𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦
⤷ bruce wayne
• {content} bruce loves using your butt as a pillow
It's past two in the morning when you hear the shower shut off in the bathroom just off the bedroom, which means patrol ran long again, which means you already know how the next ten minutes are going to go.
You don't move from where you're sprawled on your stomach across the bed, book propped open in front of you, one leg kicked up lazily behind you. You're three chapters deep into something you should've finished last week, and you have exactly zero intention of losing your page.
The bathroom door opens on a puff of steam. You don't look up.
"You're still awake," Bruce says, voice rough with the particular tiredness that comes after a bad night — not injured-tired, just done-tired, bone-deep.
"Mm. Waiting for my husband to come home from his little nighttime hobby."
"It's not a hobby." He pads across the room in nothing but sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still damp, and you know without looking that he's got that faint crease between his brows he gets when a night's been long but not disastrous. You've learned to read him in increments like that.
"Vigilante crime-fighting is absolutely a hobby, Bruce. You don't get paid."
"I get paid in—" he pauses, clearly searching for something "—civic pride."
"Devastatingly funny. Truly, Gotham's got jokes."
He huffs something that's almost a laugh, and then the mattress dips beside you, and you already know what's coming a full two seconds before it happens.
"Don't you dare—"
Too late. His hand lands square on your backside with an easy, familiar smack, and you yelp into your book.
"Bruce!"
"What." He says it like the most reasonable man alive, already sliding a hand over the spot he just smacked, squeezing once, unbothered, like he's checking the mail. "It's right there."
"It's attached to me, that's not an invitation—"
"It's always an invitation." He says this with the calm, insufferable confidence of a man who has never once been told no and meant it. Which, fine. He hasn't.
You swat weakly behind you, more out of principle than actual objection, and he catches your wrist, presses a kiss to your knuckles like an apology he doesn't mean even a little, and then — inevitably, gravitationally, like this is just where the night was always headed — he folds himself down and drops his head right onto your butt like it's a goose-down pillow he paid four figures for.
"Oh my god."
"Comfortable," he mumbles, already sounding half a step from unconscious. His arm slings loosely over the back of your thighs, anchoring himself there.
"You have an entire pillow. Several, actually. I've counted."
"None of them are this good."
"You're insane. You are a grown man. You run a multi-billion dollar company and dress up as a bat and you are currently using my ass as a headrest."
"Priorities," he says, muffled, eyes clearly already shut.
You sigh the sigh of a woman who married this exact behavior with her eyes wide open, and go back to your book, one hand idly dropping to card through his damp hair because — fine. Fine. It's not like you're going anywhere.
"How was patrol," you ask, mostly just to feel him talk, the low rumble of his voice vibrating faintly against you.
"Quiet. Couple of break-ins. Jason wouldn't stop narrating everything over comms."
"That tracks."
"Alfred left a plate for me. I didn't eat it."
"You're eating it tomorrow before you leave this bed, I don't care whose butt you'd rather be using as furniture."
"Deal," he says, already three-quarters asleep, thumb tracing a slow, absent line against the back of your thigh. "Love you."
"Love you too, you enormous menace." You turn a page one-handed, careful not to jostle him. "Squeeze my butt again and I'm telling Alfred."
"He already knows."
"Bruce."
He just smiles against you, eyes still closed, and doesn't move an inch.