Make Up for Lost Time
Yearner! Bruce x reader-fluff, yearning
The clock ticked softly in the dimly lit bedroom, the sound almost deafening in the quiet. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping absentmindedly through a book, though your mind barely registered the words. It had been days—weeks, really—since you had more than a fleeting moment with Bruce.
Wayne Enterprises, the city, Batman—they had all stolen his time. And you understood. You always did.
But that didn’t mean you didn’t miss him.
A soft creak of the door caught your attention, and before you could turn, a familiar warmth pressed against your back. Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into an embrace so tight, so desperate, that it knocked the breath from your lungs.
“Bruce—”
“Just let me hold you,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost hoarse. His face buried into the crook of your neck, and you felt his breath, warm and uneven against your skin.
You melted instantly, letting the book slip from your fingers as you leaned back into him. His grip tightened, as if afraid you’d slip away, as if you’d disappear like smoke between his fingers.
“I missed you,” he confessed, barely above a whisper. The words carried a weight that made your heart ache.
You reached up, threading your fingers through his dark hair, feeling the tension wound so tightly in his body. “I missed you too.”
He exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding that breath for days. His hands roamed gently, almost reverently, over your arms, your waist—like he was mapping you out again, committing you to memory, as if he hadn’t spent every night for years holding you in the rare moments he was home.
“I hate being away from you,” Bruce murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of your neck. “I hate missing you like this.”
Your chest tightened at the raw honesty in his voice. Bruce didn’t say things like this often—he didn’t let himself—but right now, it felt like he was making up for every lost second.
You turned in his arms, cupping his face between your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were dark, heavy with exhaustion, longing, and something deeper—need.
“You’re here now,” you whispered. “That’s what matters.”
A flicker of something desperate passed through his eyes before he crashed his lips against yours, pouring every missed moment, every stolen night, into the kiss. It wasn’t gentle—it was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to pull you closer than physically possible.
Your fingers tangled in his hair as he deepened the kiss, his hands gripping your waist like he’d never let go. When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged.
“I don’t want to waste another second,” Bruce murmured, brushing his lips against yours again, softer this time, like a silent promise.
You smiled against his mouth, your fingers tracing over his jaw. “Then don’t.”
And with that, Bruce pulled you impossibly closer, determined to make up for every lost moment.