𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐄𝐍
{summary} He thinks he’s slipping. You think he’s hotter. Obviously, you’re right.
{content} bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment, body image insecurity
You weren’t even supposed to be in the bedroom yet.
You were looking for your phone.
Instead, you stop dead in the doorway.
Bruce is standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, hair still slightly damp like he just got out of the shower. One hand is braced on the dresser, the other… hovering over his stomach, pressing lightly, then pulling away like he doesn’t like what he feels.
His expression?
Critical. Focused. Annoyed.
“…Great,” he mutters.
You raise a brow, leaning against the frame. “Wow. Who pissed you off this time?”
He doesn’t turn around immediately.
“…Me,” he says flatly.
That gets your attention.
You step inside, slower now. “That sounds dramatic. Should I be concerned?”
Now he glances at you through the mirror.
“Probably not,” he says. “Unless you’ve developed strong opinions about poor discipline.”
You snort. “Oh, I have plenty of those. Just not about you.”
He gestures vaguely at himself, like the answer should be obvious.
“This,” he says.
You look.
And look a little longer than necessary, just to make a point.
“…Yeah,” you say.
His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”
You hum, walking closer, circling slightly so you’re not just another reflection behind him.
“Yeah,” you repeat, “you look good.”
He exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t do that thing where you pretend—”
You reach out and poke his side.
He stops mid-sentence.
“First of all,” you say, completely ignoring his complaint, “rude. Second—what ‘thing’?”
“That,” he gestures again, more annoyed now, “where you act like there’s no difference.”
You tilt your head, considering him.
“There is a difference.”
He nods once, like finally, finally—
“Yeah,” you continue, “you’re hotter.”
Silence.
He turns his head, actually looking at you now.
“…You’re unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You step right into his space now, no hesitation, your hand sliding lightly across his stomach—not critical, not analyzing, just there.
His breath catches, subtle but there.
“You feel nice,” you say casually.
“…Nice,” he repeats, like the word personally offended him.
“Mhm.” You nod. “Very. Ten out of ten. Would absolutely ignore responsibilities to touch again.”
He lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff. “That’s not helping.”
“It is,” you argue. “You just don’t like the method.”
He shakes his head, stepping back half a pace—until his back nearly hits the dresser.
“I’ve lost definition,” he says. “I’m slower. I should’ve noticed sooner.”
There it is.
You soften—but only a little.
Instead of arguing, you step closer again, closing that half-step distance like it never existed.
“Bruce.”
He doesn’t answer.
Your hand slides up his chest, steady, grounding.
“You know what I see?”
He gives you a look. “Apparently something fictional.”
You roll your eyes and—without warning—lean in and press a kiss to his collarbone.
He freezes.
Another one, just above it.
“I see someone who hasn’t slept properly in weeks,” you murmur.
A kiss to his shoulder.
“Someone who’s been carrying half the city on his back.”
Your fingers curl lightly against his side.
“And someone who still looks—unfairly—good doing it.”
He exhales, slower this time.
You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.
“You’re allowed to change,” you say. “You’re not a statue.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
He hesitates.
And that hesitation says everything.
You sigh softly, but there’s no frustration in it—just understanding.
“C’mere.”
You don’t wait for permission. You take his hand and guide it—gently—back to his own stomach where he was just criticizing himself.
He tenses at first.
“Feel that?” you ask.
“I know what it feels like.”
“Yeah,” you say, your hand covering his, pressing it there just a little more firmly, “but you’re feeling it like it’s a problem.”
You shift closer, your other arm sliding around his waist.
“I’m feeling it like it’s you.”
He goes quiet.
Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles.
“And I like you,” you add, softer now.
He watches you for a second—really watches you this time, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.
“…You’re biased,” he says.
You grin. “Hopelessly.”
That finally cracks something.
A small smile. Barely there, but real.
You take advantage of it immediately, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips—light, teasing.
“Also,” you add, not moving far, “for the record?”
He hums faintly.
“You’re hot.”
He shakes his head, but there’s no heat in it anymore.
“…You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” you say, backing him lightly against the dresser now, hands still on him, “you’re smiling.”
He pauses.
Realizes.
And—yeah.
He is.
You soften again, just a little, your forehead brushing his.
“Stop picking fights with yourself,” you murmur. “You’re on my team.”
His hand comes up then, settling at your waist, grounding himself there.
“…Stay?” he asks quietly.
You huff a small laugh. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”
And this time, when he glances toward the mirror—
He doesn’t look annoyed.
He just looks… less harsh.
Which, for Bruce, is basically progress.
Truly gorgeously written! It touched my insides, they’re alll gooey and warm now- thanks for sharing
