
“Looks like a twisted ankle,” he murmurs, observing your injury. “I’ll take you to the hospital after the police interview you.”
Your trembling slows as he continues to treat you delicately, like you were something precious to protect. His hold is almost comforting as he walks you over to the gathering police cars down the street. You’re almost tempted to think that you’re seeing the man behind the bat.
“Thank you,” you say softly. You feel Batman’s grip on you tighten ever so slightly.
As you pass under another streetlight, you’re finally able to get a good look at Batman’s face. A sharp jawline, stubble prickling his skin. His mask is sculpted to perfectly fit his high cheekbones. You move up until you see- his eyes. Even though they’re smudged with black eye makeup, the color is unmistakable, perfectly blue and cold.
Your heart drops to the floor.
Those eyes. Those damn eyes. Those piercing blue eyes that you knew like the back of your hand, that you’d seen so many times and longed for many others. Those eyes that could only belong to the one who shattered your heart, who you knew was trying to piece it back together. Those eyes that could only belong to-
“Bruce?” you whisper.
Batman freezes, stopping dead in his tracks.
“Bruce,” you whisper again, cautiously reaching up to brush his jaw with your fingers. “I know it’s you.”
Bruce doesn’t answer you, doesn’t look at you. You cup his jaw, forcing him to turn his head.
“Is this what you were hiding from me?” you ask him, half-speechless.
Bruce remains silent, as if that would prevent you from recognizing that it was him carrying you. But how could you not? You’d always be tied to him, one way or another, whether he liked it or not. He knew you as well as you knew him. He’d know you by breath alone, and the same for you, his name still carved into your soul with a dagger.
You see the bob of his throat before he speaks.
“I’m sorry,” he tells you, and you can’t tell if it’s earnest or not.
And luck must be on Bruce’s side tonight, because Lieutenant Gordon walks up to the two of you, interrupting the moment.
“She alright?” the lieutenant asks, nodding towards you.
“She’s okay,” you hear Bruce’s voice return to the timbre of Batman. “Just a sprained ankle. But take her to the hospital just in case.”
You open your mouth to protest, but the look Bruce gives you has you going quiet again.
“You’ll be alright,” he assures you, and you’re not sure if it’s Bruce or Batman speaking. “The Lieutenant can take you from here.”
He gently sets you back on your feet, making sure you’re balanced before fully letting go. You already miss the cold of his armor. You move to leave with Gordon, heart feeling heavy in your chest, when you hear Bruce clear his throat.
He wordlessly offers your heels back to you, and you take them with an awkward thank you.
“I should be going now,” Bruce excuses himself with a firm nod to Gordon. “Let me know if there are any updates on this case.”
Gordon nods in return.
“We will.”
Bruce takes one look back at you before he runs and disappears into the darkness of an alley, the inky black of his cape concealing him from your eyes. And then he was gone. Hiding from you, again. Like always.
You stare into the alley, trying to make shapes out of the darkness as if to will Bruce- will Batman- back to you.
You hear the Lieutenant call your name, telling you he’s going to take you to the hospital for a check-up and questioning. You nod your head, only half listening to his words as you shakily limp behind him.
The memories of the night replay in your head. Bruce alone in the ballroom, your near kiss on the balcony. The look in his eye as he left you there. The brutality he dealt to your would-be captors, only to hold you so delicately in his arms. The way he tried to deny you a truth that you knew you were owed.
It seems that even after all these years, you still don’t know what Bruce is to you. A friend, a lover, a savior, a stranger. Something in between.
The chasm grows. The string goes taut. And a bat watches you over your head.
Hi hi people, I'm very busy studying and idk if i will be able to post anything soon, but i want you guys to know that i'm currently working on a long Bruce fic. let me know if you want to be in my bruce taglist. love yall 💕
