scars
featuring: bale!bruce wayne x wife!reader
summary: after an argument, you and bruce sleep in separate bedrooms. but when he wakes up the next morning, you're missing! soon enough, he finds you, but he's too late. joker's already left his mark on you.
contents: nsfw, eventual smut, angst, p-in-v, oral sex (f!receiving), swearing, body worship, kissing and making out in the shower, non-graphic descriptions of torture and blood, potentially ooc bruce (my first time writing for him), joker as the main antagonist but he doesn't get any screen time + he knows batman's true identity, i hope you like flashbacks, 7.6k words
Gotham City. Darkness, criminals, and far too many guns for anyone’s liking. It’s the centre of all bad things in the world that should have been reset, according to Ra’s al Ghul. And as Bruce seethes with rage at the kidnapping of the only light in his life, he’s starting to understand his mentor’s sentiment.
It wasn’t always like this. In fact, your disappearance only occurred during the early hours of the morning. You were upset with Bruce and wanted to sleep by yourself for the night. The short yet heated argument broke out over how he returns to you nightly, bruised and beaten up. Ah, the challenges of marriage.
He tried to tame your fire. But alas, you weren’t to be placated.
Your last words to him were, “I’m just trying to look out for you, asshole,” before you slammed the guest bedroom door in his face. So he retreated to your shared room, basking in the hollowness of it as he winced from his weary body. He released a tired groan and resolved to rectify things with you the next morning by surprising you with breakfast in bed.
But he never had the chance to. When he knocked on your door and reluctantly pushed it open, he was greeted with an empty, rumpled bed. His sweet wife was long gone. The curtains billowed in the morning breeze.
After turning Wayne Manor inside out, Bruce stumbled upon a note written by a scratchy hand.
115/108 Second Street. Alone. If not, your precious wife will be dead before you can open the door. You have 24 hours. -J
Needless to say, Bruce read it and re-read it as he staggered back into the bed. You were gone. Was it sick that his heart leapt a little at the knowledge your disappearance wasn’t of your own volition? Probably. But that sliver of joy was quickly squished by the guilt and ire building up within him.
How could he let his wife be taken from right beneath his nose? In the middle of the night, the time when Batman was typically on the prowl for criminals to bring them to justice (or his definition of it, anyway), how had he let his perfect enemy steal his perfect love from him?
Alfred waltzed in, put two and two together, and urged Bruce to act rationally. But all rational thoughts had already been cast out from his brain. The billionaire bolted from that cursed room, straight to his Bat armoury. There was no time to think, no time to map out a plan. How long have you been waiting for him now? You must be so afraid whilst in the hands of that lunatic! Even if it’s dangerous or reckless, Bruce must go to you now. In broad daylight. Alone. Running purely on instinct.
His mind was too occupied on the drive to the given address to properly formulate how he was going to handle this situation. Even as the most important moment approached, all he could think of was the look of disappointment and exasperation on your lovely face last night. The way your brows knit together, how your hands had shaken as you patched up his injuries while simultaneously cussing him out.
It’s all too soon before he’s creaking open the unlocked apartment door. No stealth. Just him in a black bat suit like some lost cosplayer. His head whips around as he frantically searches the barren room for any trace of you. However, the first inkling he receives of your whereabouts isn’t through his eyes, but his ears. A muffled whimper.
Batman pivots to what should be the master bedroom, his footsteps menacing as he steps past the threshold. There you were. Like a dream—no! a nightmare. You’re lying on the bloodied floorboards on your side, gagged with a strip of torn fabric from your crimson-stained night gown. Your hands and feet have been bound with an ungodly amount of white cable ties, which clearly press into your delicate skin painfully.
Throwing all caution to the wind, Batman scampers over to you and is on his knees in seconds, turning you onto your back and tugging the damp strip of fabric out of your mouth.
Your first words come out raspy, laced with panic and relief, “Bruce! Bruce…” He shushes you and starts working on your restraints.
“Don’t worry. I’m gonna get you out of here, okay?” You nod. It’s all you can do. These past hours have been absolute hell. The brush of your dark knight’s fingertips (albeit beneath his gloves) sends a sense of security rippling throughout you.
“It’s gonna be alright,” he murmurs absent-mindedly, now slashing through the bindings around your ankles. You mumble his name, and a light smile comes to his lips, like it’s too soon to be relieved, but he can’t help feeling that way nonetheless.
Your rescue goes without a hitch (surprisingly). You’re back home before you realise it.
Your vision is fuzzy. You barely register Bruce’s strong arms around you, carrying you through his Bat lair and into the manor. But you do register his warmth. You can feel it seeping into your aching bones. Everything hurts. Your wounds sting, and are likely infected with how much time has passed since they were inflicted. Your throat is unbearably dry, and your skin is sticky with blood, sweat, and tears.
“Bruce,” you whisper. His grip tightens around you slightly, causing you to wince. He notices.
“Sorry. ‘M sorry, my love. It’s gonna be okay,” he reassures you. Softness surrounds you as he sets you down on a cushy couch in your shared bedroom. If you were in your right mind, you’d chastise him for letting you ruin such a beautiful antique with your bloodied body. But right now, you couldn’t care less. You don’t question why he leaves. But it makes sense when your husband returns with his butler in tow.
“Mrs Wayne!” Alfred gasps. He comes rushing over with a first aid kit in hand. Bruce stands behind him, his mask abandoned, but the symbol of a bat imprinted on his chest. As Alfred reaches for your arm, you flinch.
“Mrs Wayne—”
“Don’t. I…” You pause to lick your chapped lips. Gazing at your husband, you ask quietly, “Bruce, can you go, please?”
“What? No.” He steps closer to you, frustration clear in the crinkling of his forehead. “I’m not going anywhere, alright?” He spares his butler a glance and nods his head toward you.
“Mrs Wayne.” Alfred reaches for your arm again, but despite the pain, you shrink back from him. Your eyes are wild, frenzied.
“Bruce!” You exclaim. Swiftly, he plops down on the couch beside you and reaches for your hand. You don’t pull away, but there’s a stiffness in your body as your husband thumbs your throbbing wrist.
“What is it, honey?” He asks gently, his touch sweet and soothing. Holding your fearful gaze, he utters, “Alfred, can you get her some water?”
You don’t even hear Alfie’s, “Right away, sir,” as you’re immersed in recalling unpleasant memories. What happened when that madman got his hands on you… You don’t even want to recount it. Not yet.
Bruce clasps your hand tightly while his other hand finds your tear-stained cheek and brushes back your matted hair. “It’s okay now. We’re not gonna hurt you—”
“I know that,” you cut him off. Wriggling and trying to pry your hand from your husband’s, you whimper in pain.
“Honey!”
“I’m fine! I’m fine. Just.” You meet his concerned gaze. “Please go, Bruce. I don’t want you to see me right now.”
He shakes his head, whether in denial or disbelief, you can’t tell. “You don’t want me to see you right now? You’re my wife, baby. ‘Course I wanna see you. You’ve seen me at my worst. How is this any different?” He hasn’t yet loosened his grip on you. It’s not crushing, but it’s firm in a way that betrays his underlying frustration at your lack of cooperation since you made it back to Wayne Manor.
“Please,” he says in that gentle voice again. “Let me stay. You have no idea how worried I’ve been about you. And-and I’m sorry that I didn’t come sooner. I promise you, as soon as I found Joker’s note, I was on the way.” You flinch at that name. Joker. Jo-fucking piece of shit-ker-you can’t catch these hands. Hands. The mere thought of his hands, what they wielded, the pure agony he inflicted upon you, makes you shiver.
“I’m sorry,” Bruce blurts out. “I won’t say that name again if it—”
“Your water, Mrs Wayne.” You give Alfred a thin smile as your husband takes the glass from him. Bruce holds it to your lips.
Moving back slightly, you object, “I don’t need you to—” Bruce grabs your chin and brings the glass’ rim to your lower lip. He’s tipping the cool liquid down your throat before you can protest any further. Magically, the itch in your throat vanishes. Now, you can talk without sounding like a withering grandma.
“Bruce,” you mumble. He sets the glass down on the nearby coffee table and cues Alfred to open up the first aid kit. “I don’t want you here,” you whine. He casts you a pointed look.
“Don’t give me that.” His tone is harsh, like sandpaper against your skin. Instinctively, you curl in on yourself.
“Just go, please. Both of you. I can take care of myself.”
Bruce snaps back, “So it’s both of us now that aren’t allowed to see you?” You nod, a pout on your lips. “Look, sweetheart.” He shifts sideways to face you better. “Whatever he’s done to you, I don’t care. I just-we just-want to help you, alright? So please.” Your husband stares at you, his jaw set and waiting for you to surrender yourself to his care.
“You’ll hate me,” you say, sadness clouding your voice.
“I could never hate you. Especially not for something that isn’t even your fault.” Done waiting, Bruce grasps your arm and tugs down the strap of your night gown. There’s no point in resisting any longer. Alfred moves in with a wet gauze pad to wipe away the blood. What he finds is a swollen, red cut. A jagged cut in the shape of a scraggly ‘J’. Ugly, but recognisable. It’s guaranteed to scar.
They both gasp. Your lips tremble, and your vision fogs up.
“I know!” You cry out, bursting into tears.
“Honey,” Bruce breathes out, his voice coated in sorrow.
Through your sobs, you manage to say, “It’s everywhere! The ‘J’s.” And you certainly didn’t lie. Bruce’s blood boils with every discovery of a new, scratchy ‘J’ on your body. Your ribcage, your hips, thighs, ankles and calves were all victims of that lunatic’s carving escapade. The marks on your thighs, one ‘J’ scrawled right beneath your ass and the other ‘J’ on your opposite leg, far too close to your sex for safety, particularly infuriate him. Batman was gonna have this sick bastard’s head on a platter after pulling this stunt.
By the time Alfred and your husband are finished tending to your wounds, the sun is kissing the horizon; you’ve dozed off from exhaustion. Bruce slips you into one of his shirts before laying you down in bed and tucking you beneath the covers nice and snug. When he closes the bedroom door behind him, he finds Alfred silently waiting for him. The two men head to the Bat cave, so they won’t wake you with their ensuing discussion.
“I’M GONNA KILL HIM!!” Bruce yells, resisting his potent urge to throw the nearby chair into a wall.
“Master Wayne—”
“I’M GONNA KILL HIM!! I’M GONNA RIP HIS FUCKIN’ HEAD OFF AND FEED IT TO THE DOGS!!”
“We don’t own any dogs, Master Wayne—”
“That’s not the point, Alfred!” Bruce’s chest is heaving as he paces about the dark, cavernous space. “I’m going to kill him for what he’s done to my wife.” His anger quietens down into a smoulder, but his rage continues to burn underneath his skin. And that burning won’t stop until an objective has been achieved. But even then, will Bruce be able to move on? God, he hopes so for your sake.
“If I may, Master Wayne,” Alfred starts.
Bruce mutters, “Say it. You’re gonna say it anyway.”
“Right, well, instead of going on a one-man hunt, don’t you think you should do something a little more useful?”
The furious billionaire whips around. “What could be more useful than going after Joker right now?!”
“Oh, I don’t know, how about caring for your wife? She needs you a lot more than you need vengeance. If you’re still hellbent on killing him tomorrow, you can start by figuring out where he lives.”
Bruce grits his teeth. “You and I both know that’s not how that works. That lunatic could be anywhere right now, which is why I need to start searching for him as soon as possible.” He goes for his bat mask sitting on the computer desk. Snatching it, the billionaire pulls it over his face, and voila, Batman has taken the reins.
Much to Alfred’s dismay, the vigilante storms out and hops into his Batmobile, filled with uncontrollable bloodlust and an appetite for revenge.
It’s been about a fortnight since that incident occurred. Unfortunately (though predictably), you haven’t seen your husband much. He’s been returning home late in the evening and heading out just before you wake up. But even when he is here, he can’t look you in the eye.
You had a feeling this would happen. It makes sense. How could your husband love you when you’ve been branded by another man? Your body, which used to be yours, has now been scarred by the hands of someone else. The skin your lover used to kiss has been claimed by his enemy. What love can bloom when you’ve been unwillingly torn apart, where your heart is Bruce’s, but your flesh belongs to J-Jo…?
You’d be lying if you said you haven’t cried yourself to sleep on more than a few nights these past couple of weeks.
Thankfully, Alfred has been looking after you. Your wounds have scabbed over, but you’re still applying steroid cream daily to help with the inflammation. And that’s something you can do yourself.
The couch in your bedroom has been replaced while the original is getting cleaned. You sit down on it and take out that magical medical tube. This stuff has saved both you and Bruce on many occasions. But as you twist off the cap, the door opens. Heavy footsteps are absorbed by the cream carpet.
Turning your head, you see that your husband is back. His hazel eyes—usually bright with determination and vigour—are dull and rimmed by dark circles.
“Hey,” you say quietly.
“Hey.” He offers you a tight-lipped smile and wanders over to you. Bruce sinks down beside you like he did last week. But instead of alarm and concern in his gaze, there’s hesitancy and solace. You stare at each other for a long moment before you glance down at the medication in your hands. Naturally, he notices the familiar tube and gently takes it from you.
“You put it on already?” His voice is slightly hoarse. He clears his throat as you shake your head. “Let me then.” You reach out, intent on stopping him, but it’s too late; he’s already squeezed a little ivory pea onto his fingertip.
“It’s okay,” you assure him. “You don’t need to. I know it must be hard for you to—” Bruce soothes the cream onto the jagged mark on your forearm. His tired eyes find yours once more.
“I’m sorry that I haven’t been around when you needed me most,” he utters. Next, he moves onto your shoulder and applies the cream with reverence. “And I’m sorry that I haven’t been taking care of you like I should have been.”
“It’s okay,” you say, repeating your words from earlier. But this time, your tone is more understanding and forgiving.
His brow draws together as he contests, “No. It’s not. You’ve always stood by me whenever I’ve been wounded. But what do I do the second you get hurt? I go out there and hunt.” Softly, he asks you, “Lie down for me.” Doing just that, he lifts the hem of his your shirt to expose your tummy and ribs.
Bruce continues, “I should have been there for you. That’s what a good husband would do.”
“Bruce—”
“You deserve a husband who wouldn’t let something like this get to him.” His finger traces over the relatively small, ragged ‘J’ over your ribs. Meeting your dispirited gaze, he mutters, “I don’t think you know how much this gets to me. How angry this makes me.” His jaw twitches under the pressure of his clenched teeth.
Moving on to your hips, Bruce rubs the ointment into your puckered wound tenderly. If not for the obvious tension in his face and shoulders, you wouldn’t be able to tell of his burning abhorrence for these scars.
You offer in a mellow voice, “Bruce. I know things are still fresh. But in future, I want this to be a neutral thing.”
His harsh gaze snaps up. “What do you mean?”
You explain, “I’m still me, yeah? And I don’t want you to hate any part of me. I don’t want either of us to feel any kind of way about these scars. They’re just another part of me, whether I wanted them to be or not.”
“I don’t hate them. I don’t-I can’t hate you.” Bruce continues more gently, “What I hate is that I didn’t prevent these scars. They’re a reminder of how I’ve failed to protect you.” Silence envelops you both momentarily as he shifts from your inner thigh to the ankle of your other leg. Propping your foot up on his knee, he greets you with his soothing touch.
“Bruce,” you murmur.
“But if you don’t want us to feel a certain way about the scars, then I’ll try my best, ’kay, sweetheart?” He gives the top of your foot a pat before instructing, “Turn over.” Your husband helps fix your shirt and supports you as you roll onto your front. His fingers dust the back of your thigh, spreading the cream on your scab.
Pressing your cheek to the couch cushions, you utter with a soft smile, “Thanks, baby.” Bruce quickly finishes caring for your wounds before helping you turn back over.
“It’s the very least I can do. Now c’mere.” Your lover pulls you into a sweet kiss. Both of you sigh into it. It’s been too long since you did this. Your arms wrap around Bruce’s neck while his snake around your back. Days of stewing sadness melt as your bodies seek each other out, hands grasping and mouths moving with desperation. But uncertainty lingers in your movements. Your wounds are still fresh.
Breaking the kiss, you sink into his warm embrace and stay there for a little while, giggling at the prospect that your husband has truly returned to you, that everything will eventually be alright.
The past few weeks have flown by. Bruce hasn’t given up on his search for Joker. But he’s been around more often, much to your delight. Better yet, your husband has been delivering on his word to take greater care of you, from holding you close in the morning to accompanying you whenever you leave the manor.
Just recently, he had taken you to a pet store to peruse their selection of fine animals. He gravitated toward the puppies, while you couldn’t draw yourself away from the adorable kittens. Money has never been an issue for Bruce Wayne. However, you couldn’t find it in yourself to ask him to pay almost $4000 for a purebred ragdoll kitten.
“You can find them on the streets. Gotham has lots of stray cats. And if you really want a pet, we could always look at the rescue shelters,” You told him once you were back in his Lamborghini. Bruce glanced over at you, incredulous as to your reluctance to splurge on a designer cat. Isn’t that what every girl wanted? Some adorable kitty that costs an ungodly amount?
“I thought you two had a bond,” he remarked. Rain began to patter against the windscreen and car roof.
You shrugged. “Not really. I mean, she was cute and all, but… I’m sure she’ll find someone willing to adopt her.” Staring out the window at the passing buildings, you had asked, “What about you? Did you see any puppies you liked? I think there’s a pound near the police station, right?”
“There is, but it opens at odd times. I’ll have to find out when we can go and have a look.”
“Mhm,” you hummed. The buildings are growing sparser, replaced by green foliage and sporadic trees. “Are we going home?”
“Well, is there somewhere else you wanted to go?” Bruce stole another glance at you. There was this unfocused look in your eyes. He wondered what was on your mind. The feeling of his calloused palm just above your knee brought you back to reality. He gave you a tender squeeze.
“No,” you had answered, offering him a reassuring grin. It was your first time outside the manor since your encounter with that villain. And it wasn’t until you got home that you realised how grateful you were for Bruce keeping your trip short.
The memory brings a smile to your lips, water trickling over them from the showerhead. Sunlight spews into the bathroom, white and crisp as the day breaks. Your husband was still soundly asleep when you woke up. Despite his vice-like grip, you managed to slip away and offer him a pillow to cuddle in place of you.
Softly, you sigh while lathering yourself up with body wash. Your heart is calm, beating gently like baby waves lapping at the shore. Closing your eyes, you inhale the familiar scent of your favourite soap. The sound of rushing water fizzles out into the background as your fingers brush over the raised skin on your hip.
The scabs have now fallen off, revealing pearly scars in their place. The surrounding skin is still red and angry, unforgiving. It’ll return to normal in a matter of months, you know. But still… even though you’ve healed on the outside, your inside is getting there step by step. Not only did J*ker physically and mentally scar you, but he essentially cockblocked you for an indefinite period, too.
You’ve been quite afraid to take things in that direction with Bruce, and he hasn’t been pushy in the slightest. If anything, you’d say that his desire is more dead than yours. Well, it’s not necessarily dead. While Bruce has been working with you on the perceived neutrality of your scars, it’s obvious they’re a blaring turn-off for him. The way he gulps every time he brushes a finger over one of them. Even when you’re just going about your days, you often catch his eyes on any exposed ‘J’s like he can’t resist the temptation to hurt himself.
You tell yourself that he feels guilty, that’s why he pays so much attention to them. That’s what he had said, hadn’t he? That he feels angry that he didn’t protect you from J*ker’s cruel hands? But what if that was just a cover-up? What if he actually doesn’t love you anymore, and these scars only amplify that?
For a moment, your mind blanks. Then a laugh rises in your chest. What bullshit are you thinking about now? Of course, Bruce loves you. And never once has he made you doubt that. It’s simply your mind working against you. What else is new?
Your high-pitched scream echoes off the tiles as the shower door opens. “OH MY GOD, BRUCE!” He stares at you wide-eyed, like a young boy caught stealing candy from his father’s desk. A smirk spreads across his lips. He closes the door behind him.
“You scared me.” You pout, unfurling yourself as he slowly approaches.
“Hm, I can’t join my wife in the shower?” He teases while grasping your upper arms affectionately. Leaning down, he pecks your lips sweetly before reaching for your bottle of body wash. He pumps an outrageous amount onto his palms and starts running his hands over his toned torso.
“Hey,” you whine. “Get your own body wash.” He chuckles at the furrow in your brow, a handsome smile on his face that’s unfortunately contagious. Lightly, you slap his chest. “Bruce.”
“I’ll buy you some more, ‘kay?” He kisses your hairline. You place your palms on his pecs and feel his heart beating beneath your touch. It helps dissipate any residual jitteriness in your limbs. Your hands slip down his rippling muscles, all the way to his hips.
He grins. “You having fun?”
“Mhm.” Releasing him, you step toward the running water and begin rinsing yourself off. Suddenly, Bruce’s meaty arms wrap around your waist, and he squeezes you playfully.
“Bruce!” You squeal. His laugh rumbles in his chest and vibrates throughout your entire body as he coaxes you to spin around. His lips meet yours, smile against smile, and bodies flush. You choose to ignore his half-hard length against your lower tummy, instead softening into his kiss. Your husband’s hands cup your face, keeping you close to him.
The water runs down your back, washing away the soap and spraying into your pulled-back hair. You do not want to wash your hair today. But it seems you might have to as Bruce leans into you, causing your back to arch as you stay firmly pressed against him.
What were you so worried about again? He doesn’t love you? Yeah, right, he doesn’t love you, my ass.
You moan quietly as his teeth graze your lower lip, nibbling lightly. Your hold on his shoulders tightens as your tongues tease each other, first hesitant, but then eager. He tastes minty. Thankfully, he brushed his teeth before hopping into the shower with you. Spit spills at the corners of your mouths, which Bruce brushes away with his thumb.
Straightening up, he gives you both a moment to breathe, his cheek resting atop your head while you exhale into his sudsy [soapy] chest. But just as you thought things would rekindle, he adjusts the showerhead to spray onto you. His hands caress your skin and help to wash off any remaining body wash. You do the same for him, but your mind is stuck replaying the last few minutes. Have you done something wrong? Usually, a steamy kiss turns into a steamy make-out, then an oops, I missed my 10 o’clock meeting when it’s you two. But not this time.
You try to console yourself with the thought that your husband’s agenda is so important today that he can’t afford to get caught up in the shower with you. But the cracks in your lie are obvious. It’s the scars. Looking up, you notice his bright gaze on your shoulder. Oh, it’s definitely the scars.
Noticing he’s been caught, Bruce instantly apologises, “Sorry.”
You shake your head. “No, it’s fine.” Your brow creases as your eyes absentmindedly travel over his arms, bearing witness to the evidence of his nighttime thirst for justice. Yes, your scars were different. But you wish they didn’t have to cause such a divide between the two of you. His scars (still growing in number) have never been an issue beyond a subject for argument in your relationship. To say the least, it’s unfair how he can get away with them, but you can’t.
“It’s not fine. I—”
You interrupt him with, “I’m done now, so…” Avoiding Bruce’s stare, you shuffle around him to the shower door and step out. So much for neutrality and your sex lives.
For the first time in a while, everything feels normal. These past couple of weeks have been heaven-sent. The passing of time really does heal. Just last week, you revealed what happened to you a few months ago to Bruce.
You were walking through the gardens together, admiring the blooming flowers, when you brought up the previously forbidden topic. “Hey, Bruce, baby.”
“Mhm.”
“Do you wanna know what happened? With Joker?” You hadn’t stumbled over that word, hadn’t said it like it was filthy, or spat it out with disgust. To you, it was simply a name now, a memory which you’ve journaled and cried about countless times.
Your husband had sucked in a sharp breath, his body stiffening before he relaxed the arm that was around you and drew you closer into his side. “Only if you’re ready to talk about it.” He squeezed you reassuringly.
“Mhm, I’m ready,” you replied.
“Then please, go ahead.”
Steadying yourself with an inhale, you began the recount of your kidnapping and subsequent torture with, “We fought that night, do you remember?”
“How could I forget?” He offered, glancing down at you with his lips pressed together in a thin line.
You continued, “After I retreated to the guest room, I cried, and then I fell asleep. When I woke up, it was dark out. There were some shadowy figures moving about the room. I thought it was my imagination, you know? And then…” Gazing at the neatly trimmed hedges, those frightful images filled your mind. “And then the figures pounced on me. They held me down, and one put a cloth over my nose and mouth. I was out in seconds.
“When I woke up, I was at the apartment where you found me. I couldn’t think straight. Like, whatever they drugged me up on was still in my system. Joker was there. I can’t remember what he said. Something about wanting to hurt Batman in the worst way possible. Cruelty for the sake of cruelty. What I do remember is the knife. I remember its glint as the dawn broke.
“I wasn’t tied up or anything, which is kinda stupid if you think about it. But to be fair, I couldn’t really move so… A couple of Joker’s henchmen held me down as he… marked me.” You paused for a second, your throat tightening up. But then you felt Bruce’s hand rubbing soothing circles on your back.
He leaned down and whispered against your hair, “It’s alright.”
In a small voice, you said, “It really hurt. Like, I’ve never felt pain like that before. And I was screaming and crying a lot. I think I started mumbling your name at one point.
“I can’t really remember much after that. Joker and his goons left. And then I was just waiting until you finally came and saved me.” Birds chirped in the distance, ignorant of the secrets held close to your heart that were revealed. But your chest felt lighter. You could finally breathe.
Your confession hung in the air, heavy and stagnant as a quiet fell between you both. Until Bruce kissed the top of your head. And then your temple and your cheekbone, and before you know it, you were giggling as he peppered you in light pecks.
There was guilt and regret in his tone as he uttered, “I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner.”
“Don’t be.” You shook your head a little and placed a kiss on his jaw.
Your husband sighed, his voice deeper than before, “You’ve been so strong. You know that?” You nodded, your noses touching. “I gotta stop underestimating you, sweetheart,” he murmured before capturing your lips in a brief kiss.
Ever since your admission, there’s been a playfulness to your relationship that’s reminiscent of earlier times. Consider tonight, for example. Bruce is taking you out to dinner; it’ll be your first official date since that fateful day.
Staring at yourself in your vanity mirror, you’re positively beaming as you futz with your jewellery. Your husband always loved to surprise you with expensive gifts and nice things, the main ones being jewellery. The recent necklace and bracelet set he gave to you was stunning. Gleaming diamonds and divine filigree. ‘Just a little something for my precious girl,’ he’d said. Your chest pangs at the memory.
Dusk is approaching. Bruce should be waiting downstairs. With one last glance at your reflection, you grab your bag and head out your bedroom door.
Wayne Manor is pitch black by the time you and Bruce return. He opens the door to your bedroom and ushers you into the darkness. Only frail beams of pale, silver moonlight illuminate the ecru bedsheets and covers. You feel your coat being tugged on, and let your husband remove it.
Tonight’s dinner was splendid. The food was delicious, and your conversation flowed naturally. Bruce couldn’t stop complimenting you, and not only on your beauty. He praised your resiliency and depth of wisdom. He was as enamoured with you as you were with him.
Golden light washes over your bedroom with the flick of a switch. Shadows remain in the crevices, but there’s now a cosy ambience to the space. Bruce makes his way back to your side.
He’s already taking off your necklace as he murmurs, “Let me help.” Your hands find his tie and begin undoing it. You’ve missed this, the simplicity of helping each other undress after a wonderful night out. And you’ve missed other things, too.
Soon enough, you’re left in your underwear while Bruce still has his button-up shirt and trousers on. He kneels at your feet like a devout disciple. Confusion knits your brow, but then he grabs your ankle, his thumb on your scar. Ah. You let him pull off your heels, sighing as he kisses up your shins to your knees and then thighs. His arms wrap around you, pulling you closer until his cheek rests against your lower tummy.
“Bruce…” You comb your fingers through his silky locks. He tilts his head back, hazel eyes gazing up at you as though you’re his salvation. And in many ways, you are. A lazy smile spreads across his lips, lovesick. Nuzzling the fat of your stomach, he presses reverent kisses wherever he can, avoiding the boundaries of your panties. His fingers dig into the backs of your thighs before trailing up to your doughy hips.
You can hear your heart pounding in your ears. It’s been far too long since he’s showered you in his love like this. But it’s not his fault. It’s not only his former reluctance, but yours also. Despite your lingering nerves, your desire for your husband swells in your chest. Every inch of your skin is on fire as he kisses and caresses you. Never before have you needed him as much as you do at this moment.
“Bruce,” you utter with an edge of urgency. Your fingers gently tug at his roots. He rises to standing, arms coiled around your waist. You grab onto his collar, need apparent in your grip, and yank him down to your lips.
For a moment, Bruce is still. But as his shock transforms into amusement, he returns your kiss passionately. You drown in each other’s affection, hands pushing and pulling, and mouths barely parting. Who needs air when you have one another?
Your husband, it would seem. He breaks your kiss, and before you can pout and complain, he bends down and throws you over his shoulder. Your squeals resound throughout the quiet night as Bruce walks over to the bed and carefully sets you down on it. When you catch a glimpse of his handsome face, your eyes widen.
Cupping his cheeks, you grin. “You’ve got my lipstick all over you.”
He returns your smile with one of his own. “Good.” His lips find your neck and leave searing kisses all over it.
“Bruce,” you whine.
“Mhm. What is it, honey?” He asks, his words muffled into your skin.
“My makeup.” Sighing, he draws back and takes in your jutted-out lips.
“Fine, fine,” he mumbles, getting off you and heading to the bathroom. There’s no way you’re fucking in a full face of makeup. You might ruin the bedsheets with your fluids, but not with your Armani Luminous Silk foundation.
When Bruce returns, he’s got your micellar water and a few makeup pads in hand. He sits beside you and removes your makeup for you with gentle strokes.
“Thanks, baby.” You beam up at him. He pecks your lips before setting down the products and climbing back on top of you.
“Now, where were we?” He smirks down at you, making you giggle. As he leans in, you run your hands over his strong shoulders and arms before melting into his sweet embrace. His kiss is softer this time, just as deep as before, but slower as if he’s savouring every moment of this. And knowing Bruce, he most certainly is.
The incident with Joker showed just how vulnerable you really are. If he’s not careful, you could be taken from him again. Or worse, his distance post-incident could ruin your connection and intimacy. While his ultimate enemy is still on the run, Bruce wants to ensure that he doesn’t take a single second with you for granted. You’re too precious for that. Your love and marriage are too precious for that.
Your quiet moans fill the air as your husband makes his way down your body, pleasuring all of your sensitive spots. He peels off your underwear sensually and spreads your thighs. Positioning himself between them, he takes a second to look at you. Fuck, he’s missed this sight. Even with its new addition, his mouth waters at your glistening folds.
Bruce presses tender kisses up your inner thighs, even to your scar, because this is just you, this is your warmth and flesh, and this is the body he’ll worship until the day he dies. Your breath hitches at the firm press of his lips. But he doesn’t stop—he doesn’t even pause. Your husband switches to the other side, teasing you and riling you up until he finally licks a stripe up your slit.
Your back arches off the bed, moans tumbling from your lips as he laps at your folds, sucking on them gratefully before giving your clit some much-needed attention. You grip his hair, your thighs tightening around his head as he uses his tongue to bestow upon you the greatest ecstasy. His fingers grasp your hips firmly and press you into the mattress. But even his incredible strength can’t stop you from bucking and wriggling about.
His name is like a prayer on your lips. You chant, “Bruce, Bruce, Bruce,” like you’re mumbling some ancient incantation, about to cast a powerful spell. Hearing your blissed-out mumbles makes your husband smirk into your cunt. He lets you throw him about, riding the waves of your pleasure-induced reactions whilst administering even more.
You look so good like this, you sound so perfect when you’re breathy and needy for him. Only him. Yes, only Bruce can make his wife feel like this. No other man could. And that sends a sick streak of pride jolting through him as his fingers prod at your entrance.
“Come on, baby,” he coos, steadying you so he can properly slide his fingers in. And when he does, it feels like Heaven on Earth. You cry out, the pleasure becoming all too much from the curling motions of his fingers and his eager tongue on your clit. It doesn’t take long before you’re panting about how close you are, and inevitably, falling over the edge. Your entire body feels like a string pulled taut before it snaps. Your orgasm tears through you, causing you to cry out and tremble with poor Bruce trapped between your thighs. Not that he’d want to be anywhere else.
Your husband could do this for hours, and he’s almost tempted to as he tastes your release. But he knows what you want more than anything else. You want to be close to him. You want to connect with him in a way that only you both can.
Once your body has relaxed, he gently pries your legs apart and glances up at you. That expression on your face is one of his favourites: slack jaw, dazed eyes, sweat beading across your forehead and your lips all swollen from biting them in the moment. He crawls up your body and embraces you tenderly.
Into your ear, he says in a deep and raspy voice, “Hey, honey. You okay?” All you can manage is a nod. “Talk to me, sweetheart. How’re you feeling?” He asks softly. You throw your arms around his neck, your breathing heavy as you calm down.
“Mhm, good,” you sigh. “Really good.” Bruce kisses you lovingly, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. His hard length rests against your sensitive pussy. You moan loudly as he suddenly rocks his hips against you, his tip grazing your clit. And he doesn’t stop. The feeling of his cock sliding between your folds draws even louder, more obscene sounds from you.
“Bruce,” you mewl.
“Yeah?” He moans, picking up the pace a little. The stimulation is too much. You need him now!
“Please!” You cry out, burying your face in the crook of his neck and grabbing onto him tightly. Bruce grasps the back of your knees and hooks your legs over his hips, your heels naturally sitting in the dimples above his ass as he slowly slips inside of you. Your body tightens up at the feel of your husband’s cock, eliciting a groan from him. Supporting himself on one elbow, he shifts to hold the back of your head.
“I gotchu, honey,” he reassures you. “Just relax for me.” His words only make you clench harder around him, earning you several more throaty groans from him. It takes a minute or so for you to finally relax and let him push in further. Your body could never forget him. But admittedly, it’s been a while, and you’re sure in need of a reminder.
“S’okay, baby,” he murmurs, scratching your scalp lightly. He kisses your hair. “S’okay. I’m gonna move now, alright?”
“Mhm, ‘kay,” you say quietly, gripping him tighter. Bruce’s first thrust is slow and gentle, considerate of how long it’s been since you last had sex. He fucks into you at a leisurely pace, allowing both of you to feel every drag and squeeze.
“F-fuck,” you whimper, gathering up the courage to look him in the eye. He grins at you, so so glad to see you melt beneath him. “Feels really good, baby,” you breathe out, your hands finding his jaw and guiding him down to your lips.
There’s no better feeling than this: your husband thrusting into you lovingly as you kiss each other like you’ve been starved. You can feel him all around you, burning hot and bringing you an overwhelming amount of pleasure. Your joint shadows are painted on the bedroom floor and wall, carved out from honeyed light. Everything is right again in the world when he’s inside of you.
Bruce is the first to pull away. Strings of spit connect your lips like they couldn’t bear to be apart. His smirk snaps a few of them.
“Fuck, look at you, my beautiful wife.” You giggle quietly at his words, the sound punctuated by raw, irrepressible moans. You gaze at each other, brimming with immense love and adoration, desperate to see the pleasure-addled faces you both make. Your breaths intermingle, becoming one just like your bodies, and your heart beats synchronise.
Soon, the sound of your skin slapping grows in volume. Bruce thrusts into you harder, his mouth on yours and swallowing your every moan. Every time he gives you a moment to breathe, his groans become louder. You can feel how close he’s getting by the sloppiness of his hips.
“Fuck, honey,” he moans, kissing and sucking on your neck. You pull him in closer, squeezing your legs around him and keeping him deep within you. “I-” His deliciously pathetic little whimper cuts him off.
“Just cum, baby,” you coo. “I want you to cum in me.” He needs no further encouragement. With a loud groan, your husband finishes inside of you. You cry out as you feel his release spurt out, covering your walls. It’s dizzying, the sensation of him filling you so completely. You love it. You love him.
Bruce nearly collapses on top of you, his body weakening after such an intense orgasm. He moans breathily in your ear, hips still grinding into you languidly as he rides out his high and fucks himself into overstimulation.
“God, you feel so good. I love you. Love you so fuckin’ much, sweetheart,” he rasps out into your neck. You rub his back soothingly and hold him tight as he floats down from his high. “So fuckin’ beautiful n’ perfect. I love you,” he babbles, prompting a soft chuckle from you.
“I love you, too, Bruce,” you sigh, feeling relieved and ecstatic. There’s nothing that could compare to this feeling. You’ve been bathed in each other’s love, and despite the exhaustion clinging to your limbs, you won’t be satisfied until dawn.
elle's notes: not my best work, but i hope y'all liked it!!! i worked really hard on it!
@xinghuisknight hope you like it!
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© jellyelle 2026. do not copy, repost, translate, or feed my works into ai.
