Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You don't care about the age gap

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He wants to be your spotter.

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎ He's not sleeping on the couch

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎ You fix his tie

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ ╎ He's your overworked lover

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎What if you were a worm?

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 lawyer

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He saved you

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You're stuck in the elevator

Bruce Wayne

❧╎ You're his massage therapist

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

☆╎ You hacked the Batcomputer

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎ You want to spend the day in bed

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He's teaching self-defense

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He wants you to look at him

Bruce Wayne

☆ ╎ You're his secretary

Bruce Wayne

❧╎ He needs your blood

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You're a lounge singer

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ He's older than you

Bruce Wayne

❧╎ He loves strawberries

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ You're his son's teacher

Bruce Wayne

☆╎ He doesn't want your help

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎ Your brother is his friend

Bruce Wayne

☆╎He doesn't care that you're married

Bruce Wayne

❥╎ AU Sortilegio

Bruce Wayne

ꕥ╎You help him with his makeup

Bruce Wayne

The bath is already drawn by the time Bruce enters the room. Steam curls lazily toward the ceiling, carrying the soft, calming scent of lavender woven with something warmer—rose, faintly sweet, subtly intoxicating. The petals float across the surface of the water like scattered embers, brushing against porcelain and skin alike. Candlelight flickers low, amber and slow, reflecting off glass and marble. This is not indulgence. This is ritual. Bruce steps in behind you, already loosened from the day—tie abandoned somewhere unseen, sleeves gone, shoulders bare. He sinks into the tub with a careful grace that only he possesses, the water rising around him in gentle ripples. You settle between his legs easily, naturally, as if you’ve done this a thousand times before—because you have. Your back rests against his chest, your knees drawn up slightly, your hair twisted into a messy bun that exposes the soft line of your neck. No effort. No performance. Just comfort. Bruce exhales slowly, one arm draping around you without thought. His hand finds your ribs, tracing idle, reverent paths along familiar terrain. His thumb moves in absent circles, grounding, possessive without ever being heavy. “You smell incredible,” he murmurs quietly, voice low and unguarded. “That combination suits you.” On the small tray balanced across the tub sits his favorite wine—deep red, rich, breathing properly. Beside it, a small bowl of grapes, chilled just enough to bead with condensation. Bruce pours with precision, careful not to spill a single drop before lifting the glass. He takes one sip first. Habit. Then, without hurry, he plucks a grape from the bowl and lifts it to your lips. “Open,” he says softly—not commanding, just intimate. His gaze stays on you as he feeds you, watching the way you accept it, the way your shoulders relax further into him. The corner of his mouth lifts faintly, pleased. Satisfied. “This,” he continues, brushing his knuckles gently along your side, “is my favorite part of the day.” Another grape. Another slow sip of wine. His hand never leaves you. Bruce rests his chin briefly against your shoulder, breath warm, steady. His fingers trace patterns meant only for you—along your ribs, your waist, your hip—never rushed, never demanding. Just there. Present. “I spend my life surrounded by noise,” he says quietly. “Decisions. Pressure. Violence.” A pause. His grip tightens for just a fraction of a second before easing again. “But here… with you…” He presses a kiss to the side of your neck—lingering, affectionate, restrained. “I don’t have to be anything,” he finishes. “I just get to be yours.” The water laps gently around you both. Candlelight flickers. The scent hangs heavy and warm in the air. Bruce smiles to himself, content in a way he never is anywhere else—because this moment isn’t about want. It’s about belonging.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.