bruce wayne x fem!reader (long term relationship, no age gap)
Bruce Wayne who loosens the tie around his neck and pops the top button of his crisp dress shirt when you’re upstairs alone after a long day of work, the sleeves rolled up and pushed above his elbows. Smelling like fresh cotton, his fancy aftershave you got him for his birthday, and something uniquely Bruce. Defined forearms on show, too (whore).
Bruce Wayne who watches with a fond little smirk and a teasing glint in his eye as he watches you pay for dinner. Always a fancy candle lit restaurant, the meals listed on the menu barely pronounceable as you sit across from him dressed to the nines (obviously). You’re using your back up card, the debit card that’s linked to his account, but that’s irrelevant.
Bruce Wayne whose voice does that deep and smooth thing when talking to you and you only. Lips brushing your ear, a small smile tugging at the corners, nose brushing your cheek.
Bruce Wayne who drapes his arm over the back of whatever seat you’re sitting in: The sofa in the living room on lazy days, dining room chair at whatever fundraiser or gala Gotham’s elite is hosting this time. Never even necessarily touching you, just lounging there like it’s his natural resting position.
Bruce Wayne who lets you fiddle with his fingers to your hearts content.
Bruce Wayne who wears one of those long woollen trench coat, black obviously, and when it’s cold in the evening and you don’t have a coat on account of not messing up your perfectly curated outfit, he drapes it over your shoulders. The material practically swamps you, the sleeves way past your hands and functioning more as an open dress, but warm and safe and smells like him.
Bruce Wayne who reeks of aftershave in the most tantalising, mind numbing, best way possible.
Bruce Wayne who always overly tips servers, and when he pulls the cash out of his authentic Italian leather wallet his cufflinks glint in the lights, silver rings tastefully styled on his gorgeous fingers too. You stay tucked into his chest, swaying a little in your heels as the alcohol goes to your head. No one will ever be able to out drink Bruce Wayne himself.
Bruce Wayne who listens intently whenever you talk. It doesn’t matter what it’s about, if your mouth is moving you better believe he’s locked in. Your job, weekly gossip from Gotham’s upper class, whatever nonsense the tabloid is saying about the two of you now. He couldn’t tune you out if he tried.
Bruce Wayne who presses your knees together under the table at breakfast. The quiet mornings are the perfect excuse to stay connected in your own private way that no one else is privy to. He’s already dressed for work, hair styled to perfection and expensive suit ironed and buttoned up, as you sit opposite in your cotton pyjamas buttering your toast.
Bruce Wayne who adjusts his watch as a grounding technique, not noticing as your eyes track the movement every time. The flex of his fingers fiddling with the clasp (he should really stop; the mechanism is going to fall loose) and sliding it backwards and forwards on his wrist before pulling it tight again and tugging his sleeve down over it. Worth more than people’s homes and being treated like a fidget toy.
Bruce Wayne who kisses the back of your hand whenever he sees you, completely casually. No matter how many years you’ve been together, he never changes.
Bruce Wayne who, when driving, speeds up when on an empty stretch of road in some boyish attempt to impress you. It’s not a real attempt; it’s just something silly he used to do in high school that he keeps up just to hear you shriek with laughter and beg him to slow down through your giggles.
Bruce Wayne who naturally settles in a slight man spread, legs set just far enough apart for you to hook your knees over his thigh and dangle your feet in the gap when joining him on the sofa. His hand absentmindedly grabs onto your ankle, and his thumb rubs back and forward over the bone in a soothing gesture.
notes: reader is the daughter of the current mayor of Gotham, both reader and Damian are 17, reader is still plotting on Damian, reader is a little spoiled (not in a bad way), budding relationship, tw mentions of sports day and high school maths, title from Cloud 9 by Beach Bunny (there's a theme here)
part 1
The slight buzz from the champaign you’ve been sneaking all night keeps you warm out on the balcony, just in time for the evening to turn. The hot day has turned into a cool night with a soft breeze which blows about your baby hairs that have escaped the (tight) intricate updo your mother had done hours earlier. Although your makeup is surely separated in some areas, your mascara is definitely smudged under your left eye, and you can feel your dress clinging to you in places it’s not meant to. It feels good to get some fresh air.
It’s been a long night and it’s still nowhere near over, but things like this in Gotham always run well into the next morning, even though it is a school night. Maybe you could weasel a day off school tomorrow from your father.
Speaking of your father, he was busy networking with people from the DA’s office, and your mother is probably lost in conversation with some of her other high society friends from her school days. It had been perfect conditions to sneak out to the balcony for some fresh air.
The steady stream of noise from inside the city hall is disrupted by the closing of the French doors behind you. The glass doesn’t do much to keep out the sounds of the laughter and chatting over the top of the music, but they do muffle it, bringing your full attention to what’s happening out here. Before even seeing who’s behind you, who shut the doors, you smirk to yourself.
Damian Wayne never announces his presence. Where’s the need? Who else would be out here with you, it’s not like you’ve been flirting with anyone else for months on end. Well, if you count eye tag and asking for answers in maths as flirting.
He doesn’t say anything when he leans with his back resting against the ridge. He slowly takes in your side profile with that steady gaze of his, perfectly readable but difficult to describe. The Gotham skyline looks beautiful tonight. It’s hard to think that a city so full of violence and suffering can be so pretty looking, but it is important to remember.
“Bored?” You ask, gaze still focused on the city in front of you. There’s a faint blue wash over the scene from the skyscrapers and high rises across the way. He scoffs in amusement. “Who wouldn’t be at one of these.”
The dark obscures his face and the blue light doesn’t do much to help, but that’s okay. You’ve already memorised it to the point where you could trace it from memory.
He turns to face the same way, and in doing so inches closer. Slick. Your shoulders are just grazing now, bare skin to some overly fancy material his suit jacket is made from. Despite the humidity he’s immaculately dressed, not a hair out of place. He doesn’t even have his tie loosened or top button undone or nothing. Before sneaking away from sports day earlier, you’d seen him engage in a rather intense 5 vs 5 game of soccer with the rest of the team. Looking at him now you would never know, never even think, the same for the three track and field medals he’d won too. You didn’t even participate in sports day, yet it feels like the heat and the sweat is clinging and impossible to scrub off.
The silence sets in but it’s not awkward or uncomfortable, but it’s also not familiar. It’s new. The tension is thick and it crackles between you like something alive, just burgeoning on tipping over some edge you can’t quite put your finger on just yet.
“Have you done the math homework for Ms Hart yet?” He asks in that deep, smooth voice of his. Staring into his green eyes, the same colour as the Chinese jade bracelet he always wears around the wrist of his non-dominant hand, you can feel the effects of the alcohol more strongly. Maybe you shouldn’t have snuck that many glasses.
“It’s funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing…” As you trail off you watch as he rolls his eyes in mild exasperation. You have been known to ask for help in math before. Ask for help, or just, ask for answers.
“It’s easy,” he says. “I can help you if you’d like. I’m not giving out freebee answers on things we get graded for.”
You shrug. Yeah, fair enough.
With his turn to the side, he’s now even closer. Just a centimetre, but still, you notice. This time when he speaks you can feel his breath on your face. His voice honey smooth and calm, warm breath surprisingly pleasant. It smells like the same champaign you’ve been downing all night. Of course, that puts some things in perspective. It sends a shiver up your spine, nonetheless.
“I can tutor you if you like?”
Your immediate response is no. Extra work for maybe like a 15% grade increase? Hard pass. But then some critical thinking breaks through the fog of the alcohol and the haze of having him stood so close. Math tutoring = more time spent with Damian Wayne. Maybe you could make this work.
Putting on your best “I’m studious and I love doing my best in school” face you spin so you’re leaning with your back resting against the railing. Your dress spins with you, a gorgeous floor length gown that your father had presented you with earlier this evening. Your shoes however, the sparkly open toe heels, are less new, and beginning to pinch your little toe, and that’s not to mention the ache in the arch of your feet. You push through, ignoring the pain. This is more important.
“Yes! That’s a great idea. What do your evenings look like? I’m free whenever you are.”
His eyes do something complicated. “Evenings? I’m busy. All of them.”
“Oh, like clubs and stuff?”
“Yes. I’m on the soccer team, and fencing, so that takes up a lot of time.” He’s talking normally, as normally as Damian Wayne does, but there’s still that look in his eyes.
“Huh, okay… I can send you my timetable and we can match up our free periods?”
He nods in silent agreement; eyes still trained on your face. Slowly, he leans in and your eyes widen in surprise, pulse suddenly rushing. For a brief second you think that he’s going to kiss you. But no, of course he doesn’t. Because why would Damian Wayne ever do something as normal or predictable as that. He just studies your face one last time. Damian’s face is so close to yours he must be able to see the freckles through the makeup, the ones that are dusted along the bridge of your nose and only come out in the summertime.
You watch as he pulls away, happy with his inspection, and then heads through the French doors back into the fray.
But that’s okay. There’s all the time in the world to get closer, build a connection. It’s not like you’re gonna be getting magically better at math overnight.
notes: reader is the daughter of the current mayor of Gotham, both reader and Damian are 17, reader is plotting on Damian HARD, reader is kinda spoiled (not in a bad way), budding relationship, tw sports day, title from the song Sports by Beach Bunny
Part 2
The mid-afternoon sun casts a warm glow over the grass which creeps up along the grandstand. The overhead cover doesn’t do much to shield you from heat, but it’s better than participating in the long jump. Trust Gotham Academy to have a twenty-four-acre playing field, filled to the brim with sport facilities (even a cricket pitch, who plays cricket?). And of course, they must hold sports day on the hottest day of the year yet. Mid-June in Gotham isn’t meant to be so hot that any physical activity more strenuous than breathing breaks you out in pools of sweat, and yet, here we are. The school branded PE kit is also an awful touch, the top that clings too tight under the armpits and is baggy everywhere else, and the skort with the shorts that always ride up when you’re walking.
Everyone else is over by the tennis courts, leaving you on your lonesome. Which is fine. It’s peaceful, calm, and most importantly, in the shade. It’s hard to make friends when you join halfway through the year. A snap election in Gotham’s local political scene had you taken out of boarding school and dragged back home, kicking and screaming along the way. But Gotham Academy isn’t that bad. And the sports grounds are quite beautiful. Sports day still sucks though, no matter what school is enforcing the humiliation ritual.
Now on your fifth SOS message to your dad begging for an email into school to excuse you, he’s still not responding. It’s honestly insulting. There’s only so much hiding a girl can do in one school organised and registered day. What’s good about being the daughter of the mayor if he can’t even get you out of sports day?
“Are you hiding?”
The voice makes you jump about a foot in the air off the wooden bench. The grandstand had been deserted except for you. You, and now Damian Wayne. Your eyes immediately drop to the three gold medals hanging around his neck and resting in the centre of his chest. Not real gold, obviously. Just the plastic medals they get for every sporting venture they need to reward in some way. Slowly, you shut off your phone and let your gaze trail up from his chest to his gorgeous face.
He’s thriving in the heat. The only visible drops of sweat are along his hairline, and they’re a detriment to his hard work. He makes the regulation PE kit look good, and that’s saying something. Eventually, you reach his eyes.
“I saw the races.”
He seems pleased to hear that, but it’s difficult to tell. Humming in that confusing way he often does he sits down on the bench a few inches away. The warmth emitting from his body isn’t helping your overheating, but you wouldn’t dare move away. Not after all the work you’ve been putting in these past months.
Mayor electoral campaigning is tiring, so are all the events you had attend as a candidate’s daughter. Although, when Gotham’s most prolific billionaire showed up with his cute son in tow, who just so happens to be in your year at your new school, it’s not all that bad. Months of eye tag and smiles from across rooms that were usually met with blank looks finally cumulated in a well picked seat in English and a chance change of seating plan in math class three weeks ago. That really helped.
The two of you sit in silence, and you attempt to subtly inch closer. He definitely notices, but he doesn’t move away. A win is a win.
“Have you participated in any events?”
The silence is loud. “I was never good at sports. So…”
He huffs. “You’re not missing much. These people are not up to par. It’s not much of a competition.” He leisurely runs a hand through his dark hair, and you track the movement eagerly. His tan skin stretches so lovely over the sharp cut of his cheekbones and the way his jaw is always set in concentration fascinates you. You can’t help but wonder what he looks like relaxed.
Before you can stop yourself, or even think about what it is you’re saying, your mouth is open and words are spilling out. “Are you going tonight? To the thing.”
Damian arches one perfectly formed eyebrow. “The thing? You mean the charity gala raising money for local Gotham orphanages? The one that my father runs?”
You nod, playing it off. Very casual, very nonchalant. It’s a normal question that a normal person would ask. “Yep. That one. Are you going?” He nods. Somewhere across the rugby field they’re announcing over a megaphone that the high jump will start in five minutes.
You can feel his eyes on your face, and you will your cheeks not to flush. They’re probably already red from exposure to the sun. He must find what he’s looking for because he turns away again and directs his attention to the grounds.
You’re now trying to act natural and look anywhere but him, but your eyes have a mind of their own and keep being drawn back in. Damian hasn’t moved an inch since he sat down and seems undeterred by the constant fidgeting and shifting. The longer you sit in silence the more at home he seems, and the more you fidget, until eventually he stands. Your eyes follow, obviously, and he meets your gaze, steady and knowing. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry.
“I’ll see you tonight.”
You don’t speak as he turns to exit the row and jogs down the stairs to the grounds, breaking into a sprint when he reaches the grass. I’ll see you tonight.
By some sort of miracle, your phone buzzes with a response from your dad. Mayor duties will never be more important than getting his princess out of sports day. Thank God.
Dick Grayson who refuses to call them sweet nothings because everything he whispers to you in the dark under the covers, or with his arms wrapped around your waist on a night out, he says with so much conviction and utter devotion it could make you ill.
Dick Grayson who learns to dry and style your hair properly so he could do it for you when you’re tired, or even just the casual intimacy that he lives for. And he’s always careful not to tug or burn, too.
Dick Grayson who participates in your self-care nights, a cute, fluffy Hello Kitty headband pushing his curls back as a cooling sheet mask is soaking into his face. He doesn’t even complain when you “sneak” a few photos (he’s probably posing so you get his “good side”).
Dick Grayson who would read all your favourite books and watch all your favourite films, just for the opportunity to understand you better, and practically radiates with glee when you return the favour.
Dick Grayson who lets you choose what music goes on in the car, giving you free range to switch between the radio stations and offers you his phone (you already know the password, there are no secrets here.)
Dick Grayson who opens doors for you, always walks on the traffic side of the pavement, buys your mother flowers, has planned out his future with space for you in it. He doesn’t assume, only hopes, as he values your freedom and independence.
Dick Grayson who goes to all the concerts with you and holds your jacket and bag, so you can focus on having a good time. He would jump for joy if you ever got him tickets to his favourite band.
Dick Grayson who, when it’s winter and the chill is biting, holds your hand tight and warm in his jacket pocket and always shares his long scarves. And in the summer, slides his sunglasses onto your face the millisecond he sees you squinting, even though his face is wider than yours and he has to keep pushing them back up your nose when they slip.
Dick Grayson who dances to old songs with you in the living room and doesn’t get annoyed when you stand on his toes, he only tugs you closer.
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