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iydiamartinx · 2 months ago

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AFTER THE NIGHT

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune word count: 1.1k synopsis: After a long night on patrol, Bruce returns home to find his wife in the shower. a/n: This is pure fluff, no smut.

The water was already warm, steam curling lazily against the marble walls as you stood under the shower, letting the heat soak into your muscles. A long sigh left your lips. Finally, quiet. Finally, peace.

Then the bathroom door creaked open.

You didn’t flinch—just smirked. “You better be naked if you’re coming in here.”

There was a soft grunt and the familiar shuffle of armour being stripped away. A utility belt thunked against the counter, followed by the muted rustle of fabric hitting tile.

You heard the shower door open a moment later. Then—

“Oh my god.” You twisted slightly to glance over your shoulder. “You smell like alleyway and sweat.”

Bruce stepped under the spray with a low groan. Water hit his chest, sluicing down over dirt-smudged skin and faint bruises blooming just beneath the surface.

“Active night,” he said gruffly. “You smell like flowers. I hate you a little.”

You laughed, turning fully to face him now, palms braced against his chest. “You’re filthy. I’m filing for divorce.”

He snorted, “Joke’s on you—I already put the mansion in your name. If anyone’s getting left out in the cold, it’s me.”

You grinned, fingers absently tracing the edge of a bruise blooming just under his collarbone. “Good. I’ll sell it and use the money to fund my villain era.”

His brows lifted, amused despite the exhaustion hanging under his eyes. “You? A villain?”

“I’d be great at it,” you said breezily. “Menacing, seductive, morally ambiguous. I’ve got the layers.”

“Please, if anything you’re more like a little thief. You steal my T-shirts,” he deadpanned.

You leaned in, lips brushing the edge of his jaw. “And don’t forget I also stole your heart. Look how far gone you are, Wayne.”

Bruce leaned in, crowding your space with the lazy weight of his body, head dipping low until his nose brushed yours. “Completely gone,” he murmured, voice roughened by the night, but eyes soft and unguarded in a way he reserved only for you. “Hopeless, really.”

Your smirk faltered into something gentler, fingers trailing up to tangle in the damp ends of his hair. “That makes the two of us,” you murmured. “Because it seems I’m hopelessly gone for you too.” You gave him a teasing look. “What other wife accepts that their husband dresses up like a bat and jumps across rooftops all night fighting killer clowns? They’d have to be insane.”

Bruce’s lips curved into a rare, amused smile. “Completely insane,” he agreed, eyes flicking over your face with fond exasperation. “We can share a cell in Arkham together.”

You huff out a soft laugh, resting your forehead against his. “You joke, but at this point I’m convinced we’ve already earned our own padded room.”

Bruce’s fingers traced idle circles at the small of your back. “I call top bunk.”

You snorted. “You would. But I’m warning you now, I’m stealing all the blankets.”

“You already do,” he murmured dryly. “Little thief.”

“So if we’re going by that technicality, that means you fell for a criminal.”

“Explains why I keep coming back,” he said, his voice dropping to a soft murmur as his fingers slipped beneath the curve of your waist. “You’re my favourite kind of danger.”

Your smile faded into something softer, more vulnerable, eyes meeting his in the hazy glow of steam and silence. “And you’re my safest place.”

Bruce didn’t say anything—not with words. He just kissed you. Slow. Deep. Steady.

The spray of the shower beat gently against your back, the scent of soap and heat curling between your bodies as his arms wound around you tighter.

Finally, you pull away, flicking you gaze back up to see his were still closed. “Turn around,” you whispered, nudging him gently.

He blinked open an eye, suspicious. “Why?”

“So I can scrub the grime off you, obviously.”

Bruce arched a brow, but the corners of his mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “You just want to feel up my muscles.”

You rolled your eyes. “I’m your wife, that’s my right.” You didn’t even try to deny it. “However, you’re still covered in dirt and god knows what else—and you stink.”

He let out a short snort but obeyed, turning so his back was to you, water trailing down the powerful lines of muscle and scars. You reached for the body wash and squeezed a generous amount into your palm.

Then you began—working in slow, gentle circles, your fingers gliding across his back with practiced care. You didn’t rush. You traced each scar like it was a story only you knew, every old wound and fading bruise a chapter you’d read too many times to count.

Because you had. You knew them all.

Every place Gotham had marked him. Every place he’d broken and healed. Every inch of pain he bore like armor beneath the cowl.

“You’re tense,” you murmured, thumbs pressing lightly into the tight line of his shoulders.

He hummed low in his throat. “You try fighting six guys in a rain-soaked alley.”

“Maybe next time,” you laughed quietly, fingers still digging expertly into the knots along his spine. Each pass of your hands drew out another groan, low and guttural, like the tension was finally bleeding out of him. You felt the weight leave his shoulders piece by piece.

“That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough around the edges. “I’m firing Alfred. You’re in charge of post-patrol recovery now.”

“You couldn’t afford me,” you teased.

“Try me.”

When you finished with his back, your hands slid downward, soft now, reverent, tracing the path you’d just soothed. For a beat, you just stood there—your palms resting flat against his skin, the thrum of his pulse steady beneath your fingertips.

Then, you reached for the shampoo.

You stretched up onto your tiptoes, trying to reach the top of his head, grumbling to yourself as your fingers barely skimmed his damp hair. “Why are you built like a damn skyscraper?”

Bruce let out an amused breath. “You need a stool?”

“Shut up,” you muttered, finally managing to get your hands into his inky locks.

Any teasing vanished the moment your fingers began working gently across his scalp. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes damp, unable to help the low, content exhale that slipped from his throat. He melted under your touch—shoulders loose, body quiet, breath slow.

You finished rinsing the suds from his hair with quiet care, the water rushing gently between you as your fingers combed through the last of the soap. When you were done, you let your arms wrap loosely around his waist, cheek pressing between his shoulder blades.

Then he turned, his hands finding your hips as he gently caged you between his body and the slick tile wall. He leaned down to kiss you again, lips finding yours with the kind of aching familiarity that had your heart skipping a beat.

“I missed this,” he murmured against your mouth.

“I missed you,” you whispered back.

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iydiamartinx · 3 months ago

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THE ART OF RESTRAINT

Pairing: Bruce Wayne x Reader

divider by: @cafekitsune & @iydiamartinx word count: 1.9k synopsis: They’ve always known how to win. But when a charity photoshoot puts Gotham’s most ruthless CEOs in each other’s arms, in nothing but their underwear—they’re forced to face the one game neither is willing to lose. a/n: I thought I loved the Dick and Jason version but I've changed my mind. Bruce is just something else.

Gotham elite and the tabloids loved a spectacle. And this year’s calendar fundraiser had done the impossible—put you on a bed, half-dressed, with him.

Bruce Wayne.

Heir. CEO. Gotham’s golden obsession. A man carved from legacy and wealth, currently in the prime of a life most people would kill to live. Late thirties, sharp as the suits he wore, and infuriatingly at ease in his own skin. That steel-cut jawline had graced Forbes, GQ, and headlines you tried very hard to ignore.

You’d fought him in boardrooms. Matched wits at galas. Outbid him in billion-dollar deals where charm was just a sharper blade. The two of you were constantly battling for ground. And now, here you were.

Not behind a podium. Not across a negotiation table.

But a bed.

Both of you had been voted Gotham’s hottest CEOs in a public poll that your PR team had insisted was a win. Visibility, they called it. Brand power. A good cause. You weren’t even sure how your assistant thought you’d agree to something like this—but they had said yes on your behalf, and now you were locked in.

There was no room for protest. No way to claw your dignity back without headlines.

So you wore the robe. Sat at the vanity. Pretended like you weren’t already counting the ways you’d make that assistant’s life hell.

And then he stepped out from behind the modesty screen.

Wearing black boxer-briefs and nothing else, Bruce Wayne crossed the set like a man walking into his own penthouse. Calm. Controlled. Completely unbothered in his own skin. You watched him in the mirror without turning your head, studying the way his body moved—fluid and composed, like none of this fazed him.

Of course it didn’t.

He thrived on this kind of thing. Power plays. Publicity. Knowing eyes were on him. There was a reason he was Gotham’s most eligible bachelor.

“Don’t tell me you’re nervous,” he said, voice low and smooth as he came to stand behind you. His reflection met yours in the glass—eyes dark, unreadable. “You’ve never struck me as the modest type.”

You tilted your head slightly, arching a brow without breaking eye contact.

“And you’ve never struck me as the type to sell yourself in stretch cotton,” you replied coolly.

His mouth curved. “Charity humbles us all.”

“Funny,” you said, reaching for a brush you didn’t need, just to keep your hands busy. “I thought I did that.”

He didn’t laugh.

But the smile deepened.

“You try.”

That was the thing with Bruce. Behind the easy grins and playboy attitude, he was sharper than most people recognized and it was because of that you were always on your guard. That man’s charm could be even deadlier than his money and the last thing you needed was to fall victim to it.

The photographer clapped, bright and overly eager. “Alright! Let’s get started.”

Bruce moved first, taking his place on the bed.

“Y/N, on Bruce’s lap. Bruce—hands wherever feels natural. Make it look like you’ve already crossed the line.”

You glanced toward the man now lounging at the edge of the bed, legs spread in unapologetic confidence. One arm draped lazily behind him, the other resting beside his thigh. You gritted your teeth at how he annoyingly seemed to own the space without trying.

You stood, letting the robe slip from your shoulders.

The silk whispered down your frame and pooled at your feet, and the air shifted. It felt as if it suddenly got thicker with tension.

Your black lingerie was lined with lace and tailored to flatter, pushing up your breasts, flattering the curves of your body, it had been handpicked by your stylist to make headlines. The lingerie was made for you.

And the way Bruce looked at you—like something feral had briefly flashed behind his composed mask—told you he knew it too.

He recovered quickly, of course. He always did. His eyes met yours again, calm and calculating, as if he hadn’t just raked over you with the quiet hunger of a man starved

You stepped toward the bed, the sound of your heels echoing over polished concrete.

Bruce Wayne looked like sin in monochrome—black boxer briefs, bronzed skin, hair just a little too tousled to be accidental. Smug, unbothered, and very aware of the weight of your gaze.

You exhaled slowly and climbed into his lap, one knee on either side of his thighs, your hands coming to rest on his shoulders. His palms slid to your waist instantly—firm, practiced, far too at ease.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice low and edged with amusement.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” you murmured, even as your fingers curled at the nape of his neck.

“Closer,” the photographer called. “Less posed, more like—God, I don’t know—like someone’s about to make a very bad decision.”

Your body shifted automatically. You leaned in until your nose nearly brushed his cheekbone, your lips hovering beside his jaw.

“Better?” you said, saccharine-sweet for the camera.

His hands tightened just slightly, fingers pressing into the curve of your waist—possessive, anchoring. “Getting there,” He grunted.

You pulled back slightly to make eye contact.

Your fingers slid from the nape of his neck to the edge of his jaw, thumb brushing lightly across the stubble there. His skin was warm, the tension beneath it taut like coiled wire—contained, but ready to snap.

“Good,” the photographer called again, sounding far too pleased. “Now move a little. Let’s get a story going. Y/N, take the lead. Bruce—let her.”

Sliding your hands down the front of his chest, you let your fingers trace the ridges of muscle beneath smooth skin. His breathing didn’t change, but you could feel the heat rising between you. He didn’t move—didn’t so much as twitch.

But you felt the breath he held.

You pressed firmly against his chest until his body gave under your hands.

Bruce let himself fall back against the bed, but the look in his eyes as he did was anything but yielding.

You followed him down, never breaking eye contact, your knees still bracketing his hips. One hand braced beside his head, the other resting against his stomach. Your hair slid over your shoulder, framing the sharp curve of your jaw and the wicked curl of your smile

Your lips grazed the slope of his collarbone.

You could feel the tension in his abdomen when your fingers brushed against it. Felt the control—the restraint—bleeding off of him in waves.

The photographer was muttering something about intensity and chemistry and God bless Gotham as his camera went off like crazy, but you barely heard him, your attention was fully on the silent challenge that was between you and bruce.

You trailed lower, just slightly, letting your mouth skim over the edge of his sternum. Then down. Slower. Your breath hot against his skin as you moved further, nearing the waistband of his briefs.

You smiled, lips ghosting just above the line of fabric.

Bruce’s hands snapped to your waist—strong, unrelenting—and the world tilted.

He turned you beneath him in a single, brutal sweep of motion. The mattress caught your back with a soft thud, air leaving your lungs in a sharp exhale as your spine met the sheets.

You barely had time to gasp before he was above you—on you—pressing you down with nothing but presence.

His thigh slid between yours. His weight settled in close.

One palm braced near your ribs.

The other wrapped, firm and steady, around your throat.

His thumb traced the underside of your jaw, tipping your face up toward his. His voice a rasp only you could hear. “Are you done pretending you’re in control?”

You stared up at him, pulse hammering under his touch, refusing to look away. You hated how easily your breath hitched. How good he looked above you like this. Like power incarnate, dressed in nothing but black and confidence.

Your nails grazed his ribs in response. Just enough to remind him you were going to fold to him that easily.

“No,” you whispered, lips parted, breath trembling just enough to betray the pulse hammering in your throat. “But it’s cute that you think you are.”

His smile was slow. Measured. Dangerous. The kind of smile that made men break and corporations crumble.

“You’re cute when you lie,” He murmured.

His grip shifted, tightening warningly. A sharp breath escaped your lips before you could stop it, as he suddenly moved. Leaning back, he dragged you up with him by the throat like it was effortless. His hand adjusted, tilting your chin higher, forcing your eyes back to his.

Click.

Flash.

The sound of the shutter cracked through the charged silence like distant thunder.

“Beautiful,” the photographer called from somewhere outside the haze. “Hold that. Bruce, shift your hand—yes, just like that. Now lean in, like you’re about to kiss her.”

He didn’t need to be told twice.

Bruce leaned down slowly, deliberately, until his lips hovered a breath above yours—so close that his exhale ghosted across your skin, warm and maddening. Every molecule of air between you felt electric, buzzing with the threat of something unraveling.

But he didn’t touch you.

Didn’t close the gap.

You weren’t pretending anymore. Neither of you were. The shoot, the cameras, the lights—they’d all faded into background noise.

This wasn’t about a calendar.

This wasn’t about charity.

This was about control.

And God help you… you were losing.

Your body had gone still beneath him, pliant under the weight of his dominance. You could feel the fine tremor of anticipation humming through your limbs, the heat pooling between your legs as your breath caught and your lips parted—soft, instinctive, traitorous.

Bruce’s voice was barely audible—more breath than sound. “Say it.”

You blinked up at him, pupils blown wide. “Say what?”

“That you want me.”

Your jaw clenched. A flicker of something sharp passed through your eyes—anger, maybe. Or pride, stubborn to the last breath.

He waited. Poised. Patient. A man who always got what he wanted—and knew it.

“I want…” you began, slow and deliberate, your fingers trailing down his side. The heat of him scorched under your touch. You let your hand drag over every inch like a threat, like a dare. “…you off me.”

He smiled. That same maddening, ruinous smile.

But he didn’t move.

“Liar.”

Your breath caught at the back of your throat, just a hitch—but it was enough. He felt it. You knew he did.

Click.

Flash.

The camera shutter broke the silence, loud and sudden.

“Perfect!” the photographer shouted. “Don’t move. That’s the cover.”

But neither of you were listening.

Not until the sharp, sudden clapping of the photographer cut clean through the tension like a knife through silk.

“That was wonderful, you two,” he said, breathless, awestruck. “Let’s call it a wrap.”

The spell broke.

Bruce pulled away without a word, and the absence of his weight was immediate. Jarring. The air felt colder without him, your skin a little too bare where he’d touched you—like your body hadn’t gotten the message that it was over.

He stood and adjusted the robe slung over the back of a nearby chair, but didn’t bother putting it on. Just draped it over his arm, muscles shifting beneath golden skin. He looked as if the entire encounter hadn’t phased him at all.

You sat up slowly, smoothing your hair back with a practiced hand, doing your best to pretend your heart wasn’t still pounding in your chest.

“I’ll see you at the charity gala,” he said casually, as if he hadn’t just manhandled you for the cameras and whispered sin into your skin.

You didn’t answer. Just watched him walk away.

Just before disappearing around the corner, he turned his head and looked at you. That same impossible expression on his face. Not smug. Not soft. Something in between. Something far more dangerous.

Your eyes narrowed.

This wasn’t over. Game on.

Next Chapter →

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