SUMMARY: You return home late, which pisses of your husband but when he gets to know the reason things take an unexpected turn and you end up receiving one of the best and most satisfying birthday gifts ever.
CONTENT WARNING: [18+ mdni]: yandere : toxic behaviour and relationship : possesive and obsessive behaviour : established relationship : angst : hurt/comfort : emotional neglect : misogyny : mentions of cheating in the past
WC: 1.7k
an; this is not proofread! Also this is a part 2 of this
“Where the fuck have you been?”
That was the first thing you heard when you finally returned, you were somewhat expecting it considering how late it was and out of your character. But still you had hoped and wished for him to not be at home as he was not most of the time.
He looked at the back of your head as you were heading towards the grand staircase and had stopped frozen hearing his voice.
He had been waiting for you for quite some time now, after knowing you had not returned since evening and he was not used to be waiting for anyone, he was a very impatient man. He wanted and needed everything instantly when he demanded for it, if it crossed his mind it better be in front of him too.
So, imagine his reaction when he returned at evening calling out your name all over the mansion and heard no response from you only to get to know from the staff that you had left for somewhere, and that too without telling him or getting his permission, the rage he had felt was almost murderous.
You were very pliant and always took his permission before going anywhere, as you should. You were not much of a trouble and honestly he loved that, he loved that you always did what he asked for, always asked for his permission, that you were entirely under his control, wrapped around his finger. He even boasted about your obedience in his circle, taking pride in you.
He hated losing control and being wrong about anything, so he better not be wrong about you and you better not start acting out of line and disobeying him.
“I asked you a question,” he said, taking a step towards the staircase where you stood. “Where were you?”
“Out.”
A hint of anger and irritation passed his eyes when he heard that. “I fucking know that, but out where?” He asked through his clenched teeth, stepping closer.
“I was out with my friends” you said with an exhausted sigh, “We went out for dinner.”
“With your friends?” he repeated, seething. “You left this house, without telling me, without taking any of my men with you, looking like a fucking whore, to go to dinner with your friends, and that too this late? Do you have any fucking idea what time it is.”
You felt his hands wrap around your wrist as he towered over you, looking down at you but you only avoided his gaze, looking to your side without any response. “I called you like 50 times, you would know if you cared to check your phone.”
You did know and that was the sole reason you had switched off your phone. “My phone died so I am really sorry I couldn't check it.”
You felt his warm breath against your face, as his hands wandered around your waist and hips, as he touched your hair. “And why did you dress so cheaply? Do I get you expensive stuff to decorate your closet?”
“It was a birthday and they had a theme so–”
“I don't give a fuck it was birthday or whatever” he cut you off, his voice gravelly. “If your friends want to celebrate, they can do it without you. And if you wanted to go out, you should have asked for permission like you always do.”
He knew who your friends were, similar wealthy background girls like you, politicians and businessmen daughters and he had no issues with them, most of the time atleast but if you were going to behave like this just to hang out and meet with them, he was definitely going to have problems with them and you would end up suffering instead.
“You don't leave without my say so. Do you understand me? And if not I will lock you in your room, then keep crying.” He said tilting his face to the side to meet yours at your eye level, only for you to turn to the other side again, nodding.
You hated looking at his eyes, they were really sharp, predatory and cold. In the beginning of your marriage when you used to it made you feel so uneasy and scared, slowly you learnt to avoid his gaze and directly looking at his face.
That way it was easier to deal with him, if not whatever you have learnt and kept yourself out together it would come crashing down in one go and you didn't want that happening.
“There are people out there always trying to put a bullet through my head, get me dead, get something they can use against me. Do you have any idea how easy it would be for someone to take you off the street?”
“You're supposed to be where I can see you–”
He stopped abruptly, turning around as the large front door of the estate opened, flooding in the light from the outside as the driver you had taken for yourself walked in, arms full of and laden with things with different colours, gift wrappings, shopping bags from high end boutiques and brands.
He stared at the bags and the gifts as the driver walked towards you two. Slowly, he turned his head back to you.
“What is this now? You went shopping too?”
“No,” you said, rubbing your arm feeling a wave of anxiousness as you took in a breath before speaking “They're from the birthday party.”
“Whose birthday party?” He asked, picking up a small rectangular shaped gift box from the pile from the driver's arms.
“Mine.”
Happy Birthday, my darling. My sweetest, prettiest baby girl in this whole world, dad loves you alot. — Dad.
He read it simultaneously, the card attached to it as that one word left your mouth and everything came crashing down to him as he felt like he was thrown in a cold lake on a harsh winter night.
Fuck.
He had forgotten.
He had forgotten your birthday.
“Today…. today was your birthday?” He asked as if still in disbelief as he looked at you with this weird look which you had never seen on his face and you didn't know if you wanted to deal with it right now. Why did it matter if it was your special day or not, for him it was like any other day.
“Yes” you said simply, turning back towards the stairs, your hand gripping the banister. “I am going to bed, I am really tired also I am sorry I should have told you beforehand.”
“Wait”
His hand shot out, catching your wrist. But he didn't pull you back with his usual rough force. His grip was loose, his fingers gentle on your skin.
“Wait a second’ he said again, his voice getting heavier.
You stopped, looking down at his hand on your wrist, then up at his face, not really knowing what to do and what to say, honestly it didn't hurt you that he didn't remember it, because you never had that kind of expectation from him.
"Baby," he whispered.
The word “baby” came out clumsy and sounded really weird to your ears. The word felt incredibly strange coming from his mouth.
He was not an affectionate guy or the one to use pet names as that, he usually called you woman or wife when he was angry, when he was pulling your clothes over your head in the dark after returning home late and straight up coming to fuck you.
Even when he used words like that, which was a rare occurrence, it was to mock you or try to get you into bed. Right now the way he spoke that word was completely different, it almost sounded affectionate and intimate, like he loved you, his voice had a hint of desperation, which was not like him at all.
“I am…I am–” he stammered trying to get the word sorry out of his mouth which was stuck in his throat, he felt like he should say it but it was not coming out.
He didn't even remember the last time he had said sorry to someone,that too sincerely but right now his heart and mind both shouted together for him to say out that word to you, he didn't know why, he didn't know why this heavy feeling had settled in his chest when he realised he missed such an important day of yours, was this guilt? Is this how it felt like?
Sorry was like a cuss word to him but still he couldn't help himself as those words left his mouth.
“I…” He swallowed hard, his eyes searching yours. “I forgot. I am ... fuck it. I am sorry.”
You stared at him, completely frozen as those words left his mouth, so strange and awkward.
I am sorry?
Had you heard him right?
He had never said those words to you. Not when he stayed out all night with other women, not when he yelled at you for things you didn't do, not when he forced you to stay home when you wanted to see your family. He never apologized for his actions, never.
So, how could you believe him even if he was standing on the bottom step of the stairs, looking up at you with wide, desperate eyes, telling you that he was sorry.
“I didn't mean to, I swear to God” he rambled, his voice growing faster, more frantic as he saw the lack of reaction on your face. He stepped up onto the stair, bringing himself closer to you as he kept rambling.
“It's fine you don't need to worry too much.” You whispered not knowing what else to say.
“No, it's not fine!” he said, his voice rising. He leaned closer, his forehead pressing against yours, his warm skin touching yours as the breath of you two mixed with each other, the similar way your feelings were tangling with his, messy and unsure.
“It's your birthday. I should have... I should have been there with you the whole day. I should have taken you out. What do you want? Tell me what you want, and I'll get it for you right now.”
“I don't want anything” you said, your eyes slipping shut as you touched his face reassuringly.
“Don't say that” he said as his voice sounded pleading, thumbs brushing against your cheekbones. His touch was so gentle it felt almost foreign.
“Anything you want. Anything, jewellery, bags, anything I mean it, you just name it. Or a trip? We can go to Paris to celebrate your birthday, or anywhere else, wherever you want.”
He was offering you everything he had, trying to buy his way out of the suffocating guilt that was weighing him down in his heart for some god forsaken reason, and because he was feeling like that for the first time he didn't know how to act and what to do or deal with this strange feeling.
But you didn't want anything he was offering to you.
Though you were not going to lie, the word divorce did flash in your mind for a second but even you knew that offer was not on the table.
Okay but the Batfam thinking reader still doesn't know their secret identities and using it to their advantage to give into their desires without the guilt after saving her. The reader playing along because she's been lusting after them for years now.
Nothing like bringing Batman/Robins/Batgirls into your bed to thank them for saving you.
OH?? You little freaks/pos
This is actually canon to the pseudocest universe, I think I put that in once. But NOT canon to the Clingy Bruce AU.
Warning: pseudocest, identity porn(?), shame, they think the reader doesn’t know, but she knows, female!reader because anon used she/her pronouns to describe reader, SMUT, OOC behaviour, ‘daddy’ used in a sexual context, etc.
(Specific smut warnings: pseudocest, daddy kink, implied somnophilia, dub-con but only from the batfam’s perspective MOSTLY, overstimulation, edging, whining & whimpering, we’re torturing this family, the reader can get a bit mean, oral sex, penetrative sex, fucked dumb (?), Tim can only really curse for his part so I don’t know if it counts, grinding, mentions of masturbation, etc.)
BRUCE WAYNE
This one is the worst of the bunch because this guy is a FATHER FIGURE. He shouldn’t be doing this, not with a civilian and certainly not with you.
Half-aware that you have some inkling as to who is behind the mask but chooses to believe that you and him are both in denial about it. (He thinks you’re also choosing to believe it’s not him behind the mask but you are fully aware and accepting of it.)
Very hard/firm on you during the actual act but not cruel or particularly rough. He likes to take his time—to enjoy you completely and as much as he can before you are inevitably ripped from his hands and move on and get a partner who will be able to love you and touch you and hold you in all the way that Bruce cannot and that Batman cannot fully act upon.
He doesn’t know that you’re here to stay.
You don’t know if you were put in this position because he didn’t want you looking at his face for too long and somehow figuring out his identity or if he just wanted you like this.
“Ah!”
But you don’t really care.
Each one of his thrusts was harsh—slow things that almost knock you forward if not for the firm grip he has on your nape, pushing your face down into the pillow.
His low, modulated voice fills the room with rough mumbled words that just barely reach you and groans that vibrate through your flesh and have you clenching and gushing around him. Greedy like he’s the only man you ever want inside you like this.
“Like that?” He grunts, giving a hard snap of his hips that have you crying out and nodding your head mindlessly to whatever he said.
His free hand is low on your back and rising, tracing your spine like it was something miraculous to worship, like the arch of your back was something to commit to memory.
“Fuck- take it,” he hisses as you clench around him, trying to drag him in deeper, trying to get him to go faster, harder. “Take it, sweetheart, take it-“
The little pet name slips out naturally, almost instinctively. It’s what he calls you when you’re sleepy in the mornings and what he calls you when you call him crying to pick you up from school or whatever else.
It’s what he calls his daughter.
And, for some reason, it sends a flood of heat through your bones, turning you to mush at a simple word.
“Daddy,” you whine, legs trembling with an ache beyond you.
And he moans, crumbling at the sound of you whimpering beneath him, for him, though not really, and fucks into you harder, faster. “It’s okay, it’s okay-“ he pants. “I’ve got you sweetheart, I’ve got you- I’m going make it all better.”
“Daddy’s cock is going to make it all go away.”
Super duper deep in denial when he’s forced to confront the reality of the situation and that you know that it’s him behind the mask and want him anyway—maybe even because of it.
But he is also literally never letting you leave. Ever.
It’s this weird thing where he literally refuses to accept it and refuses to act upon any urges as Bruce until you get fed up and wake him up one morning by riding him.
DICK GRAYSON
Also deep in denial but in a slightly different way because he’s not your dad, he’s your older brother. (Even though you’re technically not related.)
Probably masturbated to a few photos of you and blocked it out afterwards.
Completely unaware that you know it’s him behind the mask and both consciously and subconsciously ignoring everything that says otherwise.
He curls his hands firmly over your thighs, helping you sink down on him by steadying you but doing it more so just to cling to your skin, to tether himself to something solid as he watches with wide eyes behind his domino mask as your cunt slowly, carefully swallows up every inch of him.
He’s gasping from the moment you graze the tip of him. His eyes are rolling back when you take him up to the hilt.
Beautiful. Your cunt is squeezing and dripping all around him, gripping at him like a hot, wet fist and the only thing he can think is—‘You’re beautiful.’
He doesn’t say it, he can’t with the way you’re beginning to ride him and leaving the usually chatty man speechless with the way you take him so easily, so eagerly.
But he knows it’s plain on his face, or what you can see of his face.
Face flushed, ears red, panting, hands gripping tight on your hips and thighs. He feels pathetic. He feels dirty. He feels needy.
But you’re gorgeous like this. Because you’re panting. You’re moaning as you lift yourself up, up, up until there’s danger of him accidentally slipping out then taking him in full all over again.
Beautiful.
“Love- fuck-“ he finds himself saying, whimpering with his skin thrumming a low tune of wrong, wrong, wrong. “Fucking love this cunt, baby- fucking love it-“
You smile and giggle at him, gasping when he flexes his hips upwards, completely oblivious to the fact that it’s your older brother who’s beneath you, that beneath the mask of Nightwing lay Dick Grayson and his depraved desires.
You are FULLY aware.
You both love each other a lot in this.
However, that love is inherently sinful due to the nature of it.
You don’t care but he does.
But it doesn’t matter, really, because even when he does find out and gets angry that you knew for all this time, he’ll still be the one crawling into your bed, crawling into your heart, and whining against your neck because it’s all he wants, all he needs.
CASSANDRA CAIN
Practically roleplay to her, honestly.
Finds out that you’re fully aware when you smile up at her in the middle of it from where you lay between her legs. You’re too relaxed, too willing, and looking just a bit too mischievous to not know.
Can’t find it in her to care when you swoop back down and begin to devour her feverishly.
Her hands grasps at the sheets helplessly, clawing at them and bunching them up in her hands like a lifeline. Cass can’t help but try to grind her hips against your face, trying to get more, but you press her hips back down and leave her whining and whining as your tongue slips inside her, the hot muscle thrusting in and out with an erratic sort of worship that she didn’t know you had in you.
She feels like she’s spinning out of control, tumbling out on the other side of paradise. “____,” she half-sobs, half-moans. You’ve been doing this to her for hours, eating her out, shoving your fingers inside of her, making an absolute mess of her cunt, but each time she gets close, each time she almost cums, you pull away with a wide grin on your face.
Sadistic.
“‘Lease,” she slurs, tongue heavy in her mouth and fumbling. “Please, I wanna- I wanna-“
“Shh,” you hush her gently like you weren’t being entirely cruel and unfair to her. “You said I could do whatever I wanted to you, you said I could have my way.”
Cass whines, something desperate and wanting crawling up her throat. “I’ve been- I’ve been-“
“I know, I know,” you murmur, placing a sweet little kiss on her clit that wracks through her entire body like an electrical shock. “You’ve been so, so good for me, baby. But you’re just gonna have to wait a little bit longer.”
She does sob when you slip your fingers back inside her and curl them in a way that has her just on the edge of it all.
“Just a little bit longer.”
Comes out the other end dazed, panting, dehydrated, a little scared of you, and way too attracted to you.
You’re a civilian, dude, how did you tire her out like this? (Because she let you.)
JASON TODD
The most romantic one of out all of them but still has an image to keep up.
Genuinely kind and gentle with you (even though he does make fun of you a bit) but also doesn’t know where to put his hands half the time.
Does not think you know who he is and that you have a thing for serial killers or some weird shit.
Jason is entirely wrapped around you and you around him.
Your legs are wound around his hips, ankles locked at his lower back, and arms around his torso, clinging to him tightly and pressing him down further against you. He’s got his face shoved into your collarbones, cock shoved deep enough inside you that you could feel him in your throat, that you could feel him everywhere, and with his arms wrapped around your waist, tugging you even closer, if possible, you almost felt like one being. Like there was no beginning of you and no end of him.
“Red-“ you gasp when he grinds hard into you, leaving you to throw your head back against the pillows.
He leans back only to come down and press sloppy kisses from the middle of your collarbone up to your throat, coming up to your jaw, and then, after a half-second of hesitation, ending at your mouth. You whimper into his mouth and he swallows the sound up with reverence. “Yeah, yeah,” he pants into your mouth, tilting his head to the side to deepen the kiss, chuckling when you accept him almost instantly. “I know.”
And then he’s sliding one of his arms out of the hold he has on your waist and sliding a gloved hand down, down, down your abdomen to that vulnerable little clit of yours.
He shudders at the feeling of your flesh beneath his fingers, cock twitching inside you. Then, his fingers are moving, pressed into your clit and massaging little circles into the nub that are driving you further and further into insanity.
He gasps into your mouth when buck your hips up against his. “I know.”
You may not love him. Hell, you may not even like him. But you like Red Hood. You like being beneath him. And maybe that’s enough for now.
Loves you very much.
He cares about you like a LOT in this and I hope that’s clear.
Will be having a bit of a revelation when he finds out that you do know because what do you mean you want all of him? What do you mean you don’t just want the Red Hood but that you also want Jason too? Crazy stuff.
TIM DRAKE
He does not know that you know and is taking full advantage of it.
There is still shame there of course, he’s not a complete degenerate, but y’know, not enough.
His skin is boiling. There’s a popping and crackling heat that has settled in his nervous system and-
He muffles a groan by pressing his lips together as you lick one long strip on the underside of his cock. Your eyes are dead set on his own, a mischievous, almost playful light in them as you take the tip of him into your mouth and begin to suck.
Tim fumbles to grab onto the desk beneath him, gripping onto the wood for dear life as the warm wet heat of your mouth wraps around him entirely.
“Fuck-“ he mutters, knuckles going white from the hold he has on the desk. “Fuck, fuck-“
There’s a low burning shame in him, an ember at the pit of his stomach, but it’s far too easy to ignore when you swallow around him and begin to take him deeper-
“Oh, fuck-“ Tim is weak.
“Oh, shit- just like that, just like that-“
Thinks he’s the one with the cameras. The one watching.
(He is terribly wrong and he soon finds out about this when after he finds out that you knew all this time, you lift up a usb drive with a smile, ready to blackmail him if necessary to make him keep quiet.)
(He has never been more attracted to a person ever.)
DAMIAN WAYNE
This one is going to be the most sfw out of all of them.
This boy is a ROMANTIC. He’s going to want to take things slow but may not be able to.
Genuinely thinks you’re the prettiest thing ever and wants to do all that weird couple-y shit he used to hate but is now realizing maybe he was just jealous of.
He’s kissing at your neck—soft, gentle, light things that have you giggling against him. (He wishes he could keep the sound in a bottle.)
Your hands are in his hair, holding him to your skin, holding him, and scraping your fingers and nails across his scalp pleasantly.
There’s something bittersweet about it. About the fact that Robin gets this but Damian doesn’t. (And may never.)
Robin gets to kiss you, Robin gets to hold you, Robin gets grind up against you until he’s on the edge of bursting and does, and you let it all happen.
But Damian is just your little brother. Damian is just the boy who climbed into your bed for comfort and not for your body.
His hands tighten on you. You let them.
He wishes he could hold you like other men do—publicly.
(And he can’t help but feel jealous even as he bucks his hips up against your thigh and you giggle, hands reaching for his belt.
Because Damian doesn’t get this, Robin does.)
He is going to be in so much agony when he does quit being Robin and pursues the medical field. (He thinks he’s losing you.)
So very jealous—not only of himself but literally of anything and everyone because he’s insecure about his place beside you and what he wants from you.
Yandere Bruce Wayne x Soulmate Reader (Smut warning: Masterbation)
The countdown had never meant much to Bruce Wayne.
As a child, it had simply existed.
A cluster of glowing numbers etched into the skin of his inner wrist, ticking steadily downward with each passing second.
It wasn’t unusual. Every person in the world was born with some form of soulmate bond. Some shared pain, some shared dreams, some found words appearing on their skin, written by hands they had never touched. Others heard thoughts not their own, glimpsed flashes of memories, or carried matching marks that mirrored one another across continents.
There were countless variations. Entire scientific fields had been built around studying them.
Bruce’s happened to be a countdown.
Nobody knew exactly why soulmate bonds manifested differently. Decades of research had produced theories but few answers. Genetics and geography didn’t determine it. Neither did bloodlines or upbringing. Soulmate bonds simply… were.
For Bruce, that meant a simple promise written beneath his skin.
When it reached zero, he would meet the person destined for him.
As a boy, he had imagined it the same way every child did.
His soulmate would appear one day. They would laugh together. Grow old together. Build a life together.
A future.
The sort of future his parents had possessed.
The sort of future that had died alongside them in an alley behind the Monarch Theater.
After that night, the timer became little more than background noise.
The glowing numbers continued their steady descent while Bruce attended funerals, inherited a fortune he never wanted, and watched Gotham consume itself one crime at a time. They ticked downward while Alfred patiently pieced together the shattered remains of a grieving child. They ticked downward while Bruce buried himself in studies, martial arts, criminology, forensics, and every discipline that might one day help him wage war against the city that had taken everything from him.
Years passed.
The timer remained a constant. Unchanging. Always moving. Always counting.
Sometimes he caught himself staring at it during long flights between countries. During sleepless nights spent training until his knuckles split. During lonely evenings in unfamiliar cities where he could almost pretend he was just another wealthy young man wandering the world in search of purpose.
The numbers never stopped.
And despite everything, a small part of him still wondered.
Who were they?
Who was waiting at the end of that countdown?
The thought felt dangerous.
Hope always did.
By the time he returned to Gotham and donned the cowl for the first time, Bruce had long since convinced himself that soulmates were a luxury he could not afford.
Batman had no place for dreams. No room for futures. And he certainly had no room for someone he might one day love.
The city came first.
It always would.
Gotham demanded sacrifice, and Bruce had made his choice years ago.
If his soulmate existed, then they deserved better than what remained of him.
So he stopped thinking about it.
Or at least he tried to.
The timer continued to count.
Days.
Months.
Years.
Seconds.
Its steady descent accompanied him through every chapter of his life.
It was there when Dick Grayson crashed into his world beneath a circus tent, a furious and heartbroken child whose pain mirrored Bruce’s own in ways neither of them fully understood. It remained when Dick became Robin, when he became family, and when Bruce made the selfish decision to love someone enough to let them stay.
The numbers continued falling.
They were there when Jason Todd stole the tires off the Batmobile, and somehow stole a place in Bruce’s heart soon afterward. They ticked downward through every argument, every proud moment, every hard-earned smile.
And they’d kept counting when Jason died.
Bruce remembered that night with painful clarity.
The rage. The guilt. Helplessness. The suffocating certainty that he had failed.
Even then, amidst grief so profound it threatened to hollow him out completely, the timer continued. As though fate cared little for the tragedies of ordinary men.
Years later came Tim.
Then Damian.
A family assembled from broken pieces and impossible odds. One that Bruce never intended to build and could not imagine living without.
The countdown remained through it all. A quiet presence beneath his skin. Easy to ignore, impossible to forget. Even whilst hidden from sight beneath the bulky steel of his jaeger-lecoultre reverso.
Sometimes, on particularly difficult nights, he found himself fiddling with the watch strap just enough to see the edges of it.
Not because he expected anything or believed he deserved whatever waited at the end, but because the idea lingered. A tiny, stubborn thing buried beneath decades of grief and responsibility.
The possibility that somewhere out there existed a person uniquely his.
Someone who might understand. Who might see every ugly, fractured piece of him and choose to stay.
Someone who might look beyond Batman.
Beyond the billionaire mask. Beyond the failures. And simply see Bruce.
It was a foolish thought. An indulgent one, really. The sort of fantasy he rarely allowed himself to entertain.
Yet it persisted all the same.
Perhaps because he had spent so much of his life alone. Not physically. Never physically. The Manor was full. The Batcave was full. His life overflowed with people he loved.
But loneliness and solitude were not the same thing.
Bruce had learned that lesson long ago.
For most of his life, every meaningful relationship had begun with loss.
Dick had lost his parents. Jason had lost everything. Tim had nearly lost himself trying to save Batman from his own grief. Damian had been raised as a weapon before he was ever allowed to be a child.
Every person Bruce ever loved carried scars.
All because they had stepped into his world.
And if fate truly intended to place another person in his life… What then? What kind of future could he possibly offer them?
Late nights spent waiting for him to return home alive? Hospital visits? Funerals? The constant threat of becoming a target simply because they mattered to Bruce Wayne?
No.
His soulmate deserved better.
Deserved normal.
Far away from Gotham and everything it touched.
A sensible conclusion. A logical conclusion. One he repeated to himself countless times.
The problem was that logic had never succeeded in silencing the small traitorous part of him that still watched the countdown.
Nobody truly knew him. Not completely. Not the way a soulmate supposedly could. The way destiny promised.
So the timer remained tucked away in the back of his mind.
A breath caught before it could fully form. A dream he never allowed himself to finish imagining.
And still it counted.
Drawing closer with every passing day to a future Bruce Wayne had stopped believing would ever matter.
Until the day it finally reached zero.
The countdown on your wrist had never inspired the same fascination it seemed to in everyone else.
As a child, you remembered classmates comparing bruises during recess, eagerly conspiring about how old they’d be when they finally met the person fate had chosen for them. Entire conversations revolved around it. Predictions. Theories. Daydreams.
You had participated, of course.
Mostly because everyone else did.
But even then, you never quite understood the obsession.
Perhaps it was because your bond felt so distant.
Unlike those who shared pain with their soulmates or dreamed through another person’s eyes, your countdown offered nothing tangible. No connection. No glimpses into another life. No indication of who your soulmate might be beyond the vague promise that one day, eventually, you would meet them.
It was difficult to become attached to someone who felt entirely theoretical.
The numbers counted downward. Life continued.
School became university. University became work. Friendships came and went. Apartments changed. Jobs changed. Entire years disappeared before you even noticed them passing.
The timer remained, steadily ticking away in the background.
Yet strangely unimportant.
Not because you disliked the idea of soulmates. Quite the opposite.
You supposed it was comforting to think there was someone out there destined specifically for you. Someone whose life would one day intersect with your own in a way no one else’s ever could.
But you had never been particularly fond of building your future around things you couldn’t control.
If your soulmate appeared tomorrow, wonderful. If they appeared twenty years from now, that was fine too.
Either way, life would continue.
You had plans. Goals. Responsibilities. A future that existed independently of whoever happened to be waiting at the end of that countdown.
Which was probably why you never developed the habit of checking it.
Weeks sometimes passed without you looking at the numbers.
Months, if life became particularly busy.
Your friends found that strange.
Most people tracked their bonds religiously.
You couldn’t remember the last time you had cared enough to calculate how much time remained.
Not that it mattered. Fate would arrive whether you watched the clock or not.
The thought made you smile slightly as you adjusted the sleeve of your outfit.
The invitation resting on your kitchen counter immediately drew your attention once more. Embossed gold lettering gleamed beneath the overhead light.
You had considered declining several times already.
Charity galas were not your thing.
Neither were crowds of wealthy socialites, politicians, celebrities, and Gotham’s elite pretending to enjoy one another’s company while discussing donations over champagne.
Unfortunately, declining wasn’t really an option. Your company had spent the past month preparing for the event.
Attendance was expected. Mandatory, according to your supervisor.
The memory earned a quiet sigh.
Tomorrow evening.
Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
You stared at the familiar name printed across the card. Wayne.
One of the most recognisable names in the country. Perhaps even the world.
Bruce Wayne’s name seemed to exist everywhere in Gotham. On buildings, hospitals, scholarships, charities.
A billionaire philanthropist.
A notorious playboy.
A man whose face appeared so frequently in magazines that most of Gotham could probably identify him from memory.
You had never met him. Never expected to. Tomorrow would likely be no different.
You would attend the gala, smile politely, make small talk, and stay for the required amount of time.
Then return home and forget the entire evening ever happened.
The gala was exactly as exhausting as you had expected.
By the end of the first hour, your cheeks already ached from smiling.
The grand ballroom of Wayne Tower glittered beneath enormous crystal chandeliers, every surface polished to a shine so perfect it almost felt artificial. Waiters drifted through the crowd carrying silver trays loaded with champagne flutes and carefully arranged hors d’oeuvres. Laughter rose and fell throughout the room, blending into the soft music drifting from somewhere near the stage.
The entire event felt less like a fundraiser and more like a carefully choreographed performance.
Not that anyone seemed to mind.
Around you, Gotham’s elite mingled effortlessly. Politicians exchanged handshakes. Business executives traded stories. Reporters circulated like sharks scenting blood in the water.
You had spent most of the evening attached to a cluster of coworkers, nodding politely through conversations that ranged from quarterly profits to real estate investments and subjects you suspected nobody genuinely cared about.
You smiled. Shook hands. Made pleasant conversation. Repeated the process.
By the time you escaped toward the refreshment table, you were fairly certain your social battery had died an hour ago.
“Not enjoying yourself?”
You glanced toward the voice. One of your coworkers smirked knowingly.
You laughed. “I think I’ve had enough networking to last the rest of my life.”
“Careful. That’s practically blasphemy at events like this.”
“Then pretend I said something about synergy and market growth.”
The resulting laugh eased some of the tension in your shoulders.
Around you, the crowd continued to swell as more guests arrived. And inevitably, conversation shifted toward the man hosting the event.
Bruce Wayne.
The name surfaced repeatedly throughout the evening. Sometimes with admiration. Sometimes amusement. Occasionally frustration.
Everyone seemed to have a story.
A charitable donation. An embarrassing tabloid headline. A disastrous date. A surprise act of generosity.
The more stories you heard, the more curious you became. You had never met Bruce Wayne before.
Nobody in your social circles had.
People like him existed in an entirely different world.
The sort of world most people only glimpsed through magazine covers and news broadcasts.
Yet somehow, despite his wealth, despite his status, despite his reputation for arriving late and disappearing early, people genuinely seemed to like him.
It was strange. Most billionaires inspired resentment. Bruce Wayne inspired affection.
You found yourself wondering what he was actually like. The real version. Not the carefully polished public image. Not the headlines. Just the man.
Your gaze drifted toward the entrance more than once throughout the evening.
The subtle change spread through the crowd like a ripple through water. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Attention redirected.
You didn’t need anyone to tell you why.
Bruce Wayne had arrived.
The realisation swept through the ballroom almost instantly.
You found yourself looking too. Just like everyone else.
Oh. For a moment, you understood the fascination.
Photos had never quite captured him properly. Perhaps because photographs couldn’t capture presence.
Bruce moved through the crowd with effortless confidence, greeting donors and board members with easy smiles. Tall. Broad-shouldered. Impossibly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair.
The sort of face people built careers around. One that belonged on magazine covers. Yet none of that was what held your attention.
It was the way he carried himself. Comfortable. Natural. As though the attention of hundreds of people barely registered.
You felt oddly nervous.
Which was ridiculous. You weren’t even planning on speaking to him.
You simply found yourself watching from across the room.
Then your hand drifted unconsciously toward your wrist. Your thumb brushed the skin hidden beneath your sleeve. The countdown.
A habit more than anything.
You weren’t even sure why you checked.
Maybe because events like this always sparked conversations about soulmates. Or because seeing Gotham’s most famous bachelor had stirred old childhood fantasies you’d long since outgrown.
Whatever the reason, your fingers lingered there.
Tracing the familiar shape beneath the fabric. Feeling the steady pulse of your own heartbeat.
You smiled faintly to yourself. Foolish.
Then Bruce Wayne turned, and looked directly at you.
Everything stopped.
Your breath caught. Heart stumbled. Because beneath your fingertips.. The countdown had reached its end. 00:00:00:00.
The familiar sensation disappeared so suddenly that for a terrifying second you thought you had imagined it.
Your eyes widened.
Across the ballroom, Bruce Wayne was still looking in your direction.
No. Not your direction.
At you.
For a moment, neither of you moved.
The countdown had stopped.
Your fingers remained pressed against your wrist, your pulse hammering so violently that you could barely feel the skin beneath them.
And for one impossible, terrifying second, the rest of the gala disappeared.
The music faded. The conversations blurred. Everything narrowed to those blue eyes. To the man standing twenty feet away. To the realization crashing through your chest with enough force to steal the air from your lungs.
Him.
Every second. Every minute. Every year. All of it had led here.
You couldn’t stop smiling.
A laugh escaped before you could catch it.
You felt ridiculous.
You felt ecstatic.
You felt fourteen years old again, lying awake at night and wondering who waited at the end of your countdown.
Your soulmate.
Bruce Wayne was your soulmate.
The thought was absurd.
Wonderful.
Terrifying.
And before you could think better of it, your feet were already carrying you forward.
You barely remembered crossing the ballroom. Only that one moment he was across the room.
The next you were standing in front of him. Close enough to speak. Close enough to see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes. Close enough to finally meet the person fate had spent your entire life leading you toward.
“Mr Wayne-” You stopped yourself. God, that sounded stupid.
You laughed nervously. “Sorry. Bruce. I just-”
The words tangled together. There were too many of them. How exactly were you supposed to tell someone they’d just become the most important person in your life?
How did anyone start a conversation like this?
“Hi. We belong together.”
“Hi. Fate says you’re mine.”
“Hi. I’ve waited my entire life to meet you.”
The absurdity almost made you laugh again. Instead, you found yourself smiling. A genuine one. The kind that slipped free before you could stop it.
“I think-”
Bruce looked at you. His eyes flickering over your face, your clothes, the event badge hanging around your neck.
Recognition never appeared.
Nothing softened.
Nothing changed.
It was the look people gave strangers who had interrupted them in public. Nothing more.
His gaze shifted immediately beyond your shoulder. Toward someone else.
Someone important.
Someone he actually wanted to speak to.
“I’m sorry.” The words were automatic. Polite. The sort of apology people gave when they weren’t sorry at all.
“I don’t have time right now.”
For a second you simply stared.
Still smiling.
Still trying to catch up.
“Oh.”
Bruce nodded once. Already moving.
Already done.
“If you’ll excuse me.” And then he brushed past you.
There was no cruelty. No emotion whatsoever. You hadn’t mattered enough for that.
The crowd swallowed him almost immediately.
One moment he was there and the next he was gone. Laughing with donors. Shaking hands. Moving through the room as though nothing had happened.
As though you had never existed.
As though the most important moment of your life had been a forgettable inconvenience in his evening.
You remained where you were. Frozen. The smile slowly slipping from your face.
Around you, the gala continued.
A waiter passed carrying champagne. Someone laughed nearby. Music drifted through the ballroom. Normal. Everything was painfully, horribly normal.
Your stomach twisted.
The excitement that had filled your chest moments ago curdled into something ugly. Something embarrassing.
Heat crept up your neck.
God. How stupid. How unbelievably fucking stupid.
Your hand rose to your wrist again. To the skin where the countdown had sat for your entire life.
Where it no longer moved.
You stared at it, waiting for the joy to return. For the excitement. For the certainty that this meant something.
Instead you felt sick. Because for one awful moment, you’d believed it.
You had looked at Bruce Wayne and allowed yourself to hope. Allowed yourself to think fate had chosen you.
That maybe all those stories people told were true.
Instead you’d received the same polite dismissal he would have given any stranger who got in his way.
Your throat tightened. Fuck, you felt like you were about to cry.
The hurt wasn’t coming from Bruce. Not really.
It was coming from yourself.
From the realisation that some small part of you had still believed after all these years, after all your indifference, all your insistence that fate didn’t matter, a part of you had still secretly hoped there would be magic in this moment. Something special. Worth waiting for.
And now that part of you was dying. Right there in the middle of a crowded ballroom.
The countdown had reached zero.
And for the first time in your life, you wished it hadn’t.
Two and a half months later.
The night had offered nothing unusual.
The Batcave settled into its familiar rhythm as everyone returned. Dick had claimed a corner of Tim's workstation and was ignoring increasingly pointed requests to move. Jason, having appeared midway through patrol without warning or invitation, was drinking Alfred's coffee. Damian sat nearby with a stack of reports, making notes in the margins.
Bruce stood near the medical station, removing the Batsuit piece by piece. The cowl came first, then the cape. He set the gauntlets aside and reached for the fastening at his wrist.
"Father."
Bruce glanced up.
Damian was looking at him with a faint frown. “You never informed us that your countdown had ended.”
He’d barely reacted. “What are you talking about?”
Damian looked mildly annoyed, like Bruce had forgotten something obvious.
“Your soulmate.”
Dick straightened immediately. Tim turned away from his monitor. Jason gave a short laugh.
"Wait. Seriously? You found them?”
Their Dad frowned. “What?”
Damian pointed.
Bruce followed the gesture to the inside of his wrist. The timer had stopped.
For a second, he simply stared.
Beside him, Dick grinned. “So that’s why you’ve been weirdly private.”
Jason scoffed. “Please. Like he’d tell us.”
“I assumed you were waiting until the relationship became serious,” Damian said matter-of-factly.
Tim nodded. “I figured you already had a file on them.”
A few years ago, Bruce might have responded. Might have denied it. Instead, he continued staring at his wrist.
00:00:00:00
The timer wasn’t moving.
It should have been.
For as long as he could remember, it had always been moving. Always counting. Now it sat completely still.
A strange feeling settled low in his stomach.
“When did this happen?” The words escaped before he could stop them.
The cave went silent.
Bruce looked up. Every member of his family was staring at him.
Dick’s smile vanished first.
Tim slowly lowered his tablet.
Jason blinked.
Damian narrowed his eyes.
A long moment passed. Then, “what do you mean, when did it happen?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened. His gaze dropped back to the timer. “When did it reach zero?”
Nobody answered immediately. Because the question itself was wrong.
Dick stared at him blankly. “…You don’t know?”
Tim sat up, picking at the cuticles on his hands. “When was the last time you checked it?”
Bruce opened his mouth. The answer should have come easily.
Instead, nothing.
Weeks? Months? Years?
A knot formed in his stomach. He couldn’t remember. At some point, the countdown had become part of the scenery. Like a scar. Like an old piece of furniture. Something so familiar that he no longer saw it.
Damian rose from his chair. "How is that possible?"
There wasn’t accusation in the question. Only bewilderment.
Bruce understood it.
If anyone else had presented him with a mystery this significant and admitted they had ignored it for years, he would have found it equally incomprehensible.
A soulmate was information.
Information mattered.
Yet somehow he had allowed this particular fact to drift past unnoticed.
Dick dragged a hand through his hair. "Okay. So if it's been at zero for a while..." He trailed off.
Nobody finished the thought. Bruce didn't need them to.
The timer had stopped.
Which meant they had already met.
Somewhere, buried beneath years of galas, investigations, crime scenes, interviews, witnesses, victims, allies, and strangers, there was a person connected to him in a way he had never bothered to investigate.
The thought irritated him immediately. Annoyed by his own oversight.
Bruce Wayne missed very little. Batman missed even less.
And yet he had apparently overlooked something that had been written on his own skin.
His gaze returned to the frozen digits.
Who?
The question settled into place with uncomfortable ease.
Who had it been?
A civilian? A witness? Someone from a charity board? A doctor? A journalist? A stranger he had passed on the street and forgotten by the next morning?
His mind was already moving through possibilities, assembling timelines, searching for patterns.
The investigation had begun before he consciously decided to start it.
And long after the others had gone upstairs, long after the cave had emptied, he’d remained alone before the Batcomputer.
His wrist rested against the desk, the countdown sat motionless beneath the glow of the monitor.
For decades, he had convinced himself the timer didn’t matter. That soulmates were irrelevant. That whatever waited at the end of the countdown belonged to a future he would never allow himself to have.
Now, for the first time in his life, the future wasn’t theoretical. It was real. It had been real for years. And somehow, impossibly, he’d missed it.
He stared at the timer, jaw clenched. Then opened a new search window and began looking.
Bruce had always believed that every mystery possessed an answer.
The answer might be buried beneath layers of deception. It might require months of investigation, thousands of hours of work, or sacrifices most people would never willingly make. But it existed.
Every crime scene told a story.
Every missing person left traces.
Every lie fractured under enough pressure.
Answers existed. The challenge was finding them.
Which was why the frozen numbers on the inside of his wrist irritated him more than they should have.
A lifetime reduced to eight zeroes.
For decades it had been counting.
Now it wasn’t.
Entire criminal organisations had collapsed because of details other people overlooked. Murders had been solved because Bruce noticed a footprint half a millimeter deeper than it should have been. He built contingency plans for gods.
And yet somehow he had allowed this to happen.
Somewhere, at some point, his soulmate had entered his life. And he had failed to notice.
The oversight bothered him in a way he struggled to articulate. Not because he had spent years longing for his soulmate. He hadn’t. Or because he suddenly believed fate held some profound importance. He didn’t.
But because he had missed something.
Something connected to him. That should have been obvious.
His gaze drifted back toward the timer. A person.
For most of his life, the soulmate waiting at the end of the countdown had existed as an abstraction. A hypothetical future. A distant possibility.
Now they existed beyond the realm of his mind on particularly needy nights.
Living somewhere in Gotham. Or perhaps outside it. Going to work. Paying bills. Existing. Breathing.
Perhaps completely unaware that Bruce Wayne had finally noticed them.
The idea settled heavily in his chest.
Because that wasn’t entirely true, was it?
If the countdown had stopped, then they already knew.
The moment one timer reached zero, so did the other. Meaning somewhere out there was a person who had already experienced that moment. A person who had looked at their wrist and realised they had found the person fate intended for them.
Bruce’s fingers stilled against the keyboard. A strange feeling moved through him. Difficult to define.
Because unlike him, that person would have noticed.
Normal people would have probably watched their countdowns. Would have known exactly how much time remained. Anticipated the day it would finally happen.
He imagined someone checking their wrist. Watching the final seconds disappear. Feeling the weight of a lifetime’s anticipation finally come to an end. And then what?
Had they looked around for him?
Had they searched the crowd?
Had they recognised him immediately?
The questions arrived uninvited. More troublingly, they refused to leave.
Bruce leaned back in his chair. The cave hummed softly around him. Banks of monitors cast pale light across the stone walls.
Above him, thousands of tons of earth separated the cave from the sleeping Manor. None of it held his attention.
For perhaps the first time since Damian had pointed out the frozen timer, Bruce found himself thinking not about the investigation. But about the person.
Who were they? What kind of life did they live? What had they thought when they realised? Had they been happy? Afraid? Disappointed?
The last possibility lingered.
Bruce frowned. Disappointed. The word shouldn’t have bothered him. Yet it did.
Because he knew exactly what the public thought of Bruce Wayne. The billionaire. The celebrity. The perpetual tabloid fixture.
To some people, finding out Bruce was their soulmate would be exciting. To others it would be a nightmare.
A lifetime of reporters. Paparazzi. Public scrutiny. Danger. Every enemy Batman had ever made.
Bruce knew better than anyone that proximity to him carried consequences.
The evidence sat framed across the Manor.
The thought darkened his expression. Whoever they were, they deserved better than that.
And then Bruce paused. His eyes slowly narrowed. Because that thought implied something else. Something he hadn’t consciously acknowledged until now.
It didn't matter.
That lie was what kept you going after the gala. It wasn’t grief. Grief implied loss, implied that you had possessed something to begin with.
You hadn't. Bruce Wayne had never been yours.
And yet, something inside of you had still died that night.
You still went to work. Still paid your bills. Still answered texts. Still laughed when friends made jokes.
From the outside, nothing had changed.
Inside, however, there was a deep hole where something important used to live.
Hope, perhaps.
Or whatever foolish thing had survived all those years beneath your indifference.
You had spent your entire life insisting that the countdown didn't matter. That fate didn't matter. That your soulmate was merely a possibility waiting somewhere in the distance and not the center of your universe.
Then the timer reached zero.
And you discovered exactly how much you had been lying to yourself.
Because if it truly hadn't mattered, then seeing Bruce Wayne across that ballroom wouldn't have hurt the way it did.
If it truly hadn't mattered, then his face wouldn't still appear in your nightmares. The sight of his name wouldn't make your stomach twist like someone had reached into your chest and grabbed hold of your ribs.
Yet it did. Every time, without fail.
Three days after the gala, you stopped in front of a coffee shop on your way to work.
A newspaper sat in the display window.
BRUCE WAYNE ANNOUNCES THE EXPANSION OF FOUNDATION PROGRAMMES.
The headline wasn't even particularly large, just another article among dozens. A perfectly ordinary thing.
Yet the moment your eyes landed on it, nausea rolled through you so violently that you nearly turned aroun and walked home.
You stood frozen on the sidewalk, just staring blankly. You hated yourself for pausing.
Because there he was.
Photographed beneath bright camera flashes. Smiling. Beautiful.
Shit, he was beautiful.
It would have been easier if he wasn't. Easier if fate had chosen some ordinary man. Someone forgettable, whose face wouldn't follow you everywhere.
But Bruce looked like something sculpted rather than born.
Like whoever had created him had started with every impossible standard of beauty and decided they still weren't enough.
Even frozen in grainy newsprint, he seemed unreal.
Dark hair falling perfectly despite the cameras. Strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, those impossible blue eyes. The kind of watercolour people wrote poetry about. The kind that belonged to summer skies and oceans and things too beautiful to touch.
You remembered looking into those eyes across the ballroom. Remembered your heart stopping. Thinking, absurdly, that of course fate had chosen someone beautiful.
Soulmates were supposed to be extraordinary. And Bruce Wayne was sure as hell extraordinary.
Broad shoulders beneath perfectly tailored suits. Strong hands. Easy smiles. A laugh that seemed capable of convincing entire rooms to laugh with him. Not merely attractive. Handsome. Beautiful in the way ancient gods were described. The sort of beauty that made people stare before they realised they were staring.
He carried himself with the effortless confidence of someone who had spent his entire life being admired. Someone who had never needed to wonder if people found him desirable because the answer had always been obvious.
And somehow fate had looked at him, then looked at you, and declared that you belonged together.
You left the coffee shop without buying anything.
After that, you started noticing him everywhere.
It felt cruel. As though the universe had developed a sense of humor specifically to torment you.
Wayne Enterprises logos decorated entire buildings. Wayne Foundation advertisements appeared on buses. Charity campaigns featured his photograph. Magazine covers displayed his face near checkout counters. Televisions in waiting rooms played interviews. Articles appeared online. Photographs surfaced endlessly. Everywhere you looked, Bruce Wayne existed.
You couldn't escape him. Couldn't erase him.
The worst part was that everyone else saw those images and reacted normally.
Nobody understood what you saw. Nobody knew what it felt like.
Your coworkers saw Gotham's favourite billionaire. Your friends saw a celebrity. Strangers saw a philanthropist. You saw your soulmate.
You saw the man whose timer had stopped when yours did. The man who had looked directly at you, then dismissed you.
Sometimes you found yourself staring at the pics longer than you meant to.
Your eyes refused to look away. Despite everything, some awful traitorous primal part of you still recognise d him. Still instinctually saw him as yours.
The slight curve of his smile. The shadows beneath his eyes. The way his expensive suits felt designed to emphasise the width of his shoulders. The way his presence somehow dominated photographs even when surrounded by dozens of other people.
You hated that you noticed. Hated that your heart still reacted. That attraction remained long after hope had died.
Because Bruce Wayne was beautiful. Painfully, unfairly, devastatingly beautiful.
The kind that made the stinging rejection feel worse.
If he had been cruel, you could have hated him. If he had mocked you, anger could have replaced the hurt. But he hadn't done either.
He’d made living unbearable.
Bruce hadn't rejected you because he disliked you. He hadn't rejected you because you were unworthy. He hadn't even rejected you at all.
To reject someone required acknowledgment.
Bruce Wayne simply hadn't cared enough to notice. You had been forgettable. An interruption. A stranger in a crowded room.
It was fucking humiliating.
To everyone else, your countdown had finally reached zero. A happy occasion. A miracle. A dream-come-true.
People congratulated you. Asked questions. Smiled knowingly.
You learned to lie.
"Oh, I haven't met them yet." "Maybe we crossed paths without realizing." "I'm not really focused on it."
Easy answers. No one ever suspected the truth.
Didn’t know that every mention of soulmates felt like someone digging a knife into an already sore bruise.
That fate itself had started feeling so incredibly cruel.
No one knew that your countdown had ended beside crystal chandeliers and champagne glasses and the most beautiful man you'd ever seen.
Hw could you explain to anyone that he had walked away?
How could you describe the experience of finding the person the universe created specifically for you, only to discover that your existence wasn’t even important enough to remember?
There weren't words for that.
Every morning you woke up, and every day Bruce Wayne's name appeared somewhere.
On buildings. Headlines. TVscreens. Charity banners. A constant reminder. A monument to something you desperately wished you could forget.
You never admitted how much it affected you. Not even to yourself.
Instead you learned to look away. To change channels. To scroll past articles. To cross the street rather than walk beneath buildings bearing his name.
Small, pathetic things.
Yet necessary.
Because every glimpse felt like reopening a wound that refused to heal.
And somewhere deep down, beneath the humiliation and hurt and anger and disappointment, existed a truth you hated even more.
You still thought he was so disgustingly beautiful. Remembered the moment he looked at you. Could still feel the countdown reaching zero.
And no matter how hard you tried, some part of you still mourned the future that had died before it ever had the chance to begin.
Finding you should have taken longer.
Bruce expected months. Years, maybe. The list of possibilities was absurd.
A countdown bond narrowed the search considerably compared to shared pain or dreams, but it was still thousands of people. Tens of thousands, depending on the timeframe. Every person he'd spoken to. Every person he'd stood beside. Every handshake. Every conversation. Every fleeting interaction that had seemed insignificant at the time.
Ordinarily, that would have made the investigation difficult.
Instead, it became embarrassingly simple.
Because unlike other soul bonds, a countdown created a very specific moment. A beginning.
Bruce only needed to determine when his timer had stopped. Then identify everyone he'd interacted with during that period. The rest was elimination.
He discovered quickly that he had a significant advantage.
Over the past five months, Bruce had only personally interacted with nine people who possessed countdown bonds.
Nine.
One was a long-time business partner whose timer still had three years remaining.
Two were married.
Another had met their soulmate publicly several weeks prior.
The remaining names disappeared one by one beneath scrutiny.
Until only one remained.
You.
The file sat open on the Batcomputer. Bruce stared at it for a long time.
Name.
Age.
Employment history.
Education.
Address.
Nothing remarkable. Nothing that should have caused his pulse to stumble the way it did. Yet it did.
Because beside your photograph sat a timestamp. Wayne Foundation Annual Renewal Gala.
Two and a half months ago.
Bruce went still. The gala.
He couldn’t remember you at all.
He remembered the event. The schedule. The donor meetings. The practiced speeches. The endless boring conversations. The uncomfortable sensation that accompanied the recollection made his stomach tighten.
Because if the countdown had ended that night, then you had been there. Somewhere inside that ballroom.
His soulmate had stood within arm's reach, and he hadn't known.
Bruce leaned back slowly.
The photograph remained illuminated on the monitor.
You looked ordinary. Not in a bad way. Just real. A person.
His person.
The thought appeared uninvited.
His gaze lingered longer than necessary. Memorising details.
The shape of your smile in the employee photograph attached to the company website. The slight tilt of your head. The way your eyes seemed brighter in candid images than posed ones.
Ridiculous, meaningless observations.
Yet he continued looking.
Eventually, Bruce opened the gala guest registry. Cross-referenced attendance records.
Security footage. Photographs. Anything.
Everything.
He found you four hours later.
Camera seventeen. Ballroom east entrance. Timestamped twelve minutes before the countdown likely reached zero.
The footage was silent.
You stood speaking with coworkers. Laughing at something. So… bright.
Unaware that he even existed beyond headlines and magazine covers.
He watched the clip so many times that domething uncomfortable settled beneath his ribs.
He knew what was about to happen.
Your timer was about to reach zero. His timer was about to reach zero.
You found him.
You’d crossed the room.
And he walked away.
Hell, he hadn’t even properly looked at you.
Bruce stared at the paused frame.
For the first time since beginning the investigation, a deep nausea rolled through him.
He remembered that interaction vaguely now.
A stranger approaching. A voice trying to get his attention. A laugh. An interruption between meetings.
Nothing important or memorable. Nothing-
His jaw clenenched.
No.
Not nothing.
You.
It had been you.
His soulmate.
The person fate had spent decades leading toward him.
The person whose existence he had secretly imagined during sleepless nights and lonely flights and moments of weakness he never admitted to anyone.
Bruce rose from his chair.
The cave remained silent around him. Cold. Empty without his boys.
The monitor focused on your face. He couldn’t pull his eyes away.
For two and a half months, you had known.
You'd known exactly who he was.
And if Bruce understood people half as well as he believed he did, then you had probably interpreted that encounter exactly the way anyone would.
You thought he'd rejected you.
Bruce found himself imagining it despite having no desire to.
You walking across that ballroom. Excited. Hopeful. Nervous. Only to be brushed aside.
His stomach twisted.
You had spent your entire life moving toward him. And he'd made you feel unwanted.
A muscle jumped in his jaw. No. Unacceptable.
You belonged to him.
Bruce had spent most of his life convincing himself he could survive without a soulmate.
Now he found himself staring at your photograph at three in the morning, unable to look away. Unable to stop imagining your reaction when you learned the truth. To stop thinking about the hurt he had unknowingly caused. And most concerning of all, unable to stop wanting.
Not merely to meet you.
To keep you close.
Safe.
Where nothing could take you away before he had the chance to make this right.
You were halfway through answering emails when your manager appeared beside your desk.
"Got a minute?"
You looked up. "Sure."
"We've had a request come through."
That wasn't unusual. The company received requests constantly.
You nodded for them to continue.
"They specifically asked for you."
That was unusual.
Your brow furrowed. "Me?"
"Apparently." Your manager sounded just as confused.
You accepted the folder they handed over, then immediately wished you hadn't. The logo printed across the front was impossible to miss.
Wayne Foundation.
Your stomach dropped.
For a moment, neither of you spoke.
Your manager misread your expression immediately. "Good news, actually."
Good. Right.
You’d almost forgotten that normal people didn't feel like they were on the verge of breaking down every time they saw that name.
You forced a smile. "What's the project?"
"A community outreach initiative. They've been reviewing applicants from several companies."
It was like the name seemed determined to follow you everywhere.
"Apparently someone on their end requested you specifically."
The confusion in your manager's voice mirrored your own.
"Have you worked with them before?"
"No." The answer came too quickly. You cleared your throat. "Not personally."
Your manager nodded. "Well, whoever reviewed your profile liked something."
Maybe. Or maybe fate simply wasn't finished laughing at you yet.
You waited until they left before opening the folder.
The proposal itself looked normal. Professional. Routine. Yet a strange feeling settled low in your stomach.
Because your name appeared throughout the documentation.
You stared at the pages for several seconds then shook your head. Paranoia. Nothing more.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were. The Wayne Foundation employed thousands of people. This was coincidence. It had to be.
Yet later that evening, as you prepared to leave work, you found yourself looking at the folder again.
Reading your name.
And wondering why the uneasy feeling refused to disappear.
←↓→↑
The project itself was harmless. Boring, even.
Several meetings. A handful of planning sessions. Far too many emails. Just.. normal stuff.
And yet you found yourself running into the same problem repeatedly.
People always seemed to know who you were.
Not coworkers or clients, it would probably hurt your feelings if they didn’t know your name.
But Wayne employees.
The first time it happened, you ignored it. The second time, you thought about it for a bit before shaking it off. The third time, it became impossible not to think about.
A woman stood beside the refreshments table wearing a Wayne Foundation identification badge, smiling like she knew you as she called out your name.
You glanced up from your coffee, offering a polite smile. "Yeah?"
Her expression brightened immediately. "Oh good."
Good?
You waited.
Instead, she simply smiled. "Sorry. I've heard nice things."
Before you could ask from whom, someone called her name from across the room.
The conversation ended there. Leaving you standing alone holding a paper cup and feeling vaguely unsettled.
She'd heard nice things.
From who?
About what?
Then you’d received an email. Then another. And another.
Nothing inappropriate or personal. Just opportunities. Projects. Invitations. Networking events. Requests.
All connected to Wayne Enterprises or one of its countless subsidiaries.
The attention made no sense. You weren't exceptionally qualified. You weren't particularly influential. There were hundreds of people with better resumes. Thousands.
Yet somehow your name kept appearing.
Each coincidence felt harmless on its own.
Together, they felt deliberate.
There was only one explanation your brain kept returning to, and it was ridiculous.
Bruce Wayne didn't know who you were.
Bruce Wayne had never known who you were.
The memory still hurt. Less than before, but enough.
You shoved the thought away and focused on work. Unfortunately, work wasn't cooperating.
"There's a gala next month."
You nearly choked on your drink.
Your coworker blinked. "...You okay?"
"No."
You set the glass down.
"Sorry. What?"
"A gala."
Absolutely not.
The immediate response rose so quickly that you nearly said it aloud.
Your coworker laughed.
"That's about the reaction I expected."
"No."
"That's not even what I asked."
"No anyway."
The laugh grew louder. "It's mandatory."
Of course it was. You dropped your forehead onto the table.
Somewhere above you, your coworker continued speaking.
Words blurred together.
You caught Wayne Foundation. Charity initiative. Attendance expected.
Absolutely wonderful.
You closed your eyes. The universe hated you. That was the only reasonable explanation.
Because apparently surviving one Wayne gala hadn't been enough.
Now fate had scheduled a sequel.
That should have been funny. Instead, dread settled heavily in your chest.
Bruce Wayne probably wouldn't even be there.
And if he was?
He wouldn't recognise you. Wouldn't remember you. You would simply become another face in another crowd. Again.
The familiar ache returned. Duller now. Older, but still present.
You hated that even after everything, some pathetic part of you still cared.
Wondering about what could have happened if things had gone differently.
If he had looked at you. If he'd smiled. If he'd given fate even a single chance.
The thought followed you all the way home. Followed you into the shower. Followed you into bed.
And somewhere across Gotham, entirely unaware of the damage he was causing, Bruce Wayne was doing exactly the same thing.
Thinking about you.
Constantly.
Obsessively.
Unable to stop.
While you lay awake staring at the ceiling, Bruce sat alone in his study surrounded by photographs, reports, schedules, and information he absolutely should not possess.
The file on his desk had grown significantly over the past two weeks.
The silence of the study was suffocating, broken only by the rhythmic, heavy thrum of Bruce’s own heartbeat. It was a sound he usually controlled with meditative precision, but tonight, his pulse was erratic, driven by a hunger that felt less like desire and more like a fever.
His fingers, scarred and calloused from years of a life lived in the shadows, trembled slightly as they hovered over the glossy surface of the most recebt photograph.
In the light of the single desk lamp, your laughter looked almost tactile. He wanted to reach through the paper, to catch the warmth of your skin, to feel the vibration of that laugh against his own chest.
He didn't just want to see you. He wanted to own the air you breathed.
A low, jagged exhale escaped his throat as he reached for the fastening of his trousers. The silk of his shirt felt abrasive against his skin. He wasn't a man of whims, he was a man of purpose.
As he freed himself, his gaze never left your eyes in the photo.
He began to move, his hand wrapping around his length with a grip almost a little too tight, a little too desperate. He wasn't looking for a gentle release, he was looking for a way to drown out the ache of your absence. He hadn’t even met you properly yet.
Every slide of his palm was a silent prayer, a demand whispered into the empty room.
You, he thought, his eyes darkening until the blue was almost black. Only you.
He closed his eyes for a second, and the darkness behind his eyelids was filled with the phantom sensation of you. He imagined your hands replacing his own.
He imagined the way you would look at him if you knew. If you knew that he had mapped out your entire existence, that he knew the number of alarms you needed to wake up, the drinks you preferred, the way your eyes crinkled when you were truly happy.
A groan, deep and primal, tore from his throat as he increased the pace. The friction was intense, bordering on a delicious sort of pain. He pictured you in this very room, stripped of your defences, looking at him with that same devastating smile. He imagined pinning you to this very desk, marking you so thoroughly that the world would know you belonged to the Batman, to Bruce, to him.
"Mine," he rasped, the word a vow and a command. "You have to be mine."
He was spiraling, losing his composure to the sheer, unadulterated need to possess the person in the photograph.
As the tension coiled in his gut, he leaned forward, pressing his forehead against the edge of the desk, his breath coming in shallow, ragged hitches. He wasn't just chasing a climax, he was chasing the ghost of you. And as he finally broke, his body shuddering with a violent, lonely release, the only thing he could think about was how much longer he could stand being a stranger to the only person outside of his family who truly mattered.
He stared at the splotches of his own mess, his eyes settling back on your frozen, laughing face.
His patience was running out. And soon, he wouldn't just be looking at pictures. He would be looking at you.
The morning of the gala arrived faster than expected.
You spent most of it trying not to think about where you were going later. Work helped.
Emails needed answering. Reports needed reviewing. Deadlines continued existing regardless of personal problems.
By six o'clock, however, distractions became harder to find.
The Foundation building stood illuminated against Gotham's skyline when your taxi pulled up outside.
For a moment you remained seated. Watching people enter through the front doors. Watching security direct arrivals. Watching expensive cars arrive one after another.
The driver glanced at you through the mirror.
"You getting out?"
You sighed. "Unfortunately."
The lobby was already busy.
Employees moved through the space carrying folders, tablets, and the sort of purposeful expressions people adopted when responsible for coordinating large events.
You followed the signs toward registration.
The man at the desk smiled immediately.
"Good evening."
"Hi."
You offered your name.
Something flickered across his expression. "There you are." The words slipped out so naturally that he didn't seem to realise he'd said them.
Your brow furrowed. "What?"
His smile widened. "Nothing. Sorry."
He handed over your badge.
"Conference hall B. Someone will show you where to go."
The interaction lingered in your mind as you crossed the lobby.
There wasn't anything strange about it.
You reached the elevators just as a man wearing a Foundation lanyard stepped out.
His eyes landed on your badge. Muttering your name under his breath.
You stopped. "Yeah?"
His expression brightened. "Right this way."
You stared at him.
The conference hall was directly ahead. Visible from where you stood. So was the sign. So was every other person entering without assistance. Apparently, you were the only one receiving a personal escort. The thought made you irrationally suspicious.
"Thanks."
The man spent the walk making polite conversation.
The conference hall occupied most of the floor.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked downtown Gotham. Round tables filled the space beneath hanging lights. Staff moved between displays making final adjustments while attendees gradually filtered inside.
You recognise d a few people from previous meetings and wandered over.
Conversation came easily enough.
Work topics. Office gossip. Complaints about deadlines. The familiar rhythm settled some of your nerves.
Eventually, someone handed you a drink. Someone else told a story about the mate documentary they were watching the night before. Laughter spread around the table.
For the first time all evening, you found yourself relaxing.
Maybe this wouldn't be so bad.
You could survive a few hours, shake a few hands, then disappear before anything unpleasant happened.
A movement near the entrance drew your attention.
The change happened gradually. A few heads turned. Then a few more.
You knew who it was before you looked.
For a brief moment, you considered keeping your eyes fixed firmly on the table.
But curiosity won.
It always did.
Bruce Wayne stood near the entrance speaking with several board members.
The sight of him harder than expected.
Four months had passed, yet he remained exactly as you remembered.
Tall. Confident. Effortlessly composed. The kind of person who never seemed out of place regardless of where he happened to be standing.
You watched him laugh at something one of the board members said. Watched him rest a hand briefly against someone's shoulder. Watched him move through the crowd with practiced ease.
The memory arrived before you could stop it.
Crystal chandeliers. Champagne glasses. The countdown reaching zero beneath your fingertips.
Your gaze dropped immediately. Heat crawled uncomfortably up the back of your neck.
This had been a mistake.
All you could think about was how little had changed for him.
Somewhere between the gala and now, Bruce Wayne had probably attended dozens of events just like this one.
Met hundreds of people.
Forgotten hundreds more.
Meanwhile, you still couldn't walk into a Foundation building without remembering the worst conversation of your life.
The thought was embarrassing enough to make you take a long drink.
Across the room, entirely unaware that you had already looked away, Bruce Wayne finally spotted you.
↑→↓←
You forced yourself to look anywhere else.
The city beyond the windows. The drink in your hand. The conversation happening beside you. Anything except him.
It felt childish.
Embarrassing, honestly.
You were an adult. Bruce Wayne wasn't some ex you were desperately trying to avoid at a party. He was a stranger.
A stranger who happened to be your soulmate.
Someone who happened to have accidentally shattered every stupid childhood fantasy you'd ever had about fate.
"So then the guy spends hours explaining how the patterns along his wrist connected-"
"What?"
Your coworker laughed. "The documentary."
"Oh." You blinked.
Right. The documentary.
Apparently the conversation had continued without you.
You offered what you hoped looked like a convincing smile.
No one seemed to notice.
People drifted between groups. More guests arrived. Staff circulated carrying trays of drinks and appetizers.
The event settled into a comfortable rhythm.
Exactly the sort of evening you'd expected.
Which was probably why it took you a moment to notice something was wrong.
The conversation around your table had started stuttering. Small pauses appearing where they hadn't before. People glancing toward something behind you.
You ignored it initially.
Then someone stopped speaking halfway through a sentence.
"...Oh."
You frowned. "What?"
Nobody answered immediately. Slowly, unease crept up your spine.
You knew that feeling.
The awful certainty that something embarrassing was happening and you simply hadn't caught up yet.
Your grip tightened around the glass.
Please don't be me.
Please don't somehow be me.
Carefully, you turned. And nearly dropped your drink.
Bruce Wayne was walking toward your table.
The room seemed to tilt.
No. That wasn't right. There were other people here. Important people. Board members. Executives. Foundation staff.
Bruce Wayne had absolutely no reason to be approaching you.
Yet each step brought him closer, your pulse hammered painfully. Maybe he wasn't.. Maybe-
Then Bruce smiled. Carefully. Almost hesitant.
"Hi."
→←↑↓
Your pulse thundered traitorously.
After spotting him near the entrance, you had gone out of your way to avoid him. And apparently, he'd made no effort to stop you.
He talked briefly with the accountant at your table before passing.
You felt stupid all over again.
You knew better than to expect anything.
No shit he wasn’t coming over to talk to you.
By the time the evening finally began winding down, your social battery had been thoroughly exhausted. Guests filtered toward the exits in small groups while staff quietly began dismantling displays around the edges of the room.
You offered your goodbyes, accepted a few last-minute business cards you would probably never use, and escaped.
Or tried to.
Halfway down the hallway toward the elevators, you changed direction.
Bathroom first.
Then home.
The corridor was blissfully empty compared to the crowded ballroom behind you. Soft lighting reflected off polished marble floors. The distant murmur of conversation faded with every step.
You were almost done. Almost free.
"Leaving already?"
You stopped so abruptly your feet nearly slipped against the floor.
The voice came from behind you. Low and warm.
Dangerously familiar.
Your stomach dropped.
Slowly, you turned.
Bruce Wayne stood at the opposite end of the hallway. Alone.
For a second, neither of you moved.
Gone was the effortless social charm he'd worn all evening. Without the crowd surrounding him, he seemed larger somehow. Broader. More imposing.
His eyes were fixed entirely on you. Watching. Like he'd finally found something he'd been searching for.
A strange tension settled between your shoulders.
"Mr. Wayne."
His expression tightened immediately.
"Bruce," he corrected softly.
The familiarity felt inappropriate.
You swallowed. "Bruce."
Something in his gaze darkened at the sound of his name on your lips.
Satisfaction.
The hallway suddenly felt much smaller.
You forced a polite smile. "I didn't realise you were still here."
"I was looking for someone."
Your heart stumbled. The answer came too quickly. Too directly. And for one awful second, hope tried to rear its ugly head again.
You crushed it immediately. "You found them then?"
The words were meant as a joke.
Bruce didn't laugh. Instead, his gaze softened.
"Yes."
The answer landed with uncomfortable weight.
The air felt thick.
You shifted your weight, suddenly aware of every inch separating you. Or rather, how little distance there actually was.
"You wanted something?" you asked carefully.
Bruce stared at you.
It was unnerving. Most people glanced away eventually. They blinked. Looked around. Got distracted.
Bruce seemed incapable of doing any of those things.
His eyes moved slowly across your face as if committing every detail to memory.
Four months ago, he couldn't spare you two seconds. Now he was looking at you like he couldn't bear to look away. It didn't make sense.
Nothing about this made sense.
"I owe you an apology." The words caught you completely off guard.
You blinked. "What?"
"The first gala."
Your breath stopped. Every muscle in your body locked.
Bruce's jaw tightened. "You approached me."
The memory flashed through your mind with brutal clarity.
The countdown.
The humiliation.
"I remember." It was a lie.
You knew it was a lie. You could hear it. He hadn't remembered. You'd seen his face that night. Seen the complete absence of recognition.
But he looked genuinely upset now.
"I handled it badly."
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. Small. Bitter.
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
"You don't need to apologize."
"Yes." His answer was immediate. "I do."
Something sharp flickered across his expression. Self-directed anger. Regret. Maybe even guilt.
You didn't understand it at all.
"You didn't know me." Your voice came out quieter than intended. The admission hurt. Even now.
"You didn't owe me anything."
Bruce went completely still. The silence that followed felt wrong. Dangerous.
His gaze dropped briefly to your wrist before returning to your face. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
Then he took a step forward.
Yet your pulse reacted like he'd crossed the entire hallway.
"I should have known you." The words came out rough. Almost painful.
Something shifted beneath the surface of his composure. You could feel it. Like cracks forming beneath ice.
And for the first time all evening, genuine unease curled through your stomach.
Because suddenly it felt less like Bruce Wayne had happened to stop you in a hallway. And more like Bruce Wayne had been waiting there. Waiting specifically for you. Waiting for the moment you would be alone. When there would be no audience. No escape.
A shiver ran down your spine.
Bruce's eyes immediately tracked the movement.
His expression softened. Like even that tiny movement meant something precious to him.
And somehow that frightened you far more than if he'd looked angry.
"Can I walk you to your car?" he asked quietly.
The question sounded harmless. Polite.
But there was something underneath it. Something hungry. Something that made it feel less like a request and more like a man trying very, very hard not to demand.
When you hesitated, Bruce's gaze darkened harshly.
You got the overwhelming impression that Bruce Wayne was not accustomed to hearing no.
And that whatever was looking at you from behind those impossibly blue eyes had already decided how this interaction would end.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. You looked at him, searching for the playboy you had seen on the news, but he wasn't there. In his place stood a man whose very presence felt like a gravitational pull, heavy and inescapable.
Your heart was a frantic thing in your chest, caught between the instinct to run and the soulmate bond that hummed under your skin, screaming that this was where you were supposed to be.
"I... I can manage, Bruce," you said, trying to inject a note of independence into your voice. You didn't want to be another person he was simply 'handling' or 'managing.' You wanted to be seen as an equal, not a charity project or a fleeting interest.
"It’s a long walk to the valet, and you have guests to attend to."
You made a move to step around him, but you didn't get far.
Before you could even clear his shadow, Bruce’s hand shot out. He didn't grab you roughly, but his fingers curled around your upper arm with a terrifying, singular purpose. It wasn't a casual touch, it was a tether. His palm was hot, even through the fabric of your clothes, and the sheer strength in his grip made your breath hitch.
"The guests are gone," he said. His voice had lost its social lilt. It was now a low, gravelly command that seemed to vibrate in the very marrow of your bones.
"They don't matter. Nothing in that room matters but this."
He stepped into your space, forcing you to tilt your head to maintain eye contact. The hallway felt like it was shrinking, the walls closing in until the only thing left in the universe was the scent of him, like the coming of a storm.
"You think you can just walk away?" he murmured, his eyes searching yours with a desperation that bordered on the frantic.
You frowned, your confusion overriding your unease. "After everything? Bruce, we haven't even spoken for more than five minutes.”
You let out a quiet broken laugh. “You don't even know me."
A dark, humorless sound escaped his throat, one that sounded more like a growl. "That is where you are wrong."
His grip tightened, making it clear he wasn't letting go.
His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, his pupils blown wide until the blue was just a thin, electric ring.
"I know the way you tilt your head when you're thinking," he whispered, leaning so his breath fanned across your cheek.
"I know the exact shade your eyes turn when you're startled. I know the schedule of your life better than you do. I have spent every waking moment since that night trying to find a way to apologise for a sin I didn't even know I had committed."
Your heart hammered against your ribs.
How? How could he know these things? The sheer impossibility of his words should have made you laugh, or call for security, but the soulmate bond was reacting to his intensity, pulling you toward him like a moth to a flame.
It was a terrifying, beautiful pull.
A part of you wanted to demand answers, to push him away for his madness, but another part, the part that had been lonely and aching for months, wanted to collapse into him and let him devour you.
"You... you're obsessed," you breathed, the words slipping out before you could think them through.
Bruce didn't flinch. He didn't deny it. Instead, he leaned closer, his forehead touching yours, his expression one of raw, unadulterated devotion.
"I am," he confessed, the admission sounding like a vow.
"I am completely, utterly undone by you. And if you walk out of this hallway tonight without letting me make it right, I think the world might actually end."
He looked at you then, not as a billionaire looking at a guest, but as a man looking at his entire world, his eyes burning with a terrifying, beautiful hunger.
"Please," he pleaded, the word a jagged edge of vulnerability.
"Don't make me watch you walk away again. Let me take you home. Let me show you that you were never just a face in a crowd. You are the only thing that has ever been real."
He wasn't asking anymore. He was begging, and as he stood there, looming against you with a possessiveness that felt like a honeyed trap, you realised with a jolt of both fear and exhilaration that you didn't want to say no.
In the months that followed that night at the gala, the "coincidences" had stopped being coincidences and had become a reality.
You no longer had to wonder why a certain restaurant always had your favourite table reserved, or why your career seemed to accelerate with a sudden, inexplicable momentum.
You knew. You knew that every promotion, every unexpected gift, and every "chance" encounter was a thread in the web Bruce had woven around you.
And the most frightening part was how easily you had let yourself be caught.
The initial shock of his obsession, the way he looked at you as if you were a miracle he was afraid might vanish if he blinked hard enough, had slowly melted into a deep, intoxicating security. You were no longer a face in the crowd. You were the center of his universe.
You sat on the edge of the massive, silk draped bed in the master suite of Wayne Manor, watching the moonlight spill across the floor.
The room was silent, save for the distant, rhythmic sound of the Gotham rain against the glass.
A door clicked shut. Heavy, purposeful footsteps crossed the rug.
You didn't need to turn around to know it was him. You could feel him. The soulmate bond, once a source of lonely longing, was now a constant, thrumming connection that acted like a second pulse.
Bruce stepped into the light. He had shed the armor of his tuxedo, wearing only a dark shirt left partially unbuttoned.
He looked less like a billionaire and more like the man you had met in the hallway.
He approached you, his presence filling the room until there was no air left that didn't belong to him.
He sank onto the bed behind you, his large, warm hands sliding around your waist to pull you back against his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. A low, contented sound vibrating against your skin.
"You're thinking again," he murmured, his voice a deep, velvet caress. "I can feel it."
"Just thinking about how much has changed," you whispered, leaning your head back against his shoulder.
You reached up, lacing your fingers with his. "How much you've changed."
Bruce tightened his hold, his arms circling you like a fortress. "I haven't changed. I've simply finally found the right reason to exist."
He turned you in his arms, forcing you to face him. His eyes were dark, swirling with that familiar, beautiful madness. Devotion so absolute it felt like a physical weight.
"Do you still feel like you're in a trap?"
You looked up at him, searching the face of the man who had studied your every breath, the man who had turned his entire life into a pursuit of you.
You thought of the fear you had felt, the unease at his intensity, and the way he had practically begged for a chance to belong to you.
Then, you thought of the way he held you now as if you were the most precious thing in existence, as if your very survival depended on his touch.
A slow, knowing smile touched your lips. You reached up, cupping his jaw, your thumb tracing the line of his lip.
"No," you admitted softly, the truth settling comfortably in your chest. "It feels like home."
Bruce’s expression broke, a flash of pure, unadulterated relief crossing his features before it was replaced by a hunger that made your breath hitch.
He leaned in, his lips hovering just a fraction from yours.
"Good," he rasped, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Because there is no going back. You are mine. And I am never, ever letting you go again."
As he pulled you into a kiss that tasted of desperation and promise, you realised that the universe hadn't hated you after all.
It had simply been waiting for the moment that you finally stopped running and let the storm claim you.
Please comment and reblog! :)
11K+ Words, 69K+ Characters, 1K+ Sentences, 900+ Paragraphs, 42 Minute average reading time, 1 hour and 6 minute average speaking time.
yandere! bruce wayne x reader x yandere! clark kent
word count: 10k
synopsis: you've been cooped up in wayne manor for the past few months, courtesy of your new lovers. they've decided it's finally time to take your relationship to the next level whether you're ready or not.
You thought the silent treatment could save you. The childish shame and embarrassment that was aroused in you every time they twisted your words was crushing you. Two brilliant minds working in tandem to make you feel as small as they saw you. The good cop, bad cop dynamic rehearsed by Bruce and Clark left no room for your opinion. Arguing was pointless when all roads led to the same point, the feeling of heat rushing to your cheeks as you accepted defeat. You felt they were hammering a point home to you — you were to be seen and not heard.
Your silence only made them more eager to correct you.
Your defeat in your circumstances was palpable, but you were determined to keep your sorrow to yourself. You thought they would be satisfied with your depressive acceptance, but they were determined to drag you out of that hole every time you tried to make peace with it. They wouldn’t even let you slowly rot away without their input, telling you it was this exact reason that they took it upon themselves to care for you. Escape was impossible; they made certain of it. You really tried to believe that you were just sparing yourself some pain by not fighting back.
Monday nights were the nights they promised to make time for you. A day where they would come home from their day jobs and play pretend with domesticity and normalcy. You were expected to play house, too, dressing up beyond your pajamas and sweatpants. They still have yet to give you a real pair of shoes, though.
You were sitting on the couch in between them, back nestled into Clark’s right side and feet outstretched into Bruce’s lap. They had positioned you the moment they sat down, hardly leaving enough space to breathe. The three of you were in Bruce’s study, listening to his old jazz vinyls as you nursed your drink.
Bruce swirled a neat Whiskey in a glass, unsipped, as he rubbed the heel and ball of your socked foot with his free hand. Clark had a hot chocolate, same as you, that was sitting on the coffee table, untouched. His right arm was slung over your shoulder while his left hand held yours, kneading his thumb into your palm. You held your mug close to you, keeping your mouth busy in hopes of not cracking under the pressure of Clark’s stare.
“How was your day, honey?” Clark asked with a soft smile, resting his head next to yours on the back couch cushion.
You shrugged, continuing to stare at the roaring fireplace in front of you. What was there to say to them? That you had lain around the manor all day, dreading the minutes until they came home? That you were steeling yourself to refuse to speak to them for another day? Bruce cleared his throat, looking up from your foot, and rested your toes in his palm. They tolerated non-answers less than wrong answers.
You looked over at Bruce, unable to hold your gaze with his before settling to look down at his lap. He had taken off his sports coat when he came home and was sitting with his dress shirt undone, three buttons and sleeves rolled up to his forearms. Clark had foregone his jacket and dress shirt entirely, wearing nothing but his slacks and his white undershirt. They both took their belts off in front of you. You were wearing a mockneck bodysuit and a long skirt with a pair of white socks.
You had started the day with more clothes, too, that they slowly began to peel off you. There was no need for a sweater, Bruce had said. The fireplace was waiting for you. Did you really need stockings on? Clark had asked. Layers in the house weren’t necessary. Piece by piece, they dressed you and themselves down until you assumed nothing would be left.
“Clark asked you a question,” Bruce said, sliding his hand up your leg to rest just under the hem of your skirt.
You looked back at the fireplace and just sighed, setting your drink down next to Clark’s still steaming mug. Shrugging again and sighing, you rested your head against the cushion next to Clark and looked at him. You hoped your moping act would help them drop the subject – puppy eyes always worked on Clark. To him, you had no bark or bite.
Clark’s gaze didn’t linger on you. The look they shared had you feeling queasy. They were so hard to read, but you could always tell when they were thinking – especially when they were thinking the same thing. Your quietness had run its course with them. You’re sure you’ve only made it this far because Clark told Bruce to let you work it out yourself. But you’ve learned that Clark’s patience runs much thinner when Bruce is in his ear. They were planning on making you talk; you just didn’t know how.
Bruce’s hand rubbed circles into your calf, slowly inching towards your thigh. He set his drink down next to yours, settling his free hand back on your foot. You closed your eyes and inhaled slowly, trying not to let panic seep into your bones. It was Clark who was touchy like this, yet he seemed content to keep his hands to himself for once and just watch. Bruce gently slid his hand under your sock, making it down to the ball of your foot before wiggling your sock off. You fought off a shiver of ticklishness and swallowed harshly.
Clark pressed his forehead to yours, humming softly as he brought the hand he was massaging up to his mouth. He pressed a tender kiss on the tip of your pinky, still rubbing his thumb into the flesh of your palm. An easy smile reached his eyes as he kissed his way down your fingers. After he reached your thumb, he closed his eyes and placed your hand over his mouth, chastely kissing your palm.
Bruce brought your ankle to his lips, placing a wet kiss there. His hand was warm and weathered, heating your skin up through the fabric. Your skirt slid down to your upper thigh as Bruce put your heel on his left shoulder. His hand caressed the backside of your calf, slowly inching closer towards your inner thigh. You shuddered as a chill ran all up your spine. You stretched your back uncomfortably, settling away from him. You were desperate not to let yourself melt into the false sense of security their arms offered.
“Bruce’s hands always run cold, don’t they?” Clark mused, kissing your wrist.
Bruce let out a throaty chuckle and nodded, pressing a kiss to your knee cap. He leaned closer, spreading your left leg over his right thigh and hooking his left arm under your right knee. You understood the game they were playing now. If you were going to play by their rules and win, you’d have to choose your words very carefully.
“What are you doing?” You questioned quietly, looking at Bruce warily.
“Nothing you won’t like.”
Clark maneuvered you to fully sit in his lap, facing Bruce, kissing up your arm until his chin rested on your shoulder. His arms held your waist in place as Bruce kissed down to your inner thigh. It was a test. You knew that they knew you understood that now. The only question was how far you were going to let it go. Bruce unclipped the body suit snaps over your panties, letting his fingers graze under the hem on your right hip.
“Don’t…” You whispered, placing your hand over his wrist.
Bruce looked up at you through lidded eyes, letting his lips brush against your hip. “Don’t what?”
“Let him make you feel good?” Clark chimed in, taking your hand in his and away from Bruce.
“Don’t touch me there.” You said with a little more confidence.
“Here?” Bruce chuckled, placing a kiss over your navel.
You inhaled softly, arching your back towards Clark’s chest. These were dangerous waters you were treading in. You’re certain that with all the surveillance Bruce did on you before they took you, he, at least, knew you were a virgin. Hell, you hadn’t even had your first kiss yet, and here Bruce was in between your legs, waiting to devour you.
“What about here?” Bruce’s hand slid back to your ass, squeezing a handful of it in his hand.
His callouses were rough against you as he kneaded your flesh in his hand. You shook your head, trying to dig your nails into Clark’s hand with no avail.
“I…I don’t want you to touch me at all.” You finally confessed. You could only hope you told him what he wanted to hear.
“Oh, honey,” Clark sighed sweetly. “If you wanted me to touch you instead, all you had to do was ask.”
Clark took both of your wrists into his right hand as he kissed along your throat and wrapped his arm around your waist to press you flush against him. Bruce retreated and relaxed against the couch, content to abide by your interpreted wishes. Clark kissed up to your cheek, letting his pecks slowly inch towards your lips.
“Wait!” You cried, turning to look at Clark with desperate eyes. “Wait, please.”
“Have you decided you want Bruce after all?” Clark whispered, lips ghosting just barely above yours.
“I…” What could you possibly say in your defense? “I don’t think either of you will want me.”
“If that were true, we have a funny way of showing it.” Clark chuckled, chasing your lips slowly as you leaned your head back.
“Don’t make assumptions.” Bruce said coolly. “If you want to know how we feel, just ask us.”
“I’m not trying to, I’m just…being realistic.” You sighed. You’d never ask them, not wanting an even further look into their deranged delusions.
“Realistic?” Clark chuckled. “I’m just itching to jump your bones, and you think we don’t want you.”
“You said ‘will want me’.” Bruce noticed. “Is there something you think we don’t already know?”
You look at Bruce, swallowing nervously. Clark settled to press kisses along your temple and hairline, rubbing his hands up and down your waist.
“No!” You defended. Secrets were a cardinal sin with them. “I’m just not sure you’ll want someone as…inexperienced as me.”
“Think our boyscout is as innocent as he seems?” Bruce smirked. Your apparent gap in experience only made your stomach churn further.
“That’s just the way we like it, we’ll be your first and onlys.” Clark mused, letting his kisses move back down towards your lips. “You think our playboy can’t handle a virgin?”
“We adore you, you know you can’t deny that,” Bruce replied earnestly.
“I mean,” You laughed nervously, placing your hands on Clark’s chest to hold him back. “I haven’t even had my–” Clark’s eyes light up at the prospect.”My, uh, first kiss.” Your confidence died in your throat, barely finishing the sentence with a whisper.
“That’s okay,” Clark smiled, all teeth. He looked like a predator waiting to strike at his innocent prey. “We can teach you.”
Bruce’s hand softly stroked the underside of your calf. “Why?”
Clark maneuvered you off his lap, scooching you both over closer to Bruce. You sat shoulder to shoulder with them both, Bruce keeping your feet in his lap and Clark beginning to stroke your hand again. They let you take your time to answer, watching the gears turn in your mind, trying to find any excuse you thought they would find acceptable.
“Well, you both know I’ve never had a boyfriend before…you two.” You stared at the fireplace in front of you. What were they to you now? Boyfriends? Husbands? Captors? Owners?
“We’re your partners now, sweetheart. Nothing is ever going to change that.” Clark reassured.
“You don’t need a boyfriend to have sex.” Bruce challenged, quirking a brow. Of course he knew all about that. You’d jab it at him if you thought it would make a difference.
“I’m not the hookup type.” You shrugged, feeling the discomfort of the topic rise in you.
You weren’t less than just because you didn’t have the notches in your bedpost the way they did. You were doing your very best to refuse becoming one of theirs.
“Waiting for someone special?” Clark whispered in your ear. Naturally, Clark was more sentimental about these things than Bruce was.
“The opportunity just never came up.” You replied. A lie of omission technically wasn’t a lie, but you knew it wouldn’t slide with them.
“You’ll have plenty of opportunities with us.” Bruce smirked.
“Isn’t ‘I don’t know’ an answer?” You huffed exasperatedly.
“Not if you don’t have a good enough reason,” Bruce said matter-of-factly. “You’re afraid.”
“Now you’re making assumptions.” You spat back.
“It’s not an assumption if it’s a fact, my love.” Bruce quirked a brow. “You’ve been afraid since you first came here.”
Of course, you were afraid. But of what exactly? Afraid they would expect more than you could give? Afraid that you’ll be nothing more than a sex slave to them? Afraid that you were becoming complicit in your own captivity? Afraid it would hurt? Afraid it wouldn’t?
You’d be damned if you showed them your fear.
“It’s okay to admit that you’re afraid, sweetheart. You’re safe with us.” Clark soothed.
“Have we done anything to show you otherwise?” Bruce asked.
It was true. You knew it, and they knew it, and you hated that they knew you knew it. They’ve never been physical with you, never raised their voice, never neglected you. In any other circumstance, people would gush over what doting gentlemen you had.
“Maybe she needs to see how gentle we can be with her.” Clark offered, picking you up bridal style with one arm and tucking you close to him.
You yelped at the sudden upheaval, wrapping your arms around his neck for stability. Bruce was quick to follow both of you as Clark led the way back to the manor’s master bedroom. Clark hummed a gentle tune as Bruce opened the door and beckoned you both inside with an outstretched arm.
Clark sat you down at the edge of the bed. You folded your arms across your chest as you watched the two of them strip. Clark took off his shirt with one hand and stretched his arms towards the ceiling, fingers intertwined. He let out a pleased hum, sending you a smile. He made quick work to help Bruce out of his dress shirt and left him to remove his undershirt. Clark dropped to his knees and placed his hands on Bruce’s thighs, unzipping Bruce’s pants with his teeth.
The burn from your cheeks spread all the way down to your chest. Your fingertips tingled with anticipation. You squeezed yourself tighter, swallowing harshly. Clark looked right at you as Bruce’s pants pooled around his ankles. He licked a long stripe against Bruce’s erection, smiling sharply when you looked up at Bruce nervously.
Bruce ran a hand through Clark’s curly locks, tugging them to bring his head back. Clark looked up at Bruce expectantly and stood when Bruce cupped his chin to kiss him. The kiss was heated and passionate, teeth and tongues already knocking against each other. Bruce stepped out of his pants and kicked them away, leaving him shirtless in his black boxers. He held his hand against the back of Clark’s neck and reached his other hand to shimmy the man out of his slacks.
Bruce slipped a hand into Clark’s white boxers, palming him and giving him a gentle squeeze. He groaned loudly into Bruce’s mouth and tugged on his bottom lip with his teeth. Clark looked at you while Bruce started to kiss down his neck, biting and sucking harshly on his skin. He motioned for you to come over with a gentle wave of his hand, holding it out for you to take.
You stood up from the bed and waited for a moment, burrowing your arms further against yourself. If you showed that you would come freely when called, if you were willing to try, then maybe, you hoped, they would have mercy on you.
You took Clark’s hand, keeping your other arm tight around your chest. He rubbed his thumb over your knuckles in a soothing motion and gave you a gentle smile. You were sure he could feel just how much you were shaking. You could no longer tell if it was from fear or anticipation; maybe it was a mix of both. Bruce’s free hand wrapped around your waist and herded you in between them.
“You’re making her nervous,” Clark said, cocking his head at Bruce. “Her heart is racing.”
He gently grasped the hand covering your chest and pulled it away, placing it over his to steady you with his calm heartbeat. His palm draped the back of your hand, holding it in place. Bruce’s arms wrapped around your waist from behind, pulling you flush against his chest. His chin rested on your shoulder as he ghosted his lips up your neck and behind your ear. Clark brought your other hand up to his lips again, kissing your palm and closing his eyes.
“Don’t worry,” Bruce whispered in your ear. “He doesn’t bite.”
“Not unless you say please,” Clark murmured into your palm, looking back down at you as he kissed your wrist.
Bruce’s hands slipped under the elastic band of your skirt, laying his palms flat against your hips.
“You’re so tense,” Bruce said, rubbing circles with his thumbs into your hips. “Let us help you get comfortable.”
He pushed your skirt down, letting it pool around your ankles. Clark grasped the hem of your body suit and pulled it up over your head, leaving you in nothing but your underwear. Bruce’s hands cupped you in between your legs, making you gasp as he ran a finger along your wetness.
“You’re soaked, lovely,” Bruce smirked. “Did you like watching us?”
You gulped, looking away from both of them. The heat in your cheeks burned brighter. Back to square one, you were at a loss for words. The men stepped away from you, taking their places on the large, plush bed. Bruce sat up against the headboard, propping one knee up and resting his left arm against the wood. Clark lay next to him on his side, propping himself up with his right elbow. Their eyes roamed you freely as you stood in the same spot they left you in. Your arms quickly found their place against your chest again.
“Feeling shy?” Clark asked, tracing circles into the sheets with his index finger. “Come here.”
“Maybe she wants us to continue our little show.” Bruce mused, holding his right hand out to you.
You stared at the ground as you padded over. It wasn’t anything they hadn’t seen before. It was nothing you hadn’t seen before, either. It never got easier when they stripped.
You shakily took Bruce’s hand and crawled into the space in between them. Your arms were squished against their chest as you held your hands in your lap, twiddling your thumbs nervously. You stared straight up at the high ceiling, trying to count the folds in the canopy draped over the bed. It was a lovely shade of forest green, dark and inviting. A perfect shadow to hide in.
Clark’s hand started tracing circles on your stomach. Bruce’s left hand came to rest on your tense shoulders, slowly easing them from being hunched up to your ears.
“Beautiful,” Clark murmured, ghosting his lips over your shoulder. “Isn’t she, Bruce?”
“Stunning. It’s a miracle no one got their hands on her before we did.” Bruce agreed, stroking a thumb under your chin. “Pretty girl like you deserves to be kissed, well and often.”
“Our pretty girl,” Clark whispered, kissing up under your chin and nipping softly at your skin. “All ours.”
Clark dipped back down to your collarbone, leaving wetter kisses before licking a stripe up from your clavicle to your chin. All pretense of chaste affection was out the window – they were hungry for you, and Clark was tired of pretending he wasn’t.
“Still feeling afraid?” Bruce asked. “We’ll take it slow, sweetheart.”
Slow. They had no intentions of stopping. It was no longer an if; it was simply a matter of when.
“I told you I’m not afraid.” You shot back, hardly able to believe yourself with the way you sounded.
“Then show us.”
Bruce’s right hand smoothed over Clark’s thigh. His hands were rough and scarred, knuckles hardened from years of fighting. Scars littered his body beyond his hands. His deepest scars were beneath the surface, somewhere deep and dark that not even you or Clark seemed to reach. You assume he’s never let anyone. Sometimes, you think he takes all the hits he does in order to remind himself of the real pain he refuses to let himself feel.
Bruce looked at you intensely as he palmed Clark’s erection. He was studying you. Your nervousness was one thing, he knew it well. But your bashful arousal was a new frontier. You kept staring at the ceiling, knowing you would crumble if you looked over at him. He was handsome in a way that made you nervous if you looked at him for too long, like a long-lost movie star from the Golden Age. His charm was effortless, a well-rehearsed charade that flustered you more than it seduced you. He exuded command that made it hard to say no to him, as if his disappointment would devastate you.
Unlike Bruce, Clark didn’t have a scratch on him. His skin was smooth and flawless, as if he were carved straight from marble in the likeness of an ancient god. He was handsome in a way that was almost insulting. He could hide it well. His patience was almost as impenetrable as he was. It made him hard to read at first, but he’s let cracks of his other emotions seep through the longer you’ve been with him. You assumed he was too worried about frightening you with anything other than his fairweather optimism. Easy eyes and kind smiles with stupid dimples that put you at ease when you should be on alert. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. An extraterrestrial and uncanny Adonis.
Clark moaned against your skin, letting his teeth graze you as he jutted his hips against Bruce’s hand. He was careful, cautious with you despite his desire. You hadn’t said please yet. Bruce slipped his hand into Clark’s briefs and pulled out his leaking erection. Clark’s right arm stopped propping him up as he slid it under your neck and settled on the pillows next to you.
“Look at him,” Bruce instructed, tilting your cheek towards Clark. “Isn’t he so handsome?”
Swallowing nervously, you turn to look at Clark. A small flush left his cheeks tinted pink. His eyes were shut in pleasure as Bruce continued to stroke him. His eyes were half-lidded as he looked at you. You nodded slowly in agreement.
“Hi, gorgeous,” Clark whispered, using the arm under you to turn your body fully onto his side towards him.
He moved his hand from your stomach to cup your cheek. It seemed they were in silent agreement that Clark would take your first kiss. You wonder if they had this planned out. If they did, they weren’t keen on sharing their plans. The element of surprise served them well.
“Hi,” You whispered back, staring at his lips.
Who were you kidding, of course they did. They didn’t leave anything to chance.
They didn’t have to do this for you, you thought. They didn’t have to let you take it slow. They didn’t have to wait until you were comfortable with their innocent affection. They could have taken you the first night they brought you back, and it would have never made a difference to them. They were giving you plenty of chances, and you have given them almost none.
Clark’s hips thrusted into Bruce’s hands as he moaned again. He pressed kisses into your hairline by your temples, whimpering softly when Bruce squeezed him.
“Stop jerking your hips,” Bruce commanded, looking at Clark before resuming at a faster pace. “Hands to yourself.”
Clark gasped and pressed his face into your hair, hips tense with obedience. Clark’s hands retreated behind his back, chest heaving. Bruce’s other hand settled on the back of your neck, stroking up the side gently.
“See? He can behave himself,” Bruce reassured, whispering gently in your ear. “He’ll listen to you if you tell him what you want.”
You placed your hand over Clark’s cheek and pulled back from him slightly to look straight at him. His eyes were heavy with need as he looked at you. His bottom lip was caught in his teeth as he bit back a moan. You could still be in control; you could make this happen on your own terms.
“Clark,” You said shakily. You kept the last shred of courage you had and maintained eye contact with him. “If you want to kiss me, you can.”
Clark hardly let you finish your sentence before he gave you a deep kiss, nuzzling his cheek into your hand. You gasped at his intensity, closing your eyes as you let him kiss you breathless. The second kiss was sweeter, softer. You could feel his restraint as he slowed down, groaning lowly against your lips. He was desperate to ravage you, but he was willing to go at your speed. That had to count for something, right?
Bruce’s hand stopped pumping and grabbed yours, replacing it on Clark’s hardness. Clark whimpered against your lips, letting out a breathy gasp. He moaned out your name lowly, shutting his eyes again.
Your movements were stiff and awkward, clearly unused to the motions. Clark didn’t seem to hold it against you.
“Honey, ah!” Clark breathed out, gritting his teeth when you started moving your hand. “Making me feel so good.”
Bruce’s hand slipped over your underwear, pressing his index finger against your wetness.
“‘Course you’re not afraid,” Bruce mused, sliding his hand under the elastic band. “How are we supposed to trust what you say when your body is willing to tell us the truth?”
Bruce’s middle finger brushed against your clit, causing you to tense your hips and flinch. You whined into Clark’s mouth, gasping when you felt his tongue brush against yours. Bruce’s hand on your neck kept you in place when you tried to move your head back.
“Relax,” Bruce instructed softly. “Just open up.”
You whined again, turning your head to the side. This was happening too fast; you weren’t prepared to deal with both of them for your first time. Clark’s kisses had left you lightheaded and malleable, slowly kissing away your doubts with each pass of his lips. They could twist your words, but you refused to let them twist your judgment.
You pushed your hands against Clark’s chest and broke away for a breath, starting to feel sobs bubbling in your throat. You tried to suck in a few deep breaths and take a beat, but Clark dove back in for a wet kiss to your trembling lips, letting his tongue swipe against you again.
You pulled your hands away from Clark and sat up quickly away from them, frantically breathing and pushing your hair away from your face. Tears were welling in your eyes as you let out hiccuping breaths.
Bruce was quick to sit behind you, locking you in place between his legs. He placed his hands on your shoulder and brushed some hair behind your ear. Clark sat up in front of you, cupping your face with one hand and placing the other over your heart.
Bruce rubbed soothing circles into your shoulders as you breathed with Clark. Some stray tears had fallen, and Clark was quick to kiss them away.
“Deep breaths,” Bruce said softly. “Just like that.”
Your hyperventilation had slowed to slow, hiccuping breaths as they soothed you.
“I-I don’t think I’m ready for this.” You whimpered.
“You were doing so well.” Bruce praised, letting his hand rub over your shoulder blades.
You shook your head, closing your eyes and resting against Clark’s chest.
“Talk to us,” Clark said, pulling you in close to lay your ear over his heart. “Did it not feel good?”
Bruce petted a hand over your head as you hid your face in Clark, still taking shuddering breaths.
“I don't want to do this.” You mumbled. A desperate Hail Mary.
“Oh, honey,” Clark sighed. “We all know that's not true.”
“You were so wet when you watched us,” Bruce whispered in your ear. “You liked it. There’s no use in denying it.”
Your heart fell just as far as it did the first time Bruce told you that you weren’t going to leave the manor. It was something that was not up for discussion. Tears threatened to spill again.
“What’s really going on?” Clark implored, resting his cheek against your hair.
Honesty might save you for once if they believed it was the truth.
“It was just moving too fast,” You let out with shuddering breaths. “Bruce held my head down and-”
Bruce shushed you again, not wanting you to work yourself up a second time.
“Okay,” He whispered against your hair, placing a kiss on the crown of your head.
“Our poor girl,” Clark sighed. “We scared you, didn’t we?”
You shook your head against Bruce’s hand, letting out a sigh of defeat. Something about admitting your fear enticed them, and you refused to play into their hand. Not going through with this was off the table; you were certain about that now. You knew they were patient men; they were willing to take it at your speed. Did you really want to escalate it further? Were you willing to see how long their patience would last?
“You’ve barely given it a chance,” Bruce said, letting his hand rub over your shoulder blades. “Don’t worry about us. Just lie back, we’ll take good care of you.”
“Let’s try again,” Clark hummed in agreement and whispered close to you, “No more tears in those pretty eyes, ‘kay?”
You nodded again and sat up between them, using the heel of your palms to wipe the last of your tears away. You bit back another shuddering breath, holding onto Clark’s hand on your chest. You could do this…right? You could do it unsure, you could do it nervously, you could do it scared. You could do this if it meant they didn’t have to hold you down to get it done.
Clark’s hand on your cheek caressed your face and settled on your chin, resting it between his thumb and index finger. He smiled at you with an unmistakably sharp look in his eyes. He’s pleased you’re willing, but you know that if you weren’t, it wouldn’t have made much difference to him. His thumb stroked over your chin as he tilted it up to look at him. He shared a brief look with Bruce before leaning down to kiss your still-wet eye.
Bruce’s hand slid down from your back and settled on your hip as he kissed the back of your neck. Clark closed his eyes and leaned in for another kiss. You held your breath as he kissed you chastely, sweeter and slower than the other kisses. He kissed you as if it were the tender love and care you so desperately needed. He peeked at you through his eyelashes, seeing that you had closed your eyes too and were letting out slow, deep breaths.
“Good girl,” Bruce murmured against your neck, kissing the skin softly there. “Keep breathing just like that. It’ll help you.”
Bruce’s hand slid over your hip fully and dipped between your legs. You gasped softly in Clark’s mouth and curled your fingers slightly against his chest. Clark’s lips twitched slightly in restraint, continuing to lay kisses on the bottom lip of your parted mouth. Bruce’s hand cupped you entirely, pressing the heel of his palm against your clit. Your hips jerked away from his hand, but Bruce’s straddling you from behind kept you in place. Even the pressure from his palm was too much for you; every touch against your skin left electricity in its wake. No matter how shameful it felt to admit, you knew you wouldn’t last long against them.
“Shh,” He soothed, kissing under your ear. “You’re okay. Just let us make you feel good.”
“He’ll make all your worries melt away, you’ll see.” Clark hummed in agreement against your lips. “Don’t be difficult, now.”
Bruce’s hand continued to grind into you as you let out a soft whine. Toys had never even felt as good as Bruce’s teasing. You were ashamed to feel as good as you did. Your hand flew up to your mouth, making him press his hand down even harder. Clark took it away and held both your wrists against him.
“None of that,” Clark scolded and pressed your hands back on his chest. “You let us hear that pretty voice loud and proud.”
“Trust me, lovely.” Bruce chuckled, putting his hand into your wet panties. “Clark would be too happy to make you really scream for us. He’s like a dog with a bone when it comes to you.”
“Woof.” Clark teased in a low voice.
Bruce’s finger slowly circled your clit as you bit back a moan. Clark took your swollen lip from under your teeth and put it between his own, sucking gently when you moaned again. Bruce’s movements were slow and teasing, giving you just enough to feel the tingle in your spine but not enough to get you anywhere.
Clark swiped his tongue over your lip before sealing your lips in a hot kiss. You whined into his mouth, grateful for the way his tongue muffled your pathetic sounds. You relaxed your hips against Bruce and flattened your palms shakily against Clark’s chest. They were trying to keep the mood light, ease the tension from your hunched shoulders and arched hips. The least you could do for yourself was return the favor.
Bruce’s kisses became wetter as he sucked and nibbled on your collarbone, leaving tender marks in his wake. His fingers slipped down to tease the wetness between your folds, stroking gently. You sighed into Clark’s mouth and forced yourself to rest in the palm on your cheek. Clark was right, if you really got yourself to relax, you could forget yourself for just a moment. Forget your circumstances, forget that you don’t have a say in your own life anymore.
You could forget all that for now, but you knew better. Tomorrow is a different story. You’ll try to forget how good Bruce’s fingers were at making you feel pleasure you didn’t even know was possible. You’ll try to forget how dizzying Clark’s kisses were. You’ll try to forget how addicting their devotion and desire were in your isolation.
Clark’s free hand slipped in your panties over Bruce’s, toying his middle finger through your folds before dipping into you. You cried out softly as he did, earning pleased groans from both men. The two of them shared a look over your shoulder before kissing each other next to your ear. It was heated and messy, causing heat to pool in your stomach at their pleased sounds.
Your back arched away from Bruce as Clark curled his finger inside of you, making a slow inching motion. Your legs began to tremble as they squeezed shut around Clark’s thigh. You bit back another moan as you pressed your back to Bruce’s chest. Clark was reaching places you never even dreamed of, dragging out pleasure you didn’t even know was possible with each curl. You were close already. Clark let out a low sound when you clenched around him, and Bruce hummed in kind.
“Eager little thing,” He cooed, pressing his forehead against yours and staring at your wide eyes. “Feeling good so good, aren’t you?”
You yelped in pleasure when Bruce gently pinched your clit and rolled it between his fingers. Clark’s finger pumped in and out of you at a steady pace, keeping a curling motion as he dragged them against your walls. You couldn’t even think to hold back your moans anymore as you writhed between them.
“I think she’s close.” Bruce teased with a smirk, looking at Clark. Your hips just against their fingers as you whined. “And she said she didn’t want this.”
Bruce tilted your head back by your chin and kissed you deeply, drinking in the soft sighs and whines you let out. Your hips rut in between them, caught in a dance between Bruce’s caresses and Clark’s pumping. He broke the kiss off and looked down at you through heavy eyelids, cooing when you let out a soft whimper. Your eyes screwed shut as the pleasure began to override you, making you moan shamelessly.
“That’s it,” Clark urged. “Good girl, let it out.”
You wailed and let out a loud cry as your body tensed, shaking as your orgasm ripped through you. Bruce let out a pleased groan as you collapsed against him, riding out the waves of pleasure as they whispered sweet nothings to you. Clark’s lips quirked as he felt you squeeze tightly around his fingers. They guided you through it, only stopping their motions when you whimpered and shook in overstimulation.
A stray tear had fallen down your cheek as you opened your eyes to look up at Bruce. He was still looking right back at you, pressing a sweet kiss to your trembling lips. You kissed back, whining when he pulled away. The haze of your satisfaction had your wires crossed. Your afterglow had you feeling a sense of peace you didn’t even know you could get back.
“Well done, love.” He praised, pulling his hand out of your panties.
Bruce raised his fingers to Clark’s lips, moving them slowly in and out of his mouth as he sucked greedily. Clark pulled his finger out of you and raised it up to Bruce’s lips, pumping it slowly out of his mouth. You watched as you tried to catch your breath, letting out little whimpers as you adjusted your posture.
The reality of your situation was starting to trickle back in as the two of them parted above you. It was a fool’s errand to believe you had any power over the situation. You handed yourself over as soon as they asked you. You let your inhibitions get lost in their twisted sense of affection and care. Worst of all, you liked it. You liked forgetting the circumstances that led to the current entanglement. You liked forgetting that they weren’t your lovers by choice. You liked forgetting that you were all but held down to get here.
Bruce smoothed his hands over your tensing shoulders and moved you to lie with him. He propped himself up against the headboard again and shimmied you up to lie on his chest with your back to him. Clark crawled in between your legs, staring up at you with an easy smile.
“Absolutely soaked for us,” He murmured, placing a wet kiss over your belly button. “Tasted so good on Bruce’s fingers.”
Clark worked you out of your panties and tossed them off the side of the bed. You shifted anxiously against Bruce, who held you in place with a warm hand on your chest. Clark kicked his own boxers off, leaving both you and him fully naked.
“You’re doing so well, beautiful,” Bruce whispered in encouragement, kissing your ear gently. “Don’t stop now.”
Clark hiked your knees over his shoulders as he settled between yours and Bruce’s legs. You shifted nervously again, gasping when he blew cold air over your wetness. You were hardly ready to go all the way; you only hoped they felt the same way. He chuckled as he placed wet kisses trailing down your right thigh, caressing your thighs as they rested on his shoulders.
“Don’t tease her, Clark,” Bruce chuckled. “She’s been so good for us. Doesn’t she deserve her reward?”
Bruce hooked his arms under your knees and pressed your legs up to your chest. He tucked you close to him, folding you up as much as he could. You gasped, feeling your flush and shame come back twice fold at your absolute exposure. They were more than eager to prepare you for them, which you could feel immensely grateful for. You just hated that it cost you more of your dignity that you thought was all but gone.
Clark’s warm hands gripped your ass and squeezed gently before he spread you open. He looked up at you as he placed a small kiss over your clit, making you whimper and gasp from the sensitivity. You squirmed as you looked down at Clark, who looked you straight in the eye as he laid a wet kiss with his tongue against the nub. You gasped softly again as his tongue took a long, slow swipe up your wet folds.
Clark hummed against you as he took your clit in his mouth and began to suck gently, shaking his head. You whined as his entire mouth enveloped you, becoming more feverish in his movements the louder you became. He was moving against you like a man who had been starved of you his entire life.
Your hands flew down to the curly locks tussling between your legs and threaded your fingers through them. Clark moaned in response, pushing his tongue in deeper into you and letting his canines scrape against you gently. You cried out and pulled at his hair, trying to pull him off of you. Your thighs started to shake in overstimulation as you felt Clark growl against you.
“Clark!” You yelped, trying to buck your hips away from him.
Bruce held you firmly in place as you struggled in their hold.
“He’s good with his mouth, isn’t he?” Bruce murmured against your temple. “Like I said, a dog with his favorite bone.”
Clark nodded, suckling on your clit as he slowly inched a finger back into you. You gasped breathlessly and went limp against Bruce’s chest, feeling the pleasure start to become borderline painful as Clark added a second finger and curled them both. You clenched tightly around them as he began to pump them in and out of you.
“No,” You whined pathetically, feeling the noise rise again in your throat as you shook your head. “I’m gonna come again.”
“That’s okay,” Bruce said. “You can come as many times as you want.”
Clark was spurred by your begging and continued in his ministrations, letting out a low moan as he rocked his hips against the bed. You tugged at his hair again, but he paid you no mind as he steadfastly brought you closer to your second orgasm. You could do nothing but whine and cry out against Bruce’s chest, feeling tears prick your eyes. You let out a loud, warbling cry as you came against Clark’s face, feeling your body practically white out with the pleasure ripping through you. You shook violently in Bruce’s arms as you let out a heaving, whining sob, letting a few stray tears fall.
You continued to clench around nothing when Clark pulled his fingers out, and your thighs twitched through the aftershocks of your pleasure. Clark placed one final kiss on your wetness before sitting up between your legs. Bruce set your legs back down over his and straddled Clark’s thighs. You shut your eyes and let out heaving breaths as you whispered a curse to yourself.
“You’re lucky,” Bruce chuckled deeply. “He let you off easy today.”
Clark kissed your trembling lips deeply, slipping his tongue between your lips as you gasped softly. You tasted yourself on his tongue as you let out a low whimper. Clark moaned in kind, nipping at your lips softly when he pulled away.
“All right, that’s enough,” Bruce teased, pushing against Clark’s chest. “You’ve been greedy enough for one evening.”
Clark kissed you sweetly one last time before switching positions with Bruce, handling you gently as they passed you off. You were placed in Clark’s lap, back pressed flush to his chest. Your legs were spread again, far less so than before. Your feet sat on the outside of Clark’s knees as you settled against his chest. You watched as Bruce took off his boxers and sat between your legs, completely bare.
Your eyes trailed his body as you looked over his scars, some familiar and some new to you. Seeing them up close and uncovered made you realize just how many of them there were. You reached a shaky hand out to his chest as he moved closer between your legs. The scar just below his heart was cut deep; the healed tissue was raised and uneven. It’s unimaginable to consider what the two of them have survived.
You stood absolutely no chance against them unless they wanted you to. It would only take seconds for Bruce to pin you down in an inescapable hold. Clark wouldn’t have to try to catch any sudden movements you threw at him. They didn’t even need each other to ensure your complete physical submission. Your pleasure overtook you because they wanted you to have it. Your consent was manufactured because they wanted you to believe it. They gain nothing from your approval, yet demand it anyway.
When Bruce finally kissed you, you kissed him back. You felt the chap of his lips, the scars from all the times they got busted by a lucky shot. You placed a small kiss over the scar on his cupid’s bow, taking in his pleased hum as he kissed you deeply in response. Maybe they would let you off easy tonight. Maybe they’ve had their fill of you for one evening.
Bruce’s finger ghosted over your folds, and you jolted in oversensitivity, clenching down around nothing. He parted from you, licking his lips.
“You ready?” He asked sincerely, caressing your inner thighs with his rough hands.
You would never be ready. Ready wasn’t a feeling; ready was an action. You trembled slightly with anticipation and nerves, only growing more riled up as Clark gently rubbed your waist. Tears threatened to prick your eyes again as you blinked them away and looked back up at the canopy. There was a slight gold reflex to the green that you hadn’t noticed earlier. The sooner this was over, the sooner you could stop pretending to want this. You swallowed and looked at Bruce, willing yourself to relax.
You needed to choose to be ready before they decided for you.
Bruce shifted his hips closer to yours, thumbing your clit gently as he pressed his thighs against the back of yours. Clark reached over and stroked Bruce slowly, grinning as he groaned lowly. His other hand caressed your midriff, letting his palm spread warmth over you. You felt him rub his tip against your wetness, and your hips tensed up again. Bruce’s hands held your waist as Clark helped line him up. Your right hand shakily gripped Bruce’s wrist, making him look up at you.
“Bruce,” You pleaded softly through trembling lips. “I’m scared.”
“I’ll be gentle,” Bruce promised, placing his hand on yours and rubbing his thumb soothingly over your knuckles. “Do you want to hold my hand?”
A tear falls down your cheek as you nod and shut your eyes. Bruce’s fingers lace with yours as you squeeze tightly, still shaking. He pecked a kiss to the back of your hand and pressed it into the bed.
“Don’t you worry, honey,” Clark whispered sweetly in your ear, holding your other hand. “Bruce is going to take good care of you.”
Bruce used his free hand to give himself one more pump before pressing his tip into you, catching it on your hole as he slowly inched in. You clenched harshly around him as he slid in, adjusting to his size. Ragged breaths made your chest heave sharply as your whole body tensed in anticipation.
“Shit,” Bruce hissed through his teeth, stopping about halfway. “Squeezing me like this is only going to make it harder.”
Clark pet over your stomach, gently pushing your arching back down onto the bed and forcing you to relax the tension in your hips and waist.
“Just relax,” Clark coaxed. “Be good and let him in.”
You forced yourself to relax your thighs, opting to carry all the tension in your shoulders instead. Bruce sighed in relief and continued despite your whimpering whines. The stretch was unlike anything you’d ever experienced, even with Clark’s fingers earlier. Clark shushed you softly and kissed your temple, murmuring praise.
“That’s it,” Clark praised. “Good girl. Just like that.”
Bruce groaned and clenched his teeth, squeezing your hand slightly as he bottomed out. You let out the breath you held in and squeezed his hand fiercely in return. You involuntarily clenched around him as he stilled in you. He cursed harshly under his breath. His hips trembled in restraint against yours.
The stretch was uncomfortable, almost bordering on painful. The fullness was something else entirely. He was consuming your entire being. He was the sweat on your brow, the nerves in your mind, the pleasure pooling in your gut. He was filling you in places you didn’t even know existed. He was taking the last piece of yourself that wasn’t already declared his.
“Taking me so well,” Bruce muttered, resting his forehead on yours. “Absolutely perfect for me.”
Clark pressed his hand on your stomach, and you whined, gasping at the pressure. He took your left hand and placed it next to his right on your stomach, stroking the back of your palm gently.
“You feel him here?” Clark said softly. “So deep. He feels so good, doesn’t he?”
Clark interlaced his fingers over yours, continuing the pressure. His right hand moved down between your legs and began to slowly circle your clit with his middle finger. Bruce let go of your hand briefly to hook your right leg under his left arm, pressing it up to your chest as he reached back down. He interlaced your fingers with his as he pressed his hips flush to yours, not leaving any gap between the two of you.
Your mouth was agape as you let a breathless cry, feeling like the wind had been knocked out of you. A few more tears fell down your face as Bruce pressed himself into you, groaning into the crook of your shoulder as he did. Your back was flush to Clark’s chest, feeling his hardness rut against you as he moved his hips slowly.
Sweat trailed down your back onto Clark’s stomach as you squeezed Bruce’s hand again. You blinked away more tears and took a big breath, trying to catch your bearings. Being between both of them was beyond overwhelming.
“Good girl,” Bruce praised, laying a needy kiss on your shoulder. “Keep breathing just like that. We’ve got you.”
Bruce’s hips slowly rolled back, dragging himself out of you. He was just shy of his tip coming out before he rolled his hips forward in a single, swift motion to plunge himself all the way back in. You gasped and held your breath again, only exhaling when you could no longer hold in your unabashed moan. You were too overwhelmed to give a second thought to any embarrassment you could think to muster.
“Tell him just how good you’re feeling,” Clark whispered into your ear, moaning with another jerk of his hips.
“It’s too much, I can’t,” you blubbered out. “I can’t take it.”
“You can,” Bruce grunted. “And you will.”
Bruce ground his hips slowly in a circle, pressing you further into Clark. The overstimulation and fullness were bringing your buried emotions to the forefront. A whimpering cry caught itself in your throat as you screwed your eyes shut. Tears fell down your scrunched face when Bruce pulled himself out slowly again. The slow drag of his head against your tensed walls had your toes curling as hard as they could.
Bruce panted and swallowed close to your ear, letting out a grunt as he pushed his hips back in. His thighs flexed against yours as he started to pump in and out of you at a slow, steady rhythm. Your nails dug into Bruce’s hand, hard enough to scratch and draw blood.
Bruce brought your entwined hands up to his mouth for a brief kiss over your knuckles.
“Gonna give me some battle scars of your own?” He teased breathily.
As Bruce’s hips rocked the pair of you, Clark slid his hardness between the small of your back and your tailbone. The sweat of your back slickened him enough to sigh in your ear and kiss behind it wetly. More tears fell as Clark’s finger began to circle you faster and his hips rutted against you in tandem with Bruce’s. The shame and pleasure were bringing you close to sobbing again, making your feelings grow with each rise and fall of your heaving chest. Exhaustion crept in where excitement should be. You could only pray they would take their pleasure quickly. You refused to give yours up for a third time.
You kept your eyes shut as you heard Clark and Bruce exchange a few more kisses with each other before moving onto you. Bruce kissed your wet cheeks tenderly, whispering assuringly to you as he did. Clark pressed his face into your shoulder, speeding his pace up as he shook your entire body with his strokes. He left wet kisses on your damp skin, letting them muffle his moans.
Clark groaned your name loudly as his hips flexed and tensed there, spilling himself all over your back. He bit gently into your shoulder as he rode out his aftershocks, licking over the tender mark. He was quicker to go than Bruce from his previous teasing, you assumed. You tried not to notice him rutting into the bed when he was between your legs, letting his obsession with you alone do him in.
“Usually have better manners than this,” He exhaled in your ear, nuzzling his cheek into yours. “But I just had to get back to you.”
He had two fingers circling your clit now, pressing down harder as Bruce increased his speed. You shivered in mild disgust and arousal as you felt his spend start to drip down your back. Bruce was not far behind him as you opened your watery eyes to see him staring back down at you. His face was uncharacteristically flushed, and sweat was beading around his temples. He leaned down to give you a deep kiss on your mouth, moaning into your mouth in return.
Your cunt clenched down on him again as you felt the pleasure building in your core again.
“Close again?” He smirked through his heavy pants. “We’ll have to build your stamina up.”
You whined and shook your head, letting the sobs bubble up again. You didn’t want your pleasure to be wrought from their insatiability again. Their obsession with your complete ownership had delved all the way down to enacting their will over even your most basic bodily functions. They shared a displeased look over your shoulder, in silent agreement once again. It was never about you.
“You will come again,” Bruce commanded, squeezing your hand. “You deserve it, my love.”
Of course you did, that’s what this was all about in the end – what they think you deserve. Not what you wanted, not even what you needed, but what you deserved. You deserved their protection, you deserved their devotion, you deserved their delusions of grandeur. You deserved it so much that it never mattered what you thought about it.
Clark whispered encouragingly in your ear as Bruce slowed his pace, focusing on more powerful and targeted thrusts. He was going in as deep as he could, rolling his hips up into you. Your sobs were loud and unfettered as Clark shushed you softly. You shook your head again and again, whimpering out protests when the pleasure began to make you shake. There was practically no buildup this time. It hit you just like their love did, an impossible force that refused to be denied. It struck you all at once like they did, overtaking your entire being and holding you in the throes of its ecstasy.
You were fairly certain you lost consciousness for a moment as you rode out your orgasm, spasming violently around Bruce. Absolution filled your senses as you basked in the ignorance once again, letting go of your circumstances for just a second more. The well-earned relief was short-lived as you felt Bruce pull out of you and finish himself off on your stomach. You barely registered he had done it as you finally let yourself go, giving into the fear you’ve felt the entire time. Your body shook as you sobbed harshly. You didn’t even care if they were a witness to it anymore; you couldn’t refuse yourself any longer.
They maneuvered you slowly, allowing your body to rest naturally on the bed between them. Bruce kissed you and pulled you close to him, laying you face down on his chest. He rested against the sheets on his back, petting your hair as you wailed into his chest. The situation had fully crashed down on you, filling you with horrible shame and anger. You let them talk you into willingly betraying yourself, into believing this sham of an intimate evening. You tried to forget them in the apex of your pleasure, but they were waiting there for you, too. There was nowhere to hide from them, not even in yourself anymore.
Your cries had fizzled out in sniffles quickly as exhaustion moved into you once more. The edges of reality blurred as you opened your eyes wearily. The sight of the room was a haze, some far-off place that felt more like a dungeon than a castle with each passing minute. Their voices were a blur as you settled against Bruce, still shaking from the shock of it all. You hadn’t noticed Clark had left the bed, but he returned with a warm washcloth. His movements were gentle and tender as he physically cleaned you of themselves. You weren’t sure you’d ever be able to wash yourself of your own sins, not with all the tears you knew had left to be shed.
Clark settled beside you and kissed your cheek, prompting you to close your eyes again. Their conversation was muffled, like you were listening to them speak through a wall. Bruce said something about Alfred bringing dinner up to the bedroom instead of taking it formally like date night would demand. Their voices faded the more you relaxed into their comforting touches.
You could tell they were speaking to you, but it wasn’t real. None of this was real. The feeling of their lips on your skin, the softness of the sheets, the pit of despair deep in your heart. It would all melt away if you weren’t keen to their reality. You let yourself drift off on Bruce’s chest, listening to his steady heartbeat as you hoped to free yourself from them in your dreams.
Pairing: Yandere platonic Damian Wayne x Nanny/sister figure! reader + slight mentions of romantic Yandere Bruce, Dick, Jason, and Tim
Ages in mind: 12 yr old Damian Wayne, 19 yr old Tim Drake, 22 yr old Jason Todd, 27 yr old Dick Grayson, 40 yr old Bruce Wayne
ₓ ˚ . ୭ ˚ ○◦ ˚ . ˚ ◦○ ˚ ୧ . ˚ ₓ
Imagine…
You, a broke 21 year old college student, being hired by Bruce Wayne to be a nanny for Damian a few months after he had arrived to the manor. The Wayne’s aren’t known for hiring them as the family butler usually takes care of all his kids but Alfred has been too overwhelmed and has needed some help. The pay is extremely well, free shelter, and it’s just taking care of one kid. Can’t be that bad…except for the fact it’s the worst job you’ve ever accepted.
This kid keeps threatening to kill you just for existing in the manor or anytime you try helping him. He tries to make your life completely miserable and is always lashing out at everything you do. He gets even more mad when his pets start to warm up to you. Titus enjoys the delicious treats you give him and Alfred the Cat somehow enjoys your presence, often sitting near you when you’re watching TV. Damian finds you completely insufferable and a waste of space in his home.
It changes when your guys were in the kitchen late at night. Damian couldn’t sleep so he went to the kitchen to drink something when he saw you sitting at the table. He tries to ignore you as he opens the fridge. You take a sip of coffee, “Can’t sleep?” He scoffs at the sound of your voice. “That’s none of your business.” “It kinda is, it’s my job to take care of you.” You take another sip of coffee now looking at the irritation on his face. You stand up, making your way to the kitchen, making your way to a secret drawer in the kitchen. “Do you prefer lavender or chamomile?” “What?” “I making you some tea, it’ll help you sleep.” “I don’t need your stupid tea.” “Lavender it is, sit down I wanna talk to you.” He sits reluctantly, watching you put water into the electric kettle and put it to boil.
“Alright what’s your issue with me?” Damian was taken aback not expecting you to confront him. “What?” “Listen I’m not stupid, I know you want me gone. You’ve made it quite obvious and I want to know what’s going on.” “You don’t know what I want.” You take a deep breath as you lean in over the counter. “Damian you might not believe it but you pretty easy to read. I could tell you keep lashing out on me because you want Bruce to give you attention and I’m sorry but that’s not the way to do that. Trust me, I know what it’s like to be neglected and to want your parents to notice you but this isn’t the way to do it.” Damian stays silent, not knowing what to say to any of that. “You can ignore me and continue to be a little sack of shit all of your life, fine by me, just please make it a little easier on me.” “If you have such an issue with it, why don’t you just leave? It’s not like you actually care about me, you’re only here because my father pays you to take care of me. So why don’t you go find another job?” The tea kettle clicks behind you. You sigh and you stand up straight. “I’m just trying to help you. As I said I know what it’s like but your life isn’t gonna be any easier if you just stay like this for all your life.” You pour the boiling hot water onto the tea bag, pouring some honey and stirring it. You bring it towards Damian as you continue talking. “As much as I bet you want me to, I’m not going anywhere anytime soon. You can choose to act the way you want to act, but if I was you I would rather make a little friend than try to make an enemy. It’s good to have those.” You take your stuff and walk to your assigned room leaving Damian in the kitchen alone drinking his tea.
Ever since that day, your relationship with Damian grew. It started off with him saying good morning instead of ignoring your first thing in the morning. He eventually started going out of his way to spend time with you. It feels like having a little brother that just follows you which feels nice but does come with a lot of baggage. For some reason his brothers are now interested in you. Their names being Jason, Dick, and Tim. They used to also avoid you but now seeing Damian’s clinginess, their interest in you has sparked tremendously. And if you thought they were the only ones after you, you seem to also catch the attention of Bruce.
Now having to share your attention with his brothers as well as his father, Damian begins to grow an obsession. You’re the only one who’s been here for him and now that you guys established a relationship, everyone wants to take you away from him. You’re his sister, and he swore to protect you from anyone who looks at you in any way whether it’s romantic or out of hatred.
. ・ 。 . ・ ゜ ✭ ・ . ・✫・ ゜・ 。 .
Hey guys this was just a little idea I thought of but please tell me if you want me to write anything else related to Nanny reader.
Three months into living at Wayne Manor, you stopped going to school.
Not officially. You'd wake up, put on your uniform, take your bag, and leave your room at the appropriate time. Alfred would see you in the hallway and nod his usual greeting. "Have a good day at school, Miss."
You'd nod back.
But instead of getting in the car that would take you to Gotham Academy, you'd slip out a side door and walk. Just walk. Through the gardens, past the gates, into the woods that bordered the property. You'd find a spot—a fallen log, a clear patch of ground—and you'd sit there until it was time to come back.
No one noticed.
The school called, presumably. But whatever calls they made went to Bruce's office, and Bruce was too busy to pay attention to automated attendance reports for a daughter he barely remembered he had. The messages piled up, unheard, unread, unimportant.
You'd return to the manor in the afternoon, slip back into your room, and exist in the silence until dinner—which you'd started attending again because the hunger had become unbearable, and your hoarded food had run out.
At dinner, if anyone was even there, they wouldn't ask about your day. Why would they? They never had before.
It was during one of these dinners—Bruce at the head of the table, Damian to his right, you at the far end like an afterthought—that everything began to fracture further.
"Father," Damian said, his voice carrying that particular tone of disdain he reserved for topics he found beneath him, "are you aware that your... daughter has not attended school in two weeks?"
Your fork stopped halfway to your mouth.
Bruce looked up from his tablet, distracted. "What?"
"The truant," Damian clarified, gesturing vaguely in your direction without looking at you. "She's been skipping classes. I've seen her wandering the grounds when she should be at the Academy. It's embarrassing."
Your heart hammered in your chest. Not from fear of punishment—you were used to that. But from the sudden attention, all of it negative, all of it confirming what you'd always known: you were a problem.
Bruce's eyes finally found you, really looked at you for the first time in weeks. His expression shifted through several emotions—surprise, confusion, then something that might have been concern but looked more like annoyance.
"Is this true?"
Your voice came out small, automatic. "Yes."
"Why?" He set down his tablet, giving you his full attention now, and somehow that was worse than being ignored. "Is something wrong at school?"
Everything was wrong at school. Everything was wrong here. Everything was wrong with you.
But you'd never learned how to say that, so instead you said, "I don't know."
"You don't know?" Bruce's tone sharpened. "You've been skipping school for two weeks and you don't know why?"
Damian scoffed. "Clearly she lacks discipline. Perhaps if she'd been raised properly—"
"Damian," Bruce cut him off, but without much force. He turned back to you. "This is unacceptable. The Academy is one of the best schools in the state. You're lucky to be attending. Many children would—"
He continued talking, something about responsibility and opportunities and expectations, but the words blurred together. You'd heard versions of this speech before, from teachers, from social workers, from your mother when she was sober enough to pretend she cared about your performance in elementary school.
You were ungrateful. You were wasting chances. You were failing to meet basic standards.
You were, fundamentally, a disappointment.
"—starting tomorrow, Alfred will personally ensure you get to school and I'll be checking with your teachers weekly about your attendance and performance. Is that understood?"
"Yes," you whispered.
"I can't hear you."
"Yes," you repeated, louder.
"Good." He picked up his tablet again, the matter settled in his mind. Problem identified, solution implemented, moving on.
Damian smirked at his plate, satisfied that you'd been put in your place.
And you sat there, food turning to ash in your mouth, and realized that this—this moment of actually being seen—was so much worse than invisibility.
The next morning, Alfred did indeed ensure you got to school. He drove you himself, walked you to the entrance, and informed the front office that Mr. Wayne would be monitoring your attendance personally.
The administrators had fallen over themselves to assure him it wouldn't be a problem, that they'd keep close watch, that they apologized for any confusion.
You'd wanted to sink through the floor.
At school, word spread quickly. Bruce Wayne was paying attention to his new daughter. That made you interesting suddenly, but not in a good way.
"Guess you got in trouble," one of Damian's friends—a girl named Madison with perfect blonde hair and a smile like a knife—said as she passed your locker. "Daddy finally notice you exist?"
Her friends laughed.
You'd kept your head down and gone to class.
But being present physically didn't mean you were present mentally. You'd sat at your desk and stared at the board without processing anything. Teachers called on you and you'd give wrong answers or none at all. You'd fail quizzes you hadn't studied for, turn in homework you'd barely attempted.
Your grades, which had already been struggling, plummeted.
True to his word, Bruce checked in with your teachers. You knew because he called you to his office one evening, face stern, a printed report in front of him.
"Failing," he read from the paper. "Failing, D-minus, failing, incomplete assignments, lack of participation, disruptive—how are you disruptive? You barely speak."
You didn't answer. There was no answer that would satisfy.
"I don't understand," he continued, and he genuinely seemed baffled. "You have every advantage now. A good home, resources, opportunities. What's the problem?"
The problem was that you were broken in ways that good homes and resources couldn't fix. The problem was that you'd spent ten years learning that you didn't matter, and three months in a mansion hadn't unlearned that lesson—it had reinforced it. The problem was that you were drowning and no one could see the water.
But you couldn't say any of that, so you said nothing.
"I'm taking you to a therapist," Bruce decided. "Clearly you need professional help to adjust."
Professional help. Another box checked. Another problem delegated. Another way to avoid actually dealing with you himself.
Dr. Matthews had an office in downtown Gotham, all soft lighting and comfortable furniture and paintings meant to be soothing. She was middle-aged, kind-faced, with gentle eyes that reminded you of Mrs. Henderson, your second-grade teacher.
"You can call me Sarah," she said during the first session. "This is a safe space. Nothing you say here will be shared with your father without your permission unless I believe you're in danger of hurting yourself or others."
You'd nodded, sitting on the edge of the couch, hands clasped in your lap.
"So," she'd started, "why don't you tell me about yourself?"
Where did you even start? With the apartment on Miller Street? With your mother's fists and cigarette burns? With the hunger, the cold, the nights spent in stairwells? With the manor that was supposed to be better but felt like a different cage?
You'd shrugged.
"Okay," Sarah had said patiently. "Let's try something easier. What do you like to do? Any hobbies?"
You'd stared at her. Hobbies. You'd spent your childhood surviving. You didn't have hobbies.
"I read," you'd offered finally, because that was technically true. You read to escape, to disappear into other people's lives, to forget your own.
"That's wonderful. What do you like to read?"
The questions continued, gentle and probing, and you'd answered in monosyllables, giving her nothing real, nothing that mattered. You'd learned long ago that telling the truth only led to more pain.
After six sessions, she'd called Bruce in for a joint meeting.
"Your daughter is exhibiting signs of severe attachment disorder, depression, and complex PTSD," she'd explained while you sat there, exposed, every broken part of you being discussed like you weren't in the room. "Her early childhood trauma has significantly impacted her ability to form healthy relationships and trust others. She needs intensive therapy, possibly medication, and—most importantly—she needs a stable, supportive family environment where she feels safe and valued."
Bruce had nodded seriously, taking it all in. "What do we need to do?"
"Family therapy would be beneficial. Individual attention from you and her siblings. Consistent routines. Patience. She needs to know she matters, that she's not just another responsibility to be managed."
More nodding. "We can do that."
But they didn't.
Bruce had attended two family therapy sessions before his schedule became "too complicated." The sessions were rescheduled, then cancelled, then forgotten.
Dick had shown up to one session, spent the hour on his phone dealing with some Titans emergency, and never came back.
Damian had refused outright. "I'm not participating in therapy because Father acquired another broken stray. This is ridiculous."
So the family therapy became just you and Dr. Matthews, which was really just more individual therapy, which wasn't addressing the actual problem.
The problem was that you could talk about your trauma until you were blue in the face, could understand intellectually that your mother's abuse wasn't your fault, could learn coping mechanisms and grounding techniques and all the therapeutic tools in the world.
None of it mattered when you went home to people who still didn't see you.
