spideybatsy - Tumblr blog

spideybatsy · 13 days ago

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Hell On Earth

Pairing: Lex Luthor x Reader

Summary:

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—” “Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly. You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.” You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words… God help you, it does something to you. Or Lex is the worst boss, he's rude, demanding, and downright evil but... you think he's kinda hot.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, humping, degradation kink, masochist!reader, drunken confession, power dynamic

WC: 4.1k

A/N: Nicholas Hoult is just too fine as Lex, I had to click-clack on my keyboard and write this.

***

Your boss might just be the death of you.

Just hearing his name gave you a headache. You even think about him when you go to sleep. Nightmares of a skyscraper-sized Lex towering over you for all your nights and days, not to mention the freaky sex dreams, but those had to be locked away somewhere dark and never spoken of.

He doesn’t tolerate anything. Not mistakes, not excuses, and definitely not tardiness.

So you rock up to work 5 minutes late and hand him his coffee, knowing this might just be your last day on earth.

“The coffee is cold.”

Fuck me sideways.

“I don’t want your excuses,” he snaps, before you can even open your mouth. “Do you think failure is something I reward here?”

You highly doubt it. Even so, it wasn’t your fault. The line at Jitters was impossibly long since the location nearest to LexCorp was destroyed by a giant lizard man of sorts. Plus, he never even really drinks the coffee; it’s “burnt swill” and far too cheap for his liking. He only tells you to get him one to make your life that little bit harder, like a complete dick.

“Mr. Luthor—”

“You can’t even bring me a hot coffee, and on top of that, you were late. Maybe I should just fire you and replace you with someone who knows how to use a clock.”

His words are like daggers to the chest, but you’ve built up a pretty good resistance. Better to grin and bear it. This job paid quite well, considering the soul erosion, and having to deal with his temper tantrums and occasional threats of defenestration (at least it wasn’t the pocket universe prison). But it had benefits, and a good dental plan.

“I should just build an assistant.”

You hold back a sigh, Lex has told you this a million times, the same rant just repackaged in a different way.

“...one that doesn’t whine and make excuses and disappoint me.”

He looks you up and down as if assessing you. Compared to other assistants, you had lasted longer and you hadn’t even run out of his office crying… you saved that for the drive home.

You plaster on your best fake smile, the one that says I’m dead inside, but still very employable, and offer with practised calm, “Would you like me to get you another one, Mr. Luthor?”

He stares at you for a beat too long, like he’s deciding whether your continued existence is worth the effort.

“…Make it extra hot,” he finally mutters, turning away.

“Well? Don’t just stand there like a malfunctioning Roomba. I need a hot cup of coffee.”

“Yeah, I know…,” you reply, voice tight.

“If it isn’t to my liking, it goes in your face.”

***

It’s a Friday night, and you weren’t able to escape Lex’s office until well past 9, finding yourself late for hanging out with your friends, again.

Now you’re at the bar, drink in hand, trying to shake off the day. You’re probably drinking a little too much.

“Slow down, tiger,” one of your friends teases as you take another big sip.

“Trust me, I need it,” you mutter, barely hiding the exhaustion in your voice.

“Why do you even work there?” your friend asks, half-laughing, half-concerned. “He sounds like an actual villain.”

“You know why. It’s good pay, there’s a ridiculous benefits package, and lots of free swag… I got an iPad last month, plus…”

“Plus?”

You hesitate, taking a sip of your drink. If you weren’t so emotionally drained and buzzed, you might have lied.

“Plus, even though Lex Luthor is the worst human I’ve ever come into contact with… he’s kinda hot.”

Your friend chokes on their drink, nearly spitting it out. “Excuse me?”

You shrug, face half-buried in your glass. “He’s evil, yes. Morally bankrupt, obviously. But have you seen his jawline? And his eyes are like…,” you toy with the straw in your drink, coyly, “So blue.”

“Seek help,” they laugh.

After too much drinking, your friends stopped you from climbing on top of the bar and loudly declaring your love for mozzarella sticks; it was obvious. You’d definitely had way too much.

“I can go all night, guys, like don’t worry about me…,” you slur, wobbling slightly as you point at no one in particular. "I can party till the sun down."

“The sun is already down and you need to rest,” your roommate muttered, helping you into a cab like they’d done one too many times before.

“So stubborn….” you pouted, slumping against the seat.

The cab takes off toward your house, the city lights blurring outside the window. Everything seems hilarious for absolutely no reason, until your phone buzzes, and the name on the screen nearly sobers you up on sight.

Lex Luthor.

“Yello?” you answer, a little too brightly, still halfway laughing.

“I need you back at the office immediately,” he says, voice sharp and without patience.

You glance at the time. Midnight. You audibly groan for at least five long seconds. “You’re joking, right…”

Silence.

“M’not going anywhere near the office tonight…” you mumble, pressing your forehead to the cool glass of the cab window.

“If you want to keep your job—”

“Oh, shut up, Lex,” you snap, startling even yourself with the boldness. “It’s midnight. I’m like drunk. I just tried to dance on a bar. I can barely spell LexCorp right now, let alone walk in a straight line. So, unless the building’s on fire or Superman himself is currently punching your face through your desk," you pause to chuckle a little at the thought, "...this is gonna have to wait until I’m sober.”

A pause.

“...You’re lucky I’m in a forgiving mood.”

You let out a snort-laugh. "Kindly, fuck off."

You hang up.

The cabbie side-eyes you in the mirror. “That your boss?”

“Satan.”

You get another call, his name flashing on your screen like a curse.

“I’m giving you one more chance—” he begins, already seething in anger.

“Just because you’re all rich and like, hot and stuff, doesn’t mean you can call me at all hours…,” you slur, words tumbling out in chaos. “Do I want you to…I dunno, fuck me into next week? Perhaps. Do I think that I'd make a most wonderful cocksleeve for you, most definitely, but… You can’t call me in when I’ve already left for the day, you psycho!”

There’s a brief silence on the line. You can almost hear him recalibrating, trying to decide if you’ve finally lost your mind or just your job.

“Y’know what? Suck my dick, Lex.”

And you hang up again.

The cab is silent once more.

You lean your head back, eyes closed, a smug smile tugging at your lips. For the first time all week…you actually feel free.

***

Waking up the next day, you’re dying, head pounding like a jackhammer on concrete, mouth dry, and vision blurred. You can barely open your eyes.

You can barely remember the night before…it was a chaotic blur featuring shots, mozzarella sticks, and some questionable dancing.

Your doorbell rings. Once. Then again. Then again.

It’s way too early to be doing anything. It's one of your only days free from Lex, your sacred, holy, do-not-disturb-or-you-die day.

The bell keeps going off like someone's leaning on it.

You groan, dragging yourself out of bed, stumbling over a pile of laundry and empty takeout containers.

“Just a second, damn!” you shout, voice hoarse, tripping over a shoe and narrowly avoiding stubbing your toe on the doorframe.

The bell keeps ringing until you yank the door open.

“Satan!” you screech.

Lex Luthor, in the flesh. Looking pristine. In a suit. On a Saturday.

Without hesitation, you slam the door in his face.

Nope. Absolutely not. This is one of your Lex nightmares or maybe a hangover hallucination.

The bell rings again, and your heart sinks like a stone.

You slowly open it. “M-Mr. Luthor…”

He pushes past you like he owns the place, surveying your apartment with a look of barely concealed disgust.

“How…quaint,” he mutters.

“What are you doing here?” you ask, still clutching the door like it might protect you.

“I told you I needed you back at the office. Since you decided to ignore my very generous warning, I’ve come to you,” he says, glancing at a stack of empty chip bags like they personally offended him.

You stare, still in pyjama pants and a shirt that may or may not have cheese stains on it.

“Warning?” you repeat, blinking in confusion, your brain still booting up through the hangover fog.

Lex’s face shifts into something worse than anger, an evil smirk, smug and dangerous. “You don’t remember what you said to me last night?”

“We… talked last night…?” you ask, already feeling your soul start to leave your body.

You’re screaming on the inside. No, no, no. You’re a loose cannon when drunk. Lex steps closer, lowering his voice like he’s savouring every syllable.

“Oh yes. You were quite… spirited.”

You clutch your forehead. “Don’t tell me I threatened you. Oh please, don’t fire me,” you whisper, feeling the weight of every reckless syllable from the night before crashing down like a building demolition.

You stand there, suddenly very aware of your penguin pyjama pants, dishevelled hair, and clothes from last night strewn on the floor. Why is he here? You wonder. To fire you in person? To humiliate you in your own home? To casually mention he bought your entire apartment complex and plans to bulldoze it into a LexMart?

“I’m not here to fire you,” Lex says flatly, arms crossed, expression unreadable.

You let out a huge sigh of relief and, without thinking, throw your arms around him in a big hug.

“Really? Oh, Mr. Luthor, I swear I’ll never let you down again, I—”

“Unhand me.”

You freeze, then awkwardly peel yourself off him.

“I’m here to ruin your weekend,” he says simply, adjusting the sleeve of his very expensive suit like nothing just happened. “There’s a crisis at the lab. A very expensive one. And my top assistant, unfortunately, is you.”

You blink. “So… this is punishment?”

“Correct,” he replies. “Put on something that doesn’t feature flightless birds and be downstairs in ten.”

He turns and starts walking toward the door.

You mumble under your breath, “I hugged Satan.”

“I heard that,” he says, without turning around.

***

He definitely didn’t need you to be there.

He was fully immersed in the crisis himself, typing, calculating, and talking to himself in that way that made you question whether he needed any staff at all. Meanwhile, you sat off to the side, bleary-eyed, hair still damp from the world’s fastest shower, trying to make legible notes while your vision pulsed with every heartbeat.

Your hangover was still very much present, despite the painkillers you'd downed on the way there. Every flicker of the lab lights felt like a personal attack. Lex’s voice was like nails on your skull, and he was hammering away, trying to break it.

“Keep up,” he snapped without looking at you.

You jumped slightly, pen scratching a crooked line across the page. “I am,” you mumbled, even though you’d zoned out for the last five minutes thinking about the breakfast you didn’t get to have.

He gave you a side glance. “You look like a dying Victorian orphan.”

You sigh, rubbing your temples and trying to will your brain back online.

“So you think I’m hot,” he says casually, not even bothering to look at you, just staring at a holographic schematic like he hadn’t just dropped a verbal grenade.

“Huh? Oh—I, uh…,” you stutter, your voice cracking under the weight of your own embarrassment. “I wasn’t thinking last night.”

The memories of all the unhinged shit you said came back to like a brick being lobbed at your head. It was beyond painful, you’ll never say the word “cocksleeve” again.

He hums, completely unfazed. “Clearly.”

You sink lower into your chair, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole.

“I mean… it was the tequila. Tequila makes me say things. It also makes me... emotional.”

That emotion was horniness, so it’s not a lie. Why couldn’t it be sadness? At least if you cried to him on the phone, you’d be able to see if he had a heart.

“For future reference,” he says, still focused on his screen, “if you’re going to confess your attraction to your boss during a drunken meltdown, at least own it the next day.”

You blink at him… He wanted you to own it? You could do that.

“I mean… well, yeah, you’re hot, but you’re also my boss,” you admit, voice a little shaky.

“Confidence is rare these days,” he replies, not looking away from the screen.

You chew on your lip. “It’s hard to be confident around someone like you.”

He finally looks up, eyes sharp but amused. “Brilliant?”

“Crazy.”

You chuckle to yourself, shaking your head, thinking about his antics. “I mean, you threw a chair at a lead dev because they said they might not meet your impossible deadline. You also—uh—sent half of HR to Siberia for 6 months after they tried to intervene. And not to mention the obsession with Superman…”

You catch the flash of his jaw tightening. Okay, maybe that was a little too much honesty.

“I’ll shut up now,” you mutter quickly, eyes darting anywhere but his.

He doesn’t miss a beat. “Go get me coffee. Obviously, that’s all you’re good for.”

The words sting, even though they shouldn't. You’ve heard worse.

***

After your drunken insults and confession, he’s been meaner, so much meaner. He went out of his way to assign you pointless tasks, fed you the wrong details for meetings just to watch you scramble and to give him an excuse to shout at you, and even had you write and make revisions to a speech he had to give, only to not use a single word of it.

“But, Mr. Luthor, I have to—”

“Maybe I should replace you with a paperweight,” he cuts in coldly.

You sigh, eyes dropping to the floor, shoulders tight as he launches into the same exhausting rant. “...or even a toaster. Toasters have a function. They have a purpose. They serve it. But you? All you do is fail at every turn—pathetic.”

You stand there, fists clenched at your sides, fighting the urge to bite your lip. Even now, your degeneracy knows no bounds. Maybe it’s some kind of psychological issue. Or Stockholm syndrome. Or just a complete collapse of self-worth. But the way he sneers at you, the venom in his voice, the sharp precision of his words…

God help you, it does something to you.

You're so far gone, you don’t even know whether you want to slap him or crawl into his lap and beg for validation.

He steps closer, close enough that you feel the heat of his words. “And I wouldn’t have to listen to it talk back.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

Also, you swear he’s stalking you. He asked you to come in over the weekend again, and when you lied and said you were out of town visiting family, he texted back your exact location. With a text saying:

Lex Luthor, Devil Incarnate 😈: Here in 30 minutes or you're fired. 9:00AM

Or the time he remotely hacked your car, on your day off again, and had it drive itself to some barren stretch of highway, and called you just to “talk without distractions.” You sat there, white-knuckled and silent, while he calmly explained a new workflow system over the phone, blasting through your car speakers, like this was the most normal thing in the world.

Or when he had your favourite sandwich from our favourite sandwich place (that’s an hour away) delivered to your desk before you even realised you’d forgotten your lunch at home. You didn’t eat it, though; there was no way to prove it wasn’t poisoned.

It was emotional torture, back and forth, whiplash from cold indifference to laser-focused obsession. You never knew what version of Lex “Satan” Luthor you were walking into: the calculating genius, the passive-aggressive tyrant, or the man who sent you coffee just to make you question if it was laced with something.

The week had been brutal, and today? He was being insane, which was saying something. You were running on no sleep, your nerves fried, and it all caught up to you. You fucked up. Big time.

Missed a meeting. Sent the wrong deck. Double-booked his 3 p.m. with a LexCorp Board call and a classified tech demonstration with a Department of Defence liaison. Total scheduling collapse.

To make matters worse, Superman had apparently just finished dragging half of Metropolis out of a crumbling building, again, so Lex was on edge, seething with resentment and ego bruised beyond repair.

He kept you late. Everyone else had gone home. The halls were silent, the office dim and sterile, and you could feel the tension like static in the air.

“You’re shallow and stupid,” he snaps, glaring at you like you just insulted his favourite suit.

“...not any less than your girlfriends,” you shoot back without missing a beat.

His eyes narrow. “What was that?”

“It’s not a lie,” you say, “But I don’t get it. I mean, why them? You don’t even seem to like anything about them…”

“Sex.”

You choke on the word, air catching in your throat.

“Sex,” he repeats slowly, eyes locked on yours, “and they look good on my arm, fun to toy with in my free time, disposable when the game gets boring.”

You look down, suddenly feeling the weight of his words.

“Oh.”

“Does that bother you?” he asks, voice low and probing.

You shake your head, suddenly very flustered, words caught somewhere between your lungs and your lips.

Before you can react, he’s closing the distance, walking you back until your back meets the cold edge of his desk. The chill seeps through your shirt, but it’s nothing compared to the heat from his intense gaze locked onto yours.

The room feels impossibly small, despite it being as big as Lex’s ego.

“Say what’s on your mind.”

What are you supposed to say? But that little, stubborn part of you wishes it was you, that he’d hold you, tote you around, and fuck you all the while telling you just how useless he thinks you are. What’s wrong with you? Maybe you really did need to seek help.

“I…that’s good for you and them, I guess.”

He tilts his head, eyes narrowing as he takes in all of your expressions, reading your mind like an open book, seeing every messy thought clearly displayed on your face.

“Remember what I said. Own it.”

You swallow hard. “But what if you throw me in a pocket universe to rot…forever?”

He shrugs, lips curling into a lazy smirk. “I might, either way.”

You take a shaky breath. “Okay, fine. I… I would like… to perhaps engage in… activities.”

Tired of your endless stammering and beating around the bush, he grabs your wrist and tugs you toward him with no warning, then kisses you like he’s been holding back for far too long.

It’s sharp and commanding, no patience, like he’s proving a point. Like he’s tired of talking and you’re not getting out of this with clever quips or awkward half-confessions anymore.

Satan in a suit has it going on.

Your brain goes static. Your knees might’ve buckled if the desk behind you wasn’t there. He pulls back just enough to murmur against your lips, “Is that clear enough for you?”

“Crystal.”

His fingers snake into your hair, yanking your head back, and a surprised yelp escapes your mouth.

“This is how you’ll pay me back for your terrible performance today.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

He tugs you back to him, your lips crashing together. Your breath catches, heart racing as the world narrows to just the two of you in the dimly lit office.

***

Since that day…well, you may or may not be having sex with him regularly.

Sex with your super evil boss isn’t exactly what you expected, but when it’s that good, it’s hard to stop.

And yes, may or may not be a masochist, because the way he’d pull you aside after a brutal meeting, his voice low and commanding, then take you somewhere private to fuck you senseless…it was addictive.

Sometimes, without warning, a sleek car would pull up to your place late at night, and a driver would escort you to his penthouse, where the city lights blurred into the background while he took you again, hard, fast and like he could take you apart whenever he wanted.

Now you’re in the middle of getting railed against his desk, your body completely naked, while he still has the majority of his clothes on. This was a normal occurrence in your life now.

Your breasts press against the cold, smooth surface as you arch back, moaning loudly. Thank goodness his office is soundproof; otherwise, the noises you’re making would surely echo down the empty halls.

Sloppy sounds of his movements fill the room, you’re so wet you’re practically melting against the desk.

“Please!” you beg.

“I don’t care if you finish or not,” he leans in a little closer, his breath hot against your ear. “If you want to, you’ll do it when I say.”

Your arms are pinned firmly to the surface as he drives into you relentlessly. He likes seeing you so messy. It’s a raw, desperate reminder of what he’ll never be: a submissive, devoted mess that lives only to please someone else.

“I’m going to count you down, so you better not disappoint me.”

You shake your head profusely, you know if you don’t cum when he tells you, he might not let you cum at all.

“No, no, Lex, I’m not ready…”

“5.”

A five-count? He wanted you to fail.

Your pulse quickens, every nerve on fire as the countdown begins, each number a test of your limits.

“4…”

You bite your lip, trying to concentrate on getting there on time.

“3…”

Your pussy flutters around him as you feel yourself starting to get close.

“2…”

His grip tightens, and you feel his cock start to twitch inside of you.

“1…”

He floods your needy cunt with his cum, a satisfied moan escaping his lips as you whimper and writhe, loving how completely he fills you.

There’s no tenderness or aftercare; he pulls out, letting his seed dribble out of you and onto the floor. That’s your problem now.

“Wait, but Lex, I didn’t—”

“I told you the rules. It’s not my fault you weren’t able to cum for me the way I wanted.”

“But I was… I was so close.”

The pitiful look on your face is exactly what he wants. In his mind, you only deserve to cum on his terms, not your own.

You’re wrecked beyond repair but still manage a desperate, “Please…”

He arches an eyebrow, that familiar evil smirk curling on his lips.

“If you want to cum, hump my shoe.”

You think: how much is your dignity worth? Is it worth an orgasm? He smirks again, clearly enjoying your hesitation.

Apparently, it’s not worth much, because the next thing you know, you’re on your knees, rubbing your dripping cunt against the tip of his expensive shoe, rocking your hips like a woman possessed, chasing the orgasm he refused to give you.

“Can I use my fingers?” you whine, desperate to feel something press against your G-spot again. All it would take is a few thrusts…

“No. You lost that privilege.”

You pout but keep moving and try to hold onto his leg for leverage, but he slaps them away.

“Hands behind your back.”

Grinding your clit against his shoes as best as you can without holding on to him, you feel yourself getting closer. You’re losing your mind, and he’s... scrolling through his phone?

This arrogant little—

“Please, look at me, Lex,” you plead, voice trembling.

He keeps his eyes glued to his phone, completely ignoring you like an asshole.

“Lex, I’m so close, look at me.”

He continues scrolling, absorbed in whatever could possibly be so interesting when you’re right here.

“I’m begging you to look at me.”

The second he finally looks down at you, your hips stutter uncontrollably, and you lose yourself in a shattering orgasm.

“Fuck—fuck, Lex…” you cry out before resting your head against his thigh. You don’t even get a moment to catch your breath before he’s ordering you around again.

“Clean up the mess on the floor, and yourself, you look…” he trails off, pulling away from you and pacing the room.

“Draft up a report. I want it done by the end of the day. And I want a coffee from Jitters. If it’s cold, I’ll throw you in a river.”

“Yes, Mr. Luthor.”

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spideybatsy · 20 days ago

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wayne's secretary

summary | working as bruce wayne's secretary was never an easy job, specially when you're terribly in love with him and he doesn't dare look back.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader

warnings / tags | most fluffy, some angst, neglected feelings because reader thinks bruce doesn't see her as she sees him BUT HE DOES!!!he is just simply too much of a fool so we can add hurt/comfort

word count | 5.6k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. you don't need to read the other parts to understand this since this is about bruce and batmom's past.

BEING BRUCE WAYNE’S SECRETARY ISN’T FOR THE WEAK.

You figured that out about three hours into your first day on the job. You’d walked into the sleek, glass-walled office on the 40th floor of Wayne Enterprises with your little notebook clutched in your hands, fresh off the Kent Farm and still smelling faintly of hay and sunscreen, heart pounding in your chest like a scared rabbit. You’d been prepared for a challenge. You hadn’t been prepared for Bruce Wayne.

The tabloids don’t do him justice.

Sure, they get the broad strokes right. Tall. Ridiculously good-looking. Billionaire. Occasionally seen with models or philanthropists or both on his arm. But they miss the quiet intensity that follows him into every room like a storm cloud, the way his blue eyes could pin you in place with one look, or how his voice, deep and smooth like whiskey, can make your stomach twist in knots even when he’s just telling you to rearrange his schedule for the fifth time that morning.

Actually, it’s a brutal, gladiatorial occupation requiring the patience of a saint, the multitasking ability of a NASA mission control operator, and the emotional resilience of someone who doesn’t cry when a perfectly good apple pie burns.

You are not that someone.

But you try. Lord, do you try.

You’re not sure if it’s the Kent in you or the catastrophic crush you’ve been carefully tending to like a forbidden summer bloom, but you don’t give up. No. You set your alarm for 5:00 AM every day, you iron your skirts and blouses the night before, and you march into Wayne Enterprises with a to-go cup of black coffee that could wake the dead.

You take his calls. You reschedule meetings when Bruce inevitably disappears—out for “personal reasons” that you’re not allowed to question. You politely field phone calls from ex-lovers who think they can just waltz back into his life. You smile through tight teeth when angry supermodels demand an audience with “Brucie.”

“Miss Kent.” His voice cuts through your daydreams as you fumble with the office phone. You curse under your breath—quietly, because you’re still a Kent and Ma raised you better—before turning toward him.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne?” You push your chair back, notebook ready, pen poised like a weapon of mild administrative warfare.

Bruce glances at the clock on the wall. He’s wearing one of those immaculate, tailored charcoal suits that probably cost more than your entire apartment.

“There’s a board meeting at noon. I need the quarterly reports from R\&D printed and summarized.” He pauses, eyes narrowing just slightly. “And cancel lunch with Veronica.”

Veronica. Right. The supermodel. One of the many.

You nod, scribbling it down. “Of course.”

His gaze lingers for a second longer than necessary, unreadable, before he turns and retreats to his office, the door shutting with a soft click. You exhale the breath you didn’t realize you were holding, the familiar ache settling in your chest.

Because Bruce Wayne doesn’t see you.

Not really. Not the way you see him. He sees a secretary. Efficient. Professional. The girl from Kansas with a polite smile and too many pens in her purse. Meanwhile, you see him—the man behind the Gotham mask, sharp-edged and distant, carrying the weight of an entire city on his shoulders.

And you’re in love with him.

Hopelessly, stupidly, painfully in love.

It’s not ideal.

This is fine. Totally fine. This is the job.

Sure, he makes you take calls from the kinds of women who have their own perfume ads and the press on speed dial, but that’s fine. Sure, he makes you memorize his calendar like your life depends on it, but fine. Sure, sometimes he leaves you with half his workload and the other half of his headaches, but fine.

You didn’t move to Gotham to have a soft, easy life. You moved here because a friend had recommended you and you needed the job, even if your parents were more than happy to let you live on the farm. At first, it was very difficult.

Renting an apartment had been the worst part. Gotham wasn't anything like Smallville, or even Metropolis, where your brother lived. Much more dangerous and dark, but just as beautiful. So, you'd ended up in a moderately affordable building with a small balcony that you'd filled with plants.

And not to mention how the people there weren't even a third as polite. How they gave you weird looks whenever you mumbled a "sir" or a polite "ma'am," but that could also have been because the Kansas accent had become so engrained in you, refusing to leave.

But you’d gotten good at reading Bruce. You had to. He was many things—Gotham’s most eligible bachelor, impossible perfectionist, a certified menace to your daily stress levels—but predictable in his routines. You’d memorized the way his brow twitched when a board member droned on too long, the faint edge in his voice when he asked you to "reschedule" a dinner with some socialite (which always meant cancel entirely), and the carefully contained glances he cast your way when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Of course, maybe that last part was just your imagination.

Because if Bruce Wayne actually looked at you the way you looked at him, well… you'd probably combust right there behind your tidy little desk outside his office.

But no. You were just his secretary. The secretary with a too-big crush, a closet full of pretty, neatly pressed dresses, and a last name that carried weight only in your home place.

“Y/N?”

His voice snapped you out of your thoughts, rich and low and way too dangerous for this early in the morning. You looked up, startled to find him standing in front of your desk, broad-shouldered and devastating handsome.

You tried not to let your eyes linger on the cut of his jaw or the perfect, infuriating way his dark hair fell over his brow.

“Yes, Mr. Wayne?”

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly. You never called him that unless you were flustered—or hiding something.

“The schedule for today?” he prompted.

Right. His schedule. You were supposed to be a professional. You snatched the leather-bound planner off your desk and opened it with practiced precision.

“You have a ten o’clock with Lucius Fox, followed by a board meeting at eleven. Lunch is with Mr. Park from the GCPD charity board—”

“Cancel lunch.”

You blinked. “But—”

“Park only scheduled it to pitch more PR appearances. I’m not interested.”

You hesitated. “Should I tell him you’re busy or—”

“Tell him I’m unavailable. If he presses, tell him I’m allergic to public relations.”

Despite yourself, a smile tugged at the corner of your mouth. Bruce caught it, the faintest glint of amusement flickering in his eyes before it vanished behind that familiar, stoic mask.

“And tonight,” you continued, clearing your throat, “there’s the Wayne Gala.”

His expression didn’t change, but you swore you caught a flicker of resignation in his gaze.

“You’re still attending, right?” you asked, fighting the urge to fidget with your pen.

Bruce’s eyes settled on you in that way that made your heart stutter—steady, intense, unreadable.

“Are you attending?” he countered, voice deceptively neutral.

You frowned, momentarily thrown. “I… well, I wasn’t invited.”

“You’re my secretary.”

“Technically, yes, but—”

“You organized the entire event.”

You ducked your head, heat creeping into your cheeks. “I just coordinated. It��s not the same.”

His jaw flexed, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But then, without warning, he leaned down, palm braced against your desk, invading your personal space just enough to short-circuit your brain.

“Be there,” he said simply, voice low and final.

Your throat went dry. “O-Okay.”

He straightened, adjusted his cufflinks, and walked back into his office, leaving you staring after him like a lovesick idiot.

But here’s the thing.

He does see you.

Bruce Wayne notices everything.

The way you hum when you’re overwhelmed with scheduling requests. How you bring a spare cup of coffee to your desk at exactly 9:15, just in case he needs it. The worn denim jacket from Smallville you sometimes forget on the back of your chair. How your smile never quite reaches your eyes sometimes.

You think he doesn’t care.

But he does.

He cares more than he should.

Because for the first time in years, he finds himself looking forward to Monday mornings. To your quiet, determined voice filtering through the intercom. To your handwriting on his notes.

But he’s a fool.

A coward.

And so he stays quiet.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of phone calls, emails, and one very aggressive supermodel threatening to “storm the building” if Bruce didn’t return her messages. You handled it, like always, smiling politely, making apologies, and filing it away as just another day in the impossible life of Bruce Wayne’s secretary.

But tonight—the gala—it was different.

The Kent in you was screaming this is a bad idea. Smallville had taught you to keep your feet on the ground, your head clear, and your heart safe.

But Gotham had other plans.

By the time you arrived at Wayne Manor, you felt wildly underdressed, even in your nicest gown—soft blue satin that hugged your figure and made your eyes stand out in the dim light. The manor buzzed with the city’s elite: sharp suits, glittering dresses, whispered gossip trailing behind every conversation.

The party swirled around you like a glittering storm of perfume, champagne, and barely concealed arrogance. You sipped at your glass, nerves humming just beneath your skin, but you stayed grounded. For now.

Until you saw her.

Bruce stood across the room near the grand staircase, his expression cool, unreadable—but beside him, clinging to his arm like a designer handbag, was a woman you couldn’t tear your eyes away from.

Tall. Blonde. Sun-kissed skin that practically glowed under the chandelier light. Her gown shimmered in the low light, the cut sleek and expensive. She was the kind of woman that belonged in Bruce Wayne’s world. The kind that laughed easily at whispered jokes, who made socialites stare with jealousy and men stare with want. She tilted her head, smiling at him with practiced charm, a hand lightly resting on his chest as she spoke.

And Bruce—he’s not brushing her off. He’s not pulling away. He’s standing there, listening, patient, polite. His expression is carefully neutral, but you know him. You’ve studied him like a language, and you see it—the tiny flicker of amusement when she says something clever, the faint dip of his head when she leans in.

Your heart sank like a stone tossed into deep water.

You looked away, swallowing the bitter ache rising in your throat. Of course. It wasn’t like you hadn’t seen him with women before. Supermodels. Heiresses. Gotham’s elite tripping over themselves for a chance to stand where she stood now.

You set your glass down with more force than necessary, turning on your heel before your emotions betrayed you. The last thing you needed was to cry into your free bar champagne.

The room blurred as you weaved through the crowd, determined to find some breathing space, anywhere but here.

That’s when you found the bar—and her.

A woman leaned casually against the polished counter, swirling amber liquid in her glass with delicate fingers. Her short black hair framed her face in soft waves, dark as ink, contrasting beautifully with lightly tanned skin and sharp, green eyes that glittered with curiosity as she noticed you approach.

The bartender barely had time to greet you before the woman spoke first, voice smooth and low, with a teasing edge that wrapped around you like silk.

“Well, aren’t you just a breath of fresh air?”

You blinked, momentarily startled. “I… what?”

She smiled, slow and warm, like she was entirely unbothered by the sharp edges of this world. “You look like you wandered in from somewhere far, far away.” Her gaze drifted down your frame, lingering on your still-slightly-flushed cheeks and the soft blue satin of your gown. “Somewhere real.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Smallville, actually.”

Her lips curved in amusement. “Figures.”

You slid onto the stool beside her, grateful for the unexpected reprieve from your spiraling thoughts.

“I’m Selina,” she offered, raising her glass. “Selina Kyle.”

“Y/N,” you replied, smiling despite yourself.

Selina’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Pretty name. Pretty girl. What’s your excuse for looking like you’d rather be anywhere else?”

You hesitated, tempted to brush it off, but something about her—maybe it was the friendly smirk or the purring warmth in her voice—made it easy to be honest.

“I work for Mr. Wayne,” you admitted, fiddling with your bracelet. “Secretary. Calendar wrangler. Human voicemail inbox.”

Selina’s expression morphed into something wickedly teasing. “That explains the heartbreak face.”

Your cheeks flushed. “It’s not… I mean, I—”

“Relax, sweetheart.” She waved a hand dismissively. “You’re not the first, and I’m guessing you won’t be the last.”

You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands. “Is it that obvious?”

Selina chuckled, the sound light and unjudging. “Only to someone who’s been there. You’ve got the look.” She took a sip of her drink, eyes softening. “Trust me, men like Bruce? They notice more than they let on.”

You lifted your head, doubtful. “Not him. He’s…” You sighed. “He’s different.”

Her smirk widened like she knew a secret you didn’t. “Aren’t they all?”

Despite the ache still clinging to your chest, her flirty, easy confidence soothed some of the sting. You chatted for a little while longer—about Gotham’s ridiculous social scene, expensive shoes, and how impossible it was to find decent coffee in this city. Slowly, the tightness in your chest loosened, replaced by the quiet comfort of unexpected companionship.

But happiness in Gotham never lasted long.

The collision was entirely accidental. You’d been making your way through the crowd again, half-lost in thought, when it happened.

The champagne flutes on her hand dangerously, and one tips, spilling its fizzy, golden contents all over the front of your dress. The cold is immediate, sharp against your skin, seeping through the delicate fabric and turning the soft blue satin dark and sticky.

You gasp, instinctively reaching for a napkin, already sputtering out apologies.

“I’m so sorry, I—”

But the woman’s gaze sweeps over you like you’re something stuck to her shoe. She’s impeccably dressed—pearls, tailored silk, not a hair out of place—and her expression drips with disdain.

“You should watch where you’re going,” she snaps, her voice clipped, precise, and cruelly condescending. “Clearly, you’re not used to being at events like this.”

“I—um—I didn’t mean—”

“Obviously not,” she cuts in, eyes raking over your soaked dress with thinly veiled disgust. “But what can you expect from… assistants.”

Something ugly twists in your stomach. It’s not even the words—it’s the way she says it. Like you’re beneath her. Like you’re a stain on the carpet. And worst of all, she’s not the first to think it.

You swallow the lump in your throat, your eyes burning.

“Excuse me,” you whisper, your voice barely steady.

You turn sharply and flee, weaving through the glittering guests, past chandeliers and waiters and couples who don’t notice you’re unraveling. You burst through the manor doors and into the night, the rain hitting you like cold glass.

The sky is heavy, dark, and pouring, but you barely feel it over the ache in your chest, the humiliation clawing up your throat. You raise your hand, waving desperately until a cab finally screeches to a stop, and you slide inside, your soaked dress clinging to your skin, your heart pounding wildly.

“Address?” the cabbie grunts.

You rattle it off quickly, voice thick with tears you refuse to let fall—not here, not yet.

The ride home blurred past the rain-streaked window. By the time you reached your small apartment, your teeth chattered and your heart ached with embarrassment so sharp it made your chest physically hurt.

Inside, you stripped out of the soaked gown, trembling hands fumbling with the fabric. The champagne stain spread across the satin, stubborn and taunting.

Warm pajamas—fleece, oversized, impossibly soft—helped, but not enough to quiet the storm inside you. You sat on the floor by the sink, the dress clutched in your lap, damp with tears as you scrubbed at the stain in vain.

The first sob broke free quietly, and then another, until your shoulders shook, and you pressed your forehead to your knees.

Your phone buzzed on the counter. You ignored it at first, but when it buzzed again—your mother’s name lighting up the screen—your resolve crumbled.

You swipe to answer, voice trembling. “Hey, ma.”

Her voice wraps around you like a quilt. “Hi, sweetheart. Thought I’d check on you. You were on my mind tonight.”

You swallow, the knot in your throat threatening to choke you. “It was a long night.”

“Tell me.”

So you do. You tell her about the gala, about the pretty blonde, about the woman who made you feel small, about the rain and the taxi and the stupid, ruined dress.

Ma listens to every word, soft murmurs of comfort filling the quiet between your sobs.

“Oh, honey,” she says finally, her voice tender and steady, like home. “You know what I always told you. People can only make you feel small if you let them.”

“I know,” you whisper, curling into yourself. “But sometimes it’s hard not to.”

“I know it is. But you’re a Kent, sugar. You’ve got more heart than that whole city combined. Don’t let some snooty woman take that from you.”

You sniff, wiping at your eyes. “The dress is probably ruined.”

“Clothes can be replaced. My girl can’t.”

Your chest aches, but the edges start to soften.

“And besides,” Ma continues gently, “the year’s almost done. Christmas is right around the corner. Why don’t you come home for a bit? We’ll put you to work on the farm. Your father's been asking when he’ll see you next.”

You smile faintly, the image of the old farmhouse glowing warmly in your mind. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Come home, baby,” she said softly. “For as long as you want.”

“Okay,” you whispered, the exhaustion catching up to you. “I’ll come home.”

And for the first time that night, you let yourself breathe.

Until a loud, metallic noise startles you.

“What was that?” your mother’s voice crackled through the tiny speaker, concern lacing her words even from miles away.

You stood frozen in your living room, heart lurching up to your throat. It had come from the balcony. Something heavy. Something… metallic? The rain outside still battered against the glass, wind howling like it was personally offended.

“Probably… the wind,” you tried to sound calm, but your voice wobbled.

“Wind doesn’t sound like that, sweetheart.”

You couldn’t exactly argue.

Your eyes darted around your modest apartment, landing on the first potential weapon in sight—the old, battered broom leaning against the kitchen wall. It wasn’t exactly an impressive choice, but it was better than facing Gotham’s nightlife with bare hands.

“Ma, I gotta go,” you whispered, grabbing the broom in a white-knuckled grip.

“Y/N—”

“Love you,” you interrupted softly, already creeping toward the balcony. “Kiss Pa for me.”

You hung up, slipping the phone onto the counter, broom clutched like a sword as you edged toward the sliding balcony door. Peeking through the glass, your eyes narrowed in confusion. The balcony was dark, but even with the rain streaking the glass, you could make out a broad shape slumped among your poor, potted plants. Your gaze sharpened.

A man?

His cape—or was that a coat?—dragged heavily on the soaked ground, the fabric clinging to his frame. The dim city light caught the unmistakable shape of pointed ears rising from the silhouette of his cowl. Unmoving except for the faint, labored rise and fall of his chest. His shoulders sagged slightly, like they were carrying the weight of the world—or at least tonight’s injuries.

A bat mask. A symbol that had been plastered all over Gotham’s tabloids for months now.

The Batman.

Your eyes widened. "Oh my God…”

Your pulse thudded against your ribs, nerves tangled with curiosity. He wasn’t threatening, not like this. He looked… exhausted. Slumped awkwardly on one side, one gloved hand bracing against the floor as if trying—and failing—to push himself upright.

The other hand pressed tightly to his torso. Even in the dim light, you could see dark, wet streaks staining his suit.

Blood.

The logical part of your brain reminded you: he beats up criminals, not civilians. You were safe… mostly. Still, your fingers tightened around the broom handle, and—against all better judgment—you poked him lightly in the side with the bristles.

“Uh… hey,” you called softly, voice higher than usual. “You okay there, big guy?”

There was a beat of silence. Then, his head tilted up, and even behind the intimidating mask, you could feel the weight of his stare settle on you.

The intensity made you freeze for a heartbeat—but you noticed the tension in his shoulders loosen, just slightly. He wasn’t here to hurt you.

The Batman—Gotham’s Batman—was hurt. And… on your balcony.

This city was ridiculous.

You lowered the broom slightly, heart racing. “Are you… gonna pass out? Or… need help?”

His breathing was heavy beneath the mask, but after a pause, he managed a rough, gravel-edged reply. “Help… would be… good.”

You hesitated only a second longer before setting the broom aside. The Kent in you—years of patching up scraped knees, stubborn farm injuries, and now your brother’s occasional “training bruises”—kicked in.

“Alright, c’mon,” you muttered, slipping your arm under his. “Let’s get you inside before you drown out here.”

It took effort, but between his stubbornness and your determination, you managed to half-guide, half-drag him inside. Rainwater dripped from his cape and suit, puddling onto your floor. Your poor couch squelched as he collapsed onto it with a heavy, pained grunt.

You grimaced. “Okay, we’ll… deal with the couch later.”

First aid. You needed the first aid kit.

You grabbed the small, dented metal box from the kitchen cabinet, snapping it open to see what was inside. It wasn’t exactly stocked for vigilante wounds, but it would have to do.

You returned to the living room, dropping the kit beside him and kneeling at his side, crossing your legs beneath you. Your gaze flicked over him—his gloves were off now, discarded on your coffee table, his bare hands braced on his thighs.

But it wasn’t his hands that worried you.

The blood staining his side caught your attention—the dark smear spreading across his suit, seeping from beneath the armored plates.

Your fingers hovered uncertainly.

“Hey… uh, I’m gonna help you, alright?” Your voice was soft but steady. “But I can’t get to that with all… this.”

Your hand gestured vaguely toward the torso section of his suit.

For a long, tense moment, he didn’t move. The air between you thickened with unspoken questions. Then, finally, with slow, methodical movements, he reached up, fingers finding the subtle seams at the sides of his suit.

The chest armor loosened, peeling away to reveal scarred, marked skin beneath.

Your breath hitched.

Broad, muscular, every inch of him screamed strength and experience—the kind of body molded by years of brutal training and hard-earned scars. Bruises bloomed across his ribs in shades of deep purple and blue, some old, some alarmingly fresh. A shallow gash bled sluggishly along his side, the likely source of the stain.

Professional. Be professional, you scolded yourself.

“This’ll probably sting,” you warned, voice quiet.

Grabbing gauze and antiseptic, you began to clean the wound with careful, practiced hands.

As you dabbed carefully at the wound, the alcohol making him hiss softly through gritted teeth, you fought to keep your hands steady.

He remained silent for several beats, watching you with unreadable eyes beneath the shadow of his cowl. Then, his voice rumbled low, unexpectedly cutting through the quiet.

“You’ve been crying.”

Your hands stilled.

You didn’t meet his gaze immediately, focusing instead on dabbing antiseptic along the edges of the gash.

“Sharp observation,” you replied lightly, but your voice betrayed you—soft, shaky, raw around the edges.

His eyes softened—barely noticeable, but there.

“Why?”

The question hung between you, heavy and sincere. No judgment. No mocking curiosity. Just… quiet concern.

You hesitated, biting your lower lip as you worked. The gauze wrapped around his torso with steady, if slightly trembling, fingers.

“A party,” you admitted finally, taping the bandage in place. “Someone ruined my dress. Said I didn’t belong.”

His eyes never left yours.

“Gala?”

You nodded, the corner of your mouth twitching bitterly. “Wayne Gala.”

The words hung between you for a second, quiet, but not empty.

Batman’s eyes narrowed just slightly. There was a flicker of something beneath the surface.

“Did something happen there?” His voice stayed low, that smooth, rasping tone that carried authority, but there was an edge of something softer to it now. Less like the Batman of headlines. More… human.

You shrugged lightly, returning your attention to the emergency kit as you began packing away the supplies, the soft rattle of gauze and bandages filling the space between your words.

“Nothing unusual for a Wayne party,” you replied, trying to sound dismissive, but your voice caught just a little. You could still feel the sting of that woman’s words clinging to you like smoke. “Fancy people with expensive shoes and sharper tongues. That’s Gotham.”

His gaze didn’t waver, even as you busied your hands. “Someone upset you.”

It wasn’t a question. You hated how easily he saw through you. You pressed your lips together, not looking at him as you spoke.

“It’s not a big deal,” you lied. “Just some socialite who thinks anyone without a trust fund shouldn’t breathe the same air as them.”

A pause. You risked a glance at him.

The corners of his mouth tightened, and even though the mask covered most of his face, you could feel the disapproval radiating off him. Not at you—but at the situation. At whoever had made you feel small tonight.

“You don’t believe that, do you?” His voice was quieter now, laced with a firm, grounded certainty that sent a shiver down your spine.

You shrugged again, this time weaker. “Doesn’t really matter what I believe. You’ve seen the crowd Bruce Wayne runs with.” You hesitated, choosing your words carefully, eyes drifting to his injured side before flickering back up. “People like me… we don’t fit.”

His jaw flexed. “People like you?”

You let out a quiet, breathy laugh, shaking your head. “Small-town girl with a Metropolis zip code. A Kent. I grew up feeding cows and fixing fences. The fanciest thing I owned back home was a Sunday dress from Sears.” You pulled the blanket around your legs a little tighter, voice dropping with vulnerability you couldn’t quite hide. “Now I answer phones for the richest man in Gotham and try not to drown in places I clearly don’t belong.”

The silence stretched after your confession, heavy but not uncomfortable. When he finally spoke, his voice was softer than you expected.

“You belong,” he said simply, like it was fact—not up for debate. “Don’t let people like that convince you otherwise.”

Your eyes snapped to his, startled by the quiet sincerity behind the words. The shadows softened him for a moment, the harsh lines of the cowl blending into the dim light, but the conviction in his voice stayed.

You exhaled, some of the tightness in your chest easing. “You’re not what I expected, y’know.”

He tilted his head slightly, curious. “No?”

You smiled faintly, relaxing into the couch’s armrest. “All those stories… newspapers, rumors. You’re supposed to be this terrifying, ruthless vigilante. Gotham’s monster in the shadows.” Your eyes traced over him—tired, soaked, bruised. “But you’re… different.”

He let out a low sound that might’ve been the ghost of a chuckle. It was rough, brief, but real.

“I can be terrifying,” he teased, and for the first time tonight, the tension in your apartment cracked just a little, warmth slipping in through the cracks.

Your smile widened despite yourself. “I’ll believe it when you stop bleeding all over my floor.”

His mouth quirked again, the expression faint but not entirely hidden.

A beat of silence passed, comfortable now. The rain outside tapped steadily against the glass doors, a constant hum filling the space.

Then, he shifted slightly, his broad shoulders easing back against the couch, some of the tension bleeding from his posture. His hand pressed lightly to the gauze at his side, checking your handiwork.

“You’ve done this before,” he observed, his gaze drifting over the neatly wrapped bandage.

“Farm,” you answered simply. “Kent household is a masterclass in minor medical emergencies.” You gestured vaguely. “Cuts, scrapes, falling off tractors… patching up stubborn men.”

The corner of his mouth tugged, and your heart did a small, traitorous flip at the sight.

“You handle this better than most,” he admitted quietly.

You arched a brow, teasing. “What, bleeding strangers collapsing on my balcony? Sure, happens all the time.”

“Could’ve called the cops,” he pointed out, watching you closely.

You shrugged, voice light but sincere. “Didn’t think they’d patch you up.”

Another pause. His eyes never left you.

“And… you believe I’m not here to hurt you?”

It was a serious question, but you smiled softly, warmth creeping into your expression as you leaned in, resting your chin on your hand.

“I don’t think you’d let me shove a broom at you if you were the type to hurt civilians,” you teased. Then, softer, “Besides… you save people.”

His eyes darkened with something unreadable, but not dangerous. He didn’t deny it.

You hesitated, then added quietly, “I’ve seen the news. You stop muggings. Get kids out of danger. You might scare the criminals… but you help people.”

The admission settled in the air between you, thick with quiet honesty.

“You’ve been watching me,” he noted.

You rolled your eyes. “Everyone’s been watching you.”

His gaze was sharp, steady—watchful even in exhaustion.

“Y’know,” you began, your voice breaking the quiet, “I didn’t exactly picture my Saturday night ending like this.”

A brow under the cowl arched faintly. His lips twitched—barely—but you caught it.

“Unexpected house guests are common in Gotham?” he asked, voice low, rough, that rasp unmistakable even softened by fatigue.

You shrugged lightly. “Usually it’s angry or drunk neighbors, not six-foot-something vigilantes falling on my plants.”

His eyes drifted toward the balcony door, lingering on the flattened pots, the shattered ceramic.

“Apologies for the casualties,” he muttered.

You smiled despite yourself. “They were on borrowed time anyway. This city’s got terrible sunlight.”

A quiet hum left him, almost a huff of amusement if you were being generous.

You watched him for a moment longer, curiosity outweighing caution now that the shock had settled. His broad frame was hunched slightly, weight shifted to one side to avoid putting pressure on the bandaged gash. The blanket draped awkwardly over his shoulders, the edges damp but slowly drying from the apartment’s warmth.

For a man built like a walking warning sign, he looked oddly… human.

“Is this… normal for you?” you asked carefully. “The whole ‘bleeding on strangers’ furniture’ thing?”

“Occupational hazard,” he replied simply.

You tilted your head, biting back a grin. “Danger pay included?”

His eyes slid back to yours, sharp as glass. “Wouldn’t recommend the career path.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning to join,” you teased, your fingers absently tugging at a loose thread on your pajama pants. “I think I’m barely surviving my current job.”

A pause.

“You work for Wayne,” he stated again, the certainty in his voice settling over the room like fog.

You exhaled a soft laugh. “You’ve got an impressive memory for someone half-delirious on my couch.”

His head tilted faintly, studying you. “It’s… noticeable.”

“What is?” you prompted, curiosity peeking through.

He didn’t answer right away. His eyes lingered on you, unreadable under the shadowed mask. You waited, letting the silence stretch, expecting him to evade the question entirely.

But instead, his voice came quiet. Honest.

“You stand out,” he admitted.

You looked at him then, surprised by the sincerity tucked between the words. You swallowed, wetting your lips, forcing your eyes down to your hands to keep from staring, and, instead, you shifted topics, easing the tension.

“Bet this isn’t your first run-in with Gotham rooftops.”

His lips quirked faintly. “Rooftops, alleys, warehouses… name it.”

You chuckled, shaking your head. “That’s one way to see the city.”

“Best way,” he replied simply.

“Define ‘best’,” you teased, your tone soft, lightening the mood.

A pause. His eyes lingered on you, thoughtful.

“Most honest,” he answered.

You smiled faintly, leaning back against the couch. “Guess you’d hate my job then.”

“Secretary?” His brow arched. “Nothing honest about it?”

You laughed softly. “Depends who you’re working for.”

A longer pause this time.

“And Bruce Wayne?” he prompted carefully. “What’s the verdict?”

You hesitated, pulse tripping unexpectedly. Careful. Careful.

“He’s…” You chose your words, fingers twisting your pajama sleeve. “Complicated.”

His eyes narrowed faintly, curious.

“Most days, I think he’s impossible,” you admitted, your voice quiet now, honest in a way you hadn’t planned. “He’s cold, distant… expects everything and says almost nothing.”

“And the other days?”

You smiled to yourself, gaze drifting to the rain-slick windows. “The other days, I think… maybe he’s just lost. Or tired. Or carrying more than he lets anyone see.”

The silence that followed was thick. Heavy. You could feel his eyes on you, steady, lingering.

Finally, his voice cut through the quiet again—rough, softer now.

“People notice more than you think.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What do you mean?”

He didn’t elaborate, only watched you with that same unreadable intensity, shadows curling at the edges of his expression.

The room settled into quiet again. The rain softened, tapping faintly against the glass.

And that’s when your gaze shifted—sliding down the sharp slope of his cheekbone, the curve of his jaw.

Strong. Defined. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist with quiet realization.

Your eyes lingered on his mouth—lips you’d seen pressed into faint, disapproving lines during board meetings, biting back frustration during impossible phone calls, curled ever-so-faintly in quiet amusement when he thought you weren’t looking.

You’d stared at Bruce Wayne's mouth more times than you cared to admit. It was hard not to when you were sitting across from him most days, fielding angry calls from supermodels and rearranging his schedule on a dime.

And now, up close, barely away from you, with his cowl hiding everything but his jaw, his lips…

You recognized him.

The sharp line of his jaw. The curve of his cheek. The slope of his mouth.

Bruce Wayne.

It hit you like a punch to the ribs.

But you didn’t say anything.

Your heart hammered wildly, your mind spinning, but you kept your expression carefully neutral.

You shut your mouth.

And he… didn’t notice. Or he did—and he didn’t care.

His eyes drifted to the window again, watching the rain streak down the glass, the faintest ghost of exhaustion settling over his expression.

You stayed quiet, your mind racing, pulse skittering wildly beneath your skin, but your face remained soft, composed—the same mask you wore around Bruce every day.

For now, your secret stayed safe between the two of you.

And his?

You’d carry that, too.

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