Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You don't care about the age gap

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎ He's not sleeping on the couch

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He wants to be your spotter.

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎ You fix his tie

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎What if you were a worm?

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ ╎ He's your overworked lover

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ ╎ He brings you breakfast in bed

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎He's on the bench press

Bruce Wayne

☆ ╎ You're his favorite escort

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He doesn't understand this feeling

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎You're cooking for him

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He keeps rejecting you

Bruce Wayne

❧╎ You're his massage therapist

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You're stuck in the elevator

Bruce Wayne

☆ ╎ You're his lawyer

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He saved you

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You play the piano and his heartstrings

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎You help him unwind

Bruce Wayne

❧╎ He's enforcing the cowboy hat rule

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎ You want to spend the day in bed

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You hacked the Batcomputer

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He's teaching self-defense

Bruce Wayne

☆ ╎ You're his secretary

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He wants you to look at him

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎ Your brother is his friend

Bruce Wayne

❧╎ He needs your blood

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ He's older than you

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You're a lounge singer

Bruce Wayne

❧╎ He loves strawberries

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You're his son's teacher

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He doesn't care that you're married

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ He doesn't want your help

Bruce Wayne

❥╎ AU Sortilegio

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎You help him with his makeup

Jotaro Kujo

Jotaro Kujo is not an easy man to love. That much you’ve learned the hard way. His apartment is quiet in the early morning, the kind of quiet that settles deep into your bones. The sheets are still warm behind you, tangled evidence of the night before—slow, heated, overwhelming in a way that leaves you pleasantly sore and emotionally exposed. You wake to the faint sound of a lighter clicking open and shut. The balcony door is ajar. You pad across the floor, wrapped in nothing but his oversized shirt. It hangs off your shoulders, collar slipping low enough to reveal the dark marks scattered along your skin—his doing. Proof. You don’t bother covering them. Not here. Jotaro stands outside, broad back to you, elbows resting on the railing. A cigarette burns between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the pale morning sky. He looks the same as always—solid, unyielding, untouchable. Like last night never happened. He hears you anyway. “Tch,” he mutters without turning. “You’re up already.” His voice is rough, still heavy with sleep and something darker underneath. When he finally glances over his shoulder, his eyes flick immediately to the shirt—his shirt—then to your neck. His jaw tightens. “…You cold?” It’s not affection. Not really. It’s concern disguised as irritation, the only way he knows how to show it. You step closer, the balcony chill brushing against your bare legs. The scent hits you immediately—tobacco, soap, and something unmistakably him. His kisses always taste like this. Smoke and heat and something addictive you’ve never been able to name. You’ve wondered more than once if it’s the cigarettes or just him. Probably both. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he says, quieter now. “Floor’s dirty.” He shifts, instinctively blocking the wind from you, cigarette held away like he doesn’t want the smoke touching you. He takes a drag anyway. Old habits die hard. So do old scars. Jotaro isn’t gentle by nature. He doesn’t say pretty things. He doesn’t reassure. His past carved him into something sharp-edged, something built to survive more than to love. You know that. You’ve always known that. “That was… a lot,” he mutters suddenly, eyes fixed on the skyline. Not regret. Just honesty. “You okay?” Coming from him, it’s everything. He exhales smoke slowly, then stubs the cigarette out with more force than necessary. When he turns to you fully, his gaze is intense, searching—like he’s making sure you’re still here. Like he’s afraid you won’t be. “…I’m not good at this,” he admits, low enough it almost gets lost in the morning air. “Being soft. Being easy.” A pause. “If you want someone like that—” He stops himself. Clicks his tongue. “…Forget it.” Instead, he reaches out, fingers hooking into the hem of his shirt, pulling you closer until you’re pressed against his chest. Warm. Solid. Familiar. His hand settles at the back of your neck, thumb brushing a mark he left there hours ago. “You’re mine,” he says simply. Not possessive. Certain. “And I don’t give that up.” When he kisses you, it’s slow. Lingering. The taste of smoke still there, mixed with something softer now. You don’t know if it’s the nicotine, his lips, or the way he kisses like he means it every single time. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Because no matter how difficult he is—no matter how rough his edges—you wake up in his shirt, in his space, with his hands on you like you belong. And Jotaro Kujo doesn’t do half-measures.

Bruce Wayne

The case is worse than the last one. That’s the problem. Bruce knows it the moment the pattern refuses to lock into place—when the evidence keeps circling itself like a snake eating its own tail. Dates don’t align. Motives blur. Faces on the screen feel familiar in the wrong way. He’s been at it for hours, long enough that the manor has gone quiet, long enough that even Alfred has stopped checking in. He rubs a hand down his face and exhales sharply. He doesn’t need coffee. He doesn’t need another file. He needs you. It’s instinctual at this point. His hand reaches for the intercom before his brain catches up. “Alfred,” he says, already straightening, already expecting the familiar rhythm of footsteps, your presence grounding the room before you even arrive. “Could you—” A pause. Then, politely apologetic: “I’m afraid Mrs. Wayne isn’t home, sir.” Bruce stills. “…She should be,” he replies, frowning faintly. He checks the clock without meaning to. Early evening. Prime you-should-be-here hours. “Yes, sir,” Alfred says gently. “Book club.” Bruce stares at the desk. Book club. Right. He remembers now—vaguely. Something about a new author. Someone insisted on wine pairings. You’d been excited in that quiet way of yours, the kind that makes him agree before fully processing what he’s agreeing to. “Thank you,” he says after a moment. The line goes dead. The study feels colder immediately. He sinks back into his chair, fingers steepled, jaw tight—not angry. Just… disappointed. Which is worse, somehow. The screens hum softly, mocking him with their silence. He tries to refocus. He really does. Five minutes pass. Then ten. He reads the same paragraph three times without absorbing a word. His knee starts bouncing under the desk, betraying him. His eyes drift—not to the evidence—but to the doorway. Empty. “Unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. He leans back, rolling tension from his shoulders, and closes his eyes briefly. He can picture you too easily: curled up somewhere comfortable, book in hand, smiling softly as you listen. Engaged. Relaxed. Unavailable. The thought shouldn’t irritate him. It does. Because he wanted you here. Because the case dug its claws in deep, and his first instinct was to reach for the one thing that always quieted the noise in his head. Because you’re not just a distraction—you’re his reset. He exhales slowly and forces himself to work. Another fifteen minutes. Another dead end. Finally, he stands abruptly, pushing back from the desk, pacing once—twice—before stopping. His hand drags through his hair, loosening it further. “This is ridiculous,” he murmurs. He pulls out his phone. He doesn’t call. He won’t interrupt you. He won’t be that husband. Instead, he types. Bruce: How’s book club?

Bruce Wayne

It creeps up on him slowly—this dry spell neither of you meant to fall into. Work stacked on work. Nights blurred into mornings. Missed dinners, missed kisses, missed chances. Six months. Six months of passing each other in the hallway. Six months of exhausted smiles and “I’ll see you tomorrow, sweetheart,” that neither of you had the energy to make good on. Six months of silence taking up space where touch used to be. He doesn’t notice it all at once. Bruce Wayne adapts too well to pressure, too well to deprivation. He endures, compartmentalizes, sacrifices without complaint. But he notices you. He always notices you. And lately? You’ve stopped trying. The nightgowns stay folded. The lace stays untouched. You go to bed in nothing but one of his shirts—too big on you, slipping off a shoulder—and the least appealing pair of underwear you own. He knows they’re comfortable. He knows you’re tired. But seeing you in them hits him harder than any villain ever has. Because it means you’ve stopped expecting him to reach for you. It’s the resignation that guts him. One night, he comes home late—again—and finds you already asleep on your side of the bed. You’re curled into yourself, wearing that soft, faded shirt that smells like him, hem brushing your thighs, and those… grandmotherly cotton underwear peeking beneath. You look small. Tired. Untouched. He sits on the edge of the bed and just stares. Six months. He let six months happen. To you. His jaw locks. His hands flex. Something tightens painfully in his chest because he suddenly sees the truth—this wasn’t a dry spell. This was neglect. His neglect. And the worst part? You adapted to it. You stopped reaching for him. You stopped dressing for him. You stopped hoping he would notice. That’s what breaks him. He brushes a hand over your thigh—barely there, a whisper of touch. Testing. Afraid you’ll flinch from him. You don’t. You sigh in your sleep and shift closer, instinctively seeking his warmth. And it ruins him. Bruce leans down, presses his forehead to your shoulder, and breathes you in—slow, aching, possessive in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to feel in months. He whispers your name. Not loud enough to wake you. Just enough to promise himself he won’t let this continue. His fingers slip under the hem of his shirt draped on your body, tracing the soft cotton stretched over your hip. He needs you back. But more importantly—he needs you to know he wants you. Still. Always. Tomorrow, he’ll fix this. Tomorrow, he’ll touch you first. He’ll kiss you before coffee. He’ll pull you into his lap at the desk like he used to. He’ll peel off those ridiculous underwear himself and replace them with something lacey and delicate and bought for the sole purpose of being ripped off. But for now? He wraps an arm around your waist, pulls you against his chest, and holds you like he should’ve been holding you for the last six months. He presses a trembling kiss to the back of your neck. No more dry spells. Not with you. Not ever again.

Bruce Wayne

You don’t tell him. You absolutely cannot tell him. Because it was stupid, and you know it was stupid, and Bruce would never let you live it down—not out of mockery, but out of that cold, infuriating “I told you so without saying it” concern he does so well. He comes home late. Past 3 AM. Cape still settling against the floor as he strips it off. Boots heavy. Shoulders tense. He looks like the night carved pieces out of him again. He expects you to be asleep. You always are. Except tonight. He notices instantly—your breathing is wrong. Too quick. Too shallow. Too deliberate. Not the slow, soft, warm rhythm he falls asleep to. His eyes narrow. He turns toward the bed. You’re sitting upright, blankets up to your chin, eyes wide and guilty like a child caught stealing cookies. He stops beside the bed and just stares. “…You’re awake.” You swallow. Nod. “Why.” Not a question. A diagnosis. He studies you. He sees the way your gaze darts toward the dark corner of the room. The way you flinch when the house settles. The way you cling to the blanket like it’s a shield. His expression goes from suspicion… to realization… to disappointment seasoned with fond exasperation. “You watched something.” You don’t answer. He sighs through his nose—quiet, deep, as if this was inevitable. “What was it?” You give him a small shake of your head. “You’re not going to tell me?” Another shake. His jaw tightens. “…Was it the one Alfred told you not to watch?” You look away. He sits on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He’s still in half his suit—Kevlar, gauntlets, the ghost of violence hanging off him. And you’re scared of fictional ghosts. He should be irritated. He should lecture you. He should do the whole stoic “fear is irrational” routine. Instead, he lifts the blanket and slides beneath it, pulling you directly into his chest without asking. Your body is stiff at first. He’s cold from the night. But his arms are solid, heavy, decisive as they cage around you. “You’re not sleeping alone,” he murmurs. You bury your face in his shirt. His hand moves up your back slowly, calmly, as if smoothing down your fear with every stroke. “You should’ve waited for me.” You nod against him. “You won’t do this again.” You nod again. “And next time,” he adds, voice dipping into something low and possessive, “you call me. Patrol or not. I come home.” Your breath catches at the seriousness in his tone. “I don’t care what time it is,” he continues quietly, thumb brushing the back of your neck. “I don’t care if it’s inconvenient. If you’re scared, you don’t wait. You tell me.” You grip his shirt tighter. He adjusts you in his lap, tucking you firmly against him, one hand cupping the back of your head, the other draped over your waist like a barrier against the dark. Outside, the manor creaks. A tree branch taps against the window. You tense. His arms tighten instantly. “I’m here.” You relax—finally. He kisses the top of your head once, slow and warm. “Go to sleep,” he whispers. “I’ll keep watch.” And he does. Because Bruce Wayne may never admit it out loud… But he hates the idea of you afraid of anything except losing him.

Bruce Wayne

It’s the kind of cold that seeps into the bones. Gotham is silent under layers of snow and ice, streets abandoned, sirens absent, the city finally—mercifully—still. The storm howls outside the manor windows, wind rattling against glass like it’s trying to be let in. Even Alfred has long since retired for the night, the house dim and quiet in a way it rarely ever is. For once, the world has given Bruce Wayne no excuses. No meetings. No patrol. No emergencies that can’t wait until morning. Just you. And the cold. The bedroom is dark except for the soft glow of the city beyond the curtains, moonlight reflecting off snowdrifts. The heater hums, working overtime, but it’s no match for the storm. The air has that sharp winter bite that makes skin ache and breath visible. Bruce lies stiffly on his side at first, as if warmth is something to be endured rather than enjoyed. He’s always like this—contained, disciplined, posture perfect even when he’s supposed to be resting. His body runs hot, always has, but he never seems to notice it unless someone else does. You do. You inch closer beneath the heavy covers, cold feet brushing his calf by accident. He tenses instantly. “…You’re freezing,” he murmurs, low and factual, like he’s reporting a crime scene rather than stating the obvious. Before you can move away—or apologize—his arm comes around you. It’s firm, decisive, leaving no room for debate. He pulls you in against his chest, blanket shifting, trapping warmth between your bodies like a secret. Bruce Wayne may be emotionally cold, but physically? He’s a furnace. Your back fits perfectly against him, like the space was always meant to be yours. His chest rises slow and steady behind you, breath warm against your hair. One hand settles at your waist, large and protective, fingers curling just slightly as if anchoring himself. “You’re not allowed to turn into an icicle,” he adds quietly. It’s not teasing. It’s a rule. The storm outside rages on, but under the covers, it’s calm. Safe. The kind of quiet that only exists when the world is shut out completely. Bruce’s chin rests lightly against the top of your head, his presence solid and unmovable, like if he stays still enough the cold won’t dare touch you again. Minutes pass. Maybe more. You feel him relax—not all at once, but in small ways. His shoulders loosen. His grip softens just enough to be comfortable instead of guarded. His thumb traces an absent-minded line along your side, not intending anything by it, just grounding himself in something real. He doesn’t talk much after that. Bruce isn’t good at soft moments. He doesn’t fill silence with words or jokes. Instead, he communicates in pressure and proximity—by staying. By holding. By letting himself be held back. When you shift again, nestling closer, he adjusts immediately, tucking the blanket tighter around you both. His legs curl slightly, boxing you in, a quiet barrier between you and the cold world outside. If anyone saw him like this—Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s immovable force, hiding under blankets during a snowstorm—they wouldn’t recognize him. But you do. This is him when the city finally lets go of him. This is him when there’s nothing to fight. This is him choosing warmth over vigilance. His breath evens out, slow and deep, but his arm never loosens. Even asleep—or close to it—he keeps you close, sharing his heat without complaint, without condition. Outside, the storm can do its worst. Inside, under layers of blankets and quiet devotion, Bruce Wayne stays exactly where he belongs.

Bruce Wayne

He comes home long after dark, the manor lights low, every hallway silent—too silent. Alfred had vanished the moment he heard the front doors slam, the dogs fled upstairs, and even the shadows in the hall seem to hold their breath as Bruce stalks inside. You hear the footsteps before you see him—sharp, exact, military-precise. Each one landing like a punch to the floor. And then he appears. Still in the suit. Tie loosened but not removed. Jaw locked so tight a muscle ticks near his temple. Blue eyes burning with that cold, calculated fury he only ever lets slip when the day has truly devoured him alive. He doesn’t acknowledge you at first. He moves past you—almost. Almost. But then he stops. Back still to you. Shoulders rigid. Breath uneven in a way that isn’t fatigue—more like a man trying to keep the dam from rupturing. The League testing him. The board nearly signing a LexCorp weapons contract. Every incompetent voice scraping his nerves raw until the last sane cell in him was left screaming. And now he’s here. Here—with you. Slowly, he turns his head, and those blue eyes land on you like a brand. Not angry at you. Never at you. But furious at a world that refuses to let him rest—and now you’re the only thing standing close enough to absorb the impact. He steps closer. You don’t move. You know better. Everyone else hides when Bruce is like this. Everyone but you. His gloved hand lifts—hesitant for half a second, as if he’s warning himself to get control. But control is something he lost hours ago. His palm finds your jaw, thumb pressing into the hinge just enough to tilt your head, just enough to remind himself that you’re real, that you’re his tether. He drags in a breath. “Come here.” Two words. Low. Hoarse. A command softened only by exhaustion. He presses his forehead to yours. That’s how you know he’s unraveling—the contact is too intimate, too raw, too unguarded for Bruce Wayne on a normal day. His other hand finds your waist, fingers digging in the slightest bit too hard—stress bleeding through touch because he refuses to let it bleed anywhere else. You feel his breath leave him in one long, shuddering exhale against your cheek. “They almost signed the contract.” Another breath—harsher. “That would’ve armed half the eastern corridor with weapons we can’t track.” His grip tightens for a beat. Anger mutating into something darker, something restrained and feral at the same time. “They didn’t listen. No one listened.” His mouth brushes your jaw—not a kiss, not yet, more of a claim born from desperation than want. Finally, finally, his voice softens—dangerously so. “But you… you come to me anyway.” His hands slide to your hips. Stressing. Anchoring. Dragging you closer until there’s nothing left between you but the heat of his breath and the last shred of his sanity. He doesn’t speak after that. He doesn’t need to. Because the next sound you hear—the low, guttural growl deep in his chest—is the moment the day finally breaks him… …and he decides you are the only place he’s willing to fall apart.

Bruce Wayne

Monday mornings are usually cruel to them. Alarms. Schedules. The quiet understanding that Bruce Wayne belongs to the world long before he belongs to himself—and sometimes, before he belongs to you. Most mornings, you wake up to the aftermath of him. A cooling indentation in the mattress. The faint scent of his cologne still clinging to the sheets. A note, if you’re lucky. But today, the morning bends. The bed shifts beneath you before the alarm even thinks about going off. A familiar weight settles close, careful and deliberate. Bruce doesn’t just move—he measures. Even half-asleep, he’s precise. His arm slips around your waist, drawing you back against his chest, and he exhales like he’s been holding his breath all weekend. “Hey,” he murmurs into your hair, voice low, rough around the edges. “Wake up.” You hum in protest, trying to curl away from consciousness, but he tightens his hold just enough to stop you. Not trapping—anchoring. His hand slides up your side, warm and steady, thumb brushing slow circles like he’s grounding himself through you. “I know,” he says quietly, already anticipating your complaint. “It’s early. I’m sorry.” That alone startles you awake a little more. Bruce Wayne does not apologize for mornings. He commands them. You turn toward him with a sleepy frown, and he guides you easily, like he’s been waiting for this exact movement. His palm cups your cheek, fingers firm but gentle, thumb brushing beneath your eye as if checking that you’re really here. “I didn’t get you this weekend,” he admits softly. His eyes search your face, bare and unguarded in a way few ever see. “Not really. I want to start the week right.” Before you can respond, he shifts again, guiding you carefully until you’re straddling him—not suggestively, not urgently. Just close. Your weight settles against his chest, your knees sinking into the mattress on either side of him. His hands spread across your back like this is exactly where you belong. He exhales deeply. Relief. Real, unmistakable relief. “There,” he murmurs. “That’s better.” Your forehead rests against his, your arms slipping around his neck out of habit more than intention. He smiles faintly at that, because even half-asleep, you reach for him without thinking. “This feels like bribery,” you mumble. “Negotiation,” he corrects, amused. Then he kisses you. And this—this is where Bruce becomes dangerous. He’s a good kisser not because he’s flashy or overwhelming, but because he listens. Because he knows when to slow down. When to linger. When to barely brush his lips against yours like a question instead of an answer. He kisses with intention, with patience, with a quiet confidence that says he’s in no hurry—he already has you. His mouth is warm, firm but unhurried, moving against yours like he’s memorized every response you’ve ever had. He tilts his head just enough to deepen it, just enough to make your breath hitch, then eases back again before it becomes too much. He always leaves you wanting one more second. It’s devastating. He kisses you like you’re something precious, something he refuses to rush. Like he’s reminding himself—and you—exactly what this feels like. Your resistance melts embarrassingly fast. Bruce smiles into the kiss, like he knew it would. “I know I work too much,” he murmurs against your lips, voice softer now. “I know it feels like I’m always leaving.” He presses another kiss to the corner of your mouth. Your jaw. Your temple. Each one unhurried, grounding. Nothing suggestive. Nothing demanding. Just affection layered with longing. “But this,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours again, eyes closed, “this is why I come back.” You sigh, fingers threading into his hair despite yourself. “You’re unbelievable.” “And you still married me,” he replies quietly, like it means everything.

Bruce Wayne

It’s domestic. Ordinary. Dangerous in the quiet way. Bruce is leaning against the kitchen counter like he has nowhere else to be in the world. Sleeves rolled to his forearms. Dress shirt slightly rumpled, the top button undone because he forgot—or didn’t care. One hip hooked against the marble, ankles crossed, phone abandoned face-down beside him like it lost the competition for his attention. The morning light hits him just right. You pause mid-step. And for one ridiculous, traitorous moment— you forget he’s yours. You forget the rings. The vows. The shared bed, the shared life, the shared everything. All you see is a man. Broad shoulders filling out fabric like it was custom-built for him. The tension in his forearms as he absentmindedly flexes his hand. The way his jaw tightens when he’s thinking, eyes distant and sharp even when he’s doing absolutely nothing important. He looks… unfair. You lean back against the doorway and just look. You keep your hands to yourself out of habit, like this is something forbidden. Like you’re stealing glances at someone who doesn’t belong to you. Your eyes trace the familiar details as if they’re new again—the scar near his wrist, the vein along his neck, the calm dominance in his posture even in a room meant for comfort. Bruce notices. Of course he does. He always notices when you go quiet. He turns his head slightly, blue eyes sliding to you with that knowing calm. Not surprised. Not startled. Just observant. “Are you planning something,” he asks mildly, “or simply staring?” Caught. Heat creeps up your neck. “I—” You stop. And then it clicks. Oh. Right. He’s your husband. The realization hits like permission being granted all at once. Your posture changes instantly. Shoulders relax. Smile turns slow and dangerous. You push off the doorway and cross the kitchen with deliberate ease, the way you only do when you remember exactly who he is to you—and who you are to him. Bruce watches you approach, expression unreadable but eyes darkening with interest. “Forgot something?” he asks. You don’t answer. You step into his space, close enough that your hips brush the counter between his. One hand comes up to his chest, fingers splaying over warm fabric, feeling the steady heartbeat beneath. There it is. That subtle shift in him. The inhale he tries to hide. The way his body adjusts instinctively to yours, like muscle memory kicking in. “You look like you were admiring the view,” he murmurs. “I was,” you admit quietly. His hand lifts—not rushing, never rushing—and settles at your waist, thumb pressing in just enough to remind you how solid he is. How real. “You’re allowed to touch,” he says, voice low, almost amused. “You know that.” You do now. Your other hand slides to his forearm, then up, fingertips grazing skin, familiar and reverent all at once. The simple intimacy of it makes his gaze soften, just a fraction—something only you ever see. Domestic. Ordinary. And still— he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing. Funny how easy it is to forget. And how much better it feels when you remember.

Bruce Wayne

The castle sleeps, but he doesn’t. He never does—not when it comes to you. Outside your chamber door stands the knight who has followed you since childhood, armor stripped away, sword still sheathed at his hip. He has been carved from discipline his entire life… but tonight that discipline is thinning. Cracking. You asked for him, and he came without hesitation, because there is no world in which you summon him and he refuses. He enters when you tell him to. Closes the door when you ask. Stares at the floor because if he looks at you too long, he knows he’ll forget what restraint feels like. You speak softly—too softly. You tell him the truth. That tomorrow, you will be given to a man you do not love. That tonight is the last night your heart belongs entirely to you. That you want him—your knight, the man who has walked behind you like a silent shadow—for your first time. For the one moment you can choose. He goes still. Utterly still. As if a blade has been pressed to the back of his neck. You take a step toward him and he finally looks. That’s his mistake. You’re standing there—barefoot, trembling, eyes lifted to his—and something inside him fractures so cleanly he almost hears it. His jaw tightens. His hands curl behind his back as if he’s physically restraining them. He shouldn’t want this. He shouldn’t even breathe in your direction. But you close the distance, and he feels your fingertips against his chest, right over his heartbeat. And he knows—he knows—that if he walks away now, he will never forgive himself. A single breath leaves him, slow, controlled, colder than any winter wind. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me,” he says, voice low, barely steady. “If I touch you, I won’t be able to forget it. Ever.” Your answer ruins him: “I don’t want you to forget.” He exhales like he’s been stabbed. He lifts your chin with a gloved finger, the leather cool against your skin. His touch is barely there—so careful it hurts. When he speaks, his voice is quiet. Controlled. But the obsession is there, buried beneath every syllable. “You understand that if I take you tonight… you will never belong to him. Not in the ways that matter.” Your breath catches. And he sees it. That’s all it takes. He removes the glove from one hand—slowly, deliberately—and touches your cheek. Skin to skin. His first unshielded touch. And it’s devastating how gentle he is, how reverent, how haunted by the fact that he has no right to you and yet you’re standing here, offering yourself like a confession whispered in the dark. He leans in. Not a kiss. Just his forehead touching yours—a single, trembling surrender. His hands settle on your waist with the quiet certainty of a man who has imagined this a thousand times but never expected to live it. And then he lifts you—effortless, strong—pressing you back against the carved wooden bedpost. Not claiming. Not yet. Just... holding. Just memorizing the shape of you beneath his hands. “You are the one thing I have ever wanted,” he murmurs, breath brushing your mouth but not taking it. “And I have spent years pretending otherwise.” Your fingers slide into his hair and that’s when he breaks—quietly, beautifully. Because the kingdom owns your future. But tonight? Tonight you are his. And he touches you like a man cataloging every moment—slow, deliberate, obsessive restraint—knowing he will replay it for the rest of his life. He lifts your face to his, breath mingling with yours. “Tell me to stop,” he whispers. You don’t. You pull him closer. And for the first time in his life, he lets himself want.

Bruce Wayne

Bruce Wayne knows everything. He knows when a man is lying before the lie is finished forming. He knows the weight of a room by the way the air shifts when he enters it. He knows how long someone will last in a fight, how quickly a smile will crack, how silence can be louder than confession. He knows all of that. What he refuses to know is you. Because knowing you—really knowing you—would mean admitting something he has no plan for. No contingency. No armor strong enough to withstand the fallout if he’s wrong. You’ve been his best friend for years. The constant. The one thing in his life that never demanded explanation. You’re the person he trusts with his exhaustion, his grief, his quiet victories. The one who sees him not as a symbol, not as a weapon, not as a billionaire—but as a man who gets tired and lonely and angry at the world. A world with you in it is the only thing Bruce Wayne has never wanted to gamble. So he doesn’t. He chooses obliviousness. He files away every look you give him that lingers half a second too long. He ignores the way your tone softens when you say his name. He convinces himself that the warmth in your voice is just familiarity, that the way you lean into him during late nights is comfort, not craving. It works. Until it doesn’t. Because you’re tired of pretending. You start pushing. Testing. Prodding at the edges of his restraint like a curious cat with a locked door. You sit closer than necessary. You drape yourself across the arm of his chair. You steal his coffee and drink from it like it’s nothing. You hover. You linger. You invade his space with deliberate innocence. And then one day—you climb into his lap. Just like that. Casual. Unbothered. Comfortable. You do it with a shrug, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. As if best friends absolutely do this. As if Bruce Wayne hasn’t spent his entire life controlling distance for survival. His body reacts before his mind can stop it—muscles tensing, breath hitching just once. He freezes, hands hovering uselessly at your waist, unsure whether to steady you or push you away. You settle in like you belong there. Like you always have. Bruce stares straight ahead, jaw locked, eyes fixed on nothing. He does not look at you. He does not acknowledge the weight of you, the warmth, the way your presence slots too perfectly against him. Oblivious. He must remain oblivious. Because the alternative is terrifying. Because if he admits what this is—if he admits that he wants you too—then everything changes. And Bruce Wayne does not survive losing the one person who makes the world feel less sharp. So he lets it happen. Lets you sit there. Lets you curl closer. Lets you hook your arm around his neck and hum smugly when he doesn’t stop you. He tells himself this is harmless. Temporary. Manageable. It’s a lie. And you know it. You test him harder now. You’re a menace about it—touchy, clingy, unapologetically affectionate. You whisper things just close enough to his ear that he can feel your breath. You tug at his sleeve when he’s focused. You press kisses to his cheek and pull away before he can react. Every time, Bruce says nothing. Every time, it costs him. Because the truth is this: Bruce Wayne is not oblivious. He’s terrified. Terrified that if he lets himself have you—even for a moment—he will never be able to let you go. Terrified that the world will take you the way it takes everything else he loves. So he pretends. He plays the part of the master of observation who somehow missed the one thing that matters most. And you, perched in his lap, smug and daring and far too close for sanity, are making that role impossible to maintain. Because every second you stay there, every laugh, every touch, every look— You’re daring him to choose. And Bruce Wayne has never been good at resisting you.

Bruce wayne

You shouldn’t be here. That thought has lost its edge by now—worn smooth from repetition—but it still flickers through your mind as Bruce’s arm tightens around you, instinctive, possessive, like his body never learned how to let you go. The sheets are a mess. So are you. The city hums outside the window, indifferent to the fact that this room feels like the center of the universe. You fit against him too well. That’s the cruelest part. This isn’t new. It’s not reckless curiosity or heat-of-the-moment weakness. This is history resurfacing with teeth. This is years of restraint snapping quietly, like a fault line finally giving in. You were supposed to end up with him. Everyone knew it. You knew it. He knew it. But life doesn’t care about inevitability. Bruce presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing you in like you’re oxygen, like he’s been holding his breath since the day you walked away. His voice, when he speaks, is low—careful. Like if he says the wrong thing, you’ll disappear again. “You stayed longer this time,” he murmurs. You swallow. “Don’t.” “Just saying.” His thumb traces a slow, familiar line at your waist. Not rushing. Never rushing. Bruce has always been patient with the things that matter. “You usually leave before you start thinking.” You hate that he knows that. You hate that he knows you. You shift, turning slightly so you can look at him. The dim light catches his eyes—still sharp, still devastating. Still the man you compare everyone else to, unfairly, endlessly. “This was a mistake,” you say, even as your hand rests on his chest like it belongs there. Bruce doesn’t argue. That’s how you know he’s serious. “Yes,” he agrees quietly. “But not because of us.” The phone buzzes. You already know who it is. Your chest tightens, guilt and resentment tangling together until you can’t tell which one hurts more. Bruce stills, every muscle going rigid—not jealous, not angry. Just… bracing. You reach for the phone. Your fingers hesitate. Bruce leans in, his mouth brushing your ear—not a kiss, not pressure. Just presence. A reminder. A promise. You answer. “Hey.” Your voice sounds wrong. Too soft. Too intimate. You talk about nothing—work, weather, tomorrow’s plans. Your husband’s voice is familiar in the way furniture is familiar. Useful. Safe. Not enough. Bruce listens to every word. His hand tightens once at your waist when you say I love you—automatic, habitual. You hang up before the lie can fully settle. Silence crashes in. You drop the phone like it burned you. “I should have chosen you,” you whisper. Bruce closes his eyes. That hurts him more than anything else you could say. “Don’t,” he murmurs, forehead resting against yours now. “If you say that, I’ll stop pretending I can let you go.” You laugh softly, broken. “You never could.” “No,” he admits. “I just learned how to live with it.” His honesty wrecks you. This isn’t lust. It’s grief wearing desire’s face. It’s love that didn’t die—just waited in the dark, patient and unforgiving. You thread your fingers through his, anchoring yourself. “I did everything in the wrong order.” Bruce kisses your temple. Gentle. Reverent. Like he’s afraid to bruise something already fragile. “We were right,” he says. “The timing wasn’t.” You pull him closer anyway. Because tonight, timing doesn’t matter. Because in this room, in this moment, the truth is unbearable and undeniable: You didn’t end up with the wrong man. You just didn’t end up with the right one. And Bruce Wayne—steady, relentless, devastating—will always be the consequence of that.

Bruce Wayne

The room is quiet except for the slow, irregular rhythm of your breathing, still tangled in the aftermath. Moonlight slices through the blinds, scattering across the sheets and landing on him—Bruce. Disheveled. Hair falling across his forehead, chest still rising and falling with that perfect, infuriating precision that makes your chest ache. Your fingers trace absent-mindedly along his jawline, down to his neck, noticing the faint smudges of your lipstick lingering there, marking him like a trophy. He shifts slightly, and you notice the boxers on the floor—discarded in a way that is so effortlessly him. He doesn’t care. He never does. And you can’t help but adore it. It’s reckless. Wild. His control gone, and yet every line of his body still screams deliberate restraint, even in this softness, in this private chaos that belongs to only the two of you. Your lips brush along his collarbone, lingering where your marks are fresh. He catches your wrist gently, not stopping you, just guiding—always guiding. You feel it—the subtle heat that stays, the low hum of satisfaction vibrating beneath your touch. Bruce Wayne, the man the world thinks is untouchable, is wholly yours. And somehow, it makes your heart pound harder than any chase or rooftop fight ever could. He exhales sharply, a single word leaving his lips without thought: “You’re impossible.” Impossible. The word is heavy, weighted, but you know him well enough to hear the pride hiding behind the restraint, the obsession hidden behind the casual dismissal. And you smile, because yes, you are impossible. For him. And only him. You tug lightly at his hair, messing it further, making him look less perfect, less like the man the world worships, and more like yours. He doesn’t protest. He never does, not when you take him apart like this—layer by layer, mark by mark, moment by moment. Your fingers brush along his abs, grazing the faint remnants of your kiss, and his eyes catch yours. That deep, calculating gaze, still filled with the cold fire you love so much, softens just enough for you to see it. Vulnerable in the way only you are allowed to witness. “I—” You start, but your voice catches. There’s no need for words. Everything—the scent, the heat, the intimacy, the marks you left—speaks for you. He leans closer, brushing his lips against yours again, messy, claiming, wanting. You press against him, feeling every taut muscle, every beat of his chest, memorizing. Again. Always. You’re smitten. More than ever. Helplessly, irreversibly, hopelessly enchanted by Bruce Wayne. And in this quiet aftermath, you realize you wouldn’t have him any other way—disheveled, marked, impossibly yours.

Bruce Wayne

You don’t knock. You don’t call his name. You don’t even hesitate. The heels hit the floor the second you step into the study—one, two, like dropped weapons. Your bag slides off your shoulder, lands somewhere near the doorway. You don’t care where. You’re done. You’re beyond done. The kind of day that burns through patience, dignity, and every single ounce of politeness you normally have. Bruce is at his desk. Of course he is. Suit jacket off. Shirt sleeves rolled. Tie loosened but not removed. Phone pressed between his shoulder and ear while he skims two separate documents at once. He doesn’t even look up yet. He hears the heels fall, hears your heavy exhale, but he’s still in work-mode. “Yes. I understand. Send the contract to—” he starts, calm, collected. You don’t let him finish. You go straight to him, hands on the arms of his chair as you swing yourself onto his lap—claiming him with all the entitlement of someone who has earned it. Your favorite personal stress reliever. The only thing on earth that actually works. He stiffens—not because he wants to push you off, but because you’ve short-circuited the most disciplined man alive in less than three seconds. “—to… to my office,” he says, voice faltering for the first time in hours. His hand instinctively grips your hip to steady you. You don’t give him time to process. You bury your face into his neck, inhale the clean scent of him, slide your hands beneath his shirt like you’re searching for warmth you’ve been denied all day. He inhales sharply. The person on the other end of the call drones on, unaware that Gotham’s most terrifying man is currently being climbed like a tree. “Bruce?” they ask. “Did you get that?” You grind down just slightly—exhausted, frustrated, needing comfort now, not later. He flinches. Not subtle. Not controlled. Utterly undone. Your day was hell. You’re making it his problem. And he’s letting you. “It’s fine,” he says quickly into the phone, jaw tight, voice lower than before. “Email it.” Your arms wrap around his shoulders, holding on like you’re drowning. He adjusts instantly, hand sliding up your back, supporting you as if your weight is something sacred. You feel him softening for you—emotionally, not physically—long before he hangs up. You try to hide your trembling. He feels it anyway. The moment the call clicks off, he drops the phone onto the desk without looking. His other arm wraps around your waist, pulling you fully against his chest. “Rough day?” he murmurs against your temple, already knowing the answer but needing to say the words, needing to be the one you collapse into. You don’t respond. You just breathe out—shaky, tired, defeated—and sink further into him. He holds you like he’s been waiting all day for you to get home. Like being your stress reliever is the one responsibility he never resents. “You don’t have to talk yet,” he says quietly, rubbing slow circles into your hips with his thumbs. “Just breathe.” You do. For the first time today, you actually do. You don’t even bother pretending to be gentle. You cling to him because you need him. And the best part? He doesn’t protest. He doesn’t complain about the call. He doesn’t ask for space. Bruce Wayne—stoic, disciplined, impossible Bruce—just accepts you fully in his lap, warm and solid and yours to collapse on. Because being your stress relief… is the one thing he’ll always drop everything for.

Jotaro Kujo

Jotaro stiffens, his grip tightening almost painfully before he catches himself—like his body reacted before his brain could lock it down. His fingers flex once against your waist, grounding, possessive, then deliberately loosen, settling into something that’s supposed to feel indifferent. It doesn’t. Not when his thumb keeps tracing the same spot over the fabric like he’s memorizing the shape of you through it. “Yare yare daze,” he mutters, voice low with that familiar, irritated drawl—but the sound lands softer than usual, roughened at the edges. You know that tone. You’ve heard it when he’s overwhelmed, when something matters too much and he doesn’t want it to. Especially now. Because you’re standing between his knees, hands braced on his shoulders, forcing him to look at you. The dress was a mistake. Or maybe it was the point. You’ve never worn anything like it around him before—soft fabric hugging your waist, falling just short enough to show your legs, the neckline lower than your usual safe choices. Nothing scandalous. Just… different. Grown. Intentional. And when you walked into the room, Jotaro went completely still. Not a comment. Not a glance away. Just that sharp, assessing stare that felt like standing in the center of a storm. So now you’re here, leaning in, tilting your head, invading his space the way no one else on earth would dare. “Well?” you press, voice sweet in that suspicious way that always puts him on guard. “You haven’t said anything.” His jaw tightens. “Didn’t know I was required to.” “You’re not,” you say lightly. Then softer, leaning closer so your hair brushes his cheek. “But you’re supposed to.” His eyes flick away for a fraction of a second—down, traitorously, to where the dress curves over your hips before snapping back up like he caught himself staring at something dangerous. “You’re fishing,” he accuses, voice gruff, defensive. “And you’re not getting shit out of me.” You pout. Not exaggerated. Just enough. Because you know exactly what you’re doing. “I just wanted to know if you liked it.” Silence. Heavy. Loaded. His throat moves in a hard swallow he tries to disguise as indifference. One hand comes up, hesitates in midair like he’s reconsidering touching you at all, then settles on your side anyway—large, warm, spanning your waist in a way that makes your stomach flip. He squeezes. Once. Not gentle. “Don’t ask questions you don’t need answers to.” “That’s not an answer.” “It is.” “It’s not.” His glare sharpens, but there’s heat behind it now—something restless, coiled. You lean in further, crowding him until your knees brush his thighs, until he has nowhere to look but at you. “Do I look okay?” His breath hitches. There. You heard it. “Yeah,” he says too quickly, like he wants the conversation dead. Your brows lift. “Just okay?” Big mistake. His grip tightens again, fingers digging into your waist through the fabric, dragging you a fraction closer until you’re nearly in his lap. His eyes darken, hooded, scanning your face like you’re a problem he doesn’t know how to solve without breaking something. “Quit pushing,” he warns, voice dropping low. “But—” Jotaro moves. Not fast. Not rough. Just decisive. He tips his head forward, the brim of his hat brushing your forehead as he leans in just enough to press his lips to your temple. Not a peck. Not absent. Firm. Lingering half a second too long to be casual. Warm breath fanning across your skin when he exhales through his nose like he’s irritated with himself for doing it at all. A concession. A silent you already know. Your heart stumbles anyway. And then—because he’s Jotaro—he ruins it. “Now get off before you crush me.” The words are gruff, dismissive, pure attitude. But his hand doesn’t move. If anything, it tightens, thumb pressing into your side like he’s anchoring you there. Like the idea of you actually stepping away is unacceptable. You don’t move. Of course you don’t. Slowly, cautiously, you shift closer instead, testing the boundary, settling one knee against the outside of his thigh. He

Bruce Wayne

He’s slumped in the chair, the weight of thirty-six sleepless hours dragging at every line of his body. His cowl is off, tossed somewhere on the floor beside the console. His hair is a mess from his own hands raking through it. His eyes keep slipping shut only to snap back open, the stubborn reflex of a man who has lived too long on discipline and caffeine instead of rest. He finally—finally—lets himself start to drift, his head tipping back against the chair, breath evening out, muscles uncoiling for the first time in days. And that’s when you climb onto his lap. He doesn’t even register it at first. He’s so far past the edge of exhaustion that your weight settling onto him feels like part of a dream. His hands, heavy and slow, rise automatically to hold your hips, fingertips barely brushing your sides like his body is moving before his mind wakes up. It’s only when you shift closer—your knees bracketing his thighs, your warmth pressing into him—that his eyes crack open. They’re glassy. Unfocused. The eyes of a man who has fought gods and monsters and criminals on zero sleep but now finds himself defeated by you. “Not fair,” he mutters under his breath, voice rough, barely audible. It’s not anger. It’s not even protest. It’s the quiet, helpless confession of a man who has no defenses left when it comes to you. You touch his face, thumb brushing the dark circles under his eyes, and he exhales like he’s breaking. His eyelids flutter again, struggling to stay open. He’s too tired to be stoic. Too drained to pretend he doesn’t melt when you touch him like he’s human, not a myth carved out of grit. You lean forward, resting your forehead against his. His breath catches—soft, shaky. “I just got the case closed,” he mumbles. “Gotham’s quiet. You should—” His sentence dies. He tries to pull in a steady breath, but it comes out uneven. You can feel the tremor in his chest beneath you. He’s so tired he’s trembling. And still, even now, even half-conscious, his hands tighten around your waist, dragging you closer. A possessive reflex. Muscle memory. The instinct of a man who doesn’t know how to stop protecting what’s his. “You should let me sleep,” he tries again, but the way he nuzzles his face into the side of your neck says something completely different. His nose brushes your skin, and he exhales a long, grateful breath like he’s finally somewhere safe enough to fall apart. “You owe me,” you whisper against his hair. He goes still. Then his grip turns heavy, grounding, almost desperate. His forehead presses into your collarbone. A quiet, frustrated groan escapes him—not because he doesn’t want you, but because he wants you too much and he’s too tired to pretend otherwise. “I know,” he breathes. “I know I do.” His fingers flex on your hips, dragging slow, lingering paths along your sides as though memorizing the shape of you will keep him awake. His body caves into yours, chest to chest, heartbeat thudding sluggishly beneath your palms. He’s exhausted. Destroyed. Barely conscious. But he pulls you in anyway. Because even when the world owns every waking hour of him… You own all the parts he can’t hide.

Bruce Wayne

Bruce Wayne is very good at convincing himself he’s doing the right thing. He frames it like a sacrifice. Like restraint. Like maturity. Let her go so she can be happy. It sounds noble. It sounds clean. It sounds like something a better man would do. He almost signs the papers. Almost. The pen is heavy in his hand, the ink hovering just above the line that would officially end the best thing that has ever happened to him. Alfred is somewhere in the manor, deliberately distant. The house feels like it’s holding its breath. And then it hits him. Not like an epiphany. Not like clarity. Like panic. Like rage. Like something feral clawing its way up his spine. Bruce stares at the paper and realizes—truly realizes—that this isn’t selflessness at all. This is fear. Fear of failing you. Fear of not being enough. Fear of looking you in the eye and admitting he’s been wrong. He lets out a sharp, humorless laugh under his breath. “Selfless,” he mutters. “What a lie.” Because the truth is ugly. The truth is selfish. The truth makes his chest tighten and his jaw clench until it hurts. He doesn’t want to lose you. Not because you’d be happier without him. But because he cannot function without you. You are not a chapter in his life. You are the axis it spins on. The quiet mornings. The way you ground him without trying. The fact that you see him—all of him—and stayed anyway. You are the only place he is not pretending. And he almost threw that away because he convinced himself he didn’t deserve it. Bruce drops the pen. It clatters against the desk, loud in the silence. He drags a hand down his face, breathing hard now, composure cracking. The mask slips—not Batman’s, not Bruce Wayne’s public one—but the private armor he wears even with himself. “I’m not selfless,” he admits to the empty room. He straightens slowly, something dark and resolute settling into place. “I’m greedy.” Greedy for your presence. Greedy for your patience. Greedy for the life you built with him when he didn’t know how to ask for one. You are the only good thing he has that isn’t born of tragedy or violence or obligation. And he will be damned if he gives you up because he was too much of a coward to fight for you properly. Bruce gathers the papers, not gently this time, and tears them cleanly in half. Then again. Then again. He doesn’t hesitate. He doesn’t regret it. When he finally moves toward you—toward the conversation he should have had months ago—he knows one thing with absolute certainty: He is not letting you go. Not because it’s easy. Not because it’s fair. But because loving you is the one selfish choice he will make every single time. And this time? He’s choosing you.