#the batman fanfiction | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ichorai · 1 year

Text

talk ; bruce wayne.

track nine of WASTELAND, BABY!

pairing ; rpatz!bruce wayne x fiance!gn!reader

synopsis ; it’d been years since you died. bruce stood silent in front of your grave, hair damp from the cold rain. you approached him from behind, tipping your umbrella forward just enough so the tears of the sky would stop mingling with his own.

words ; 6.8k

themes ; angst, action, fluff, engaged au, ex-thief au

warnings / includes ; faked death, injuries/blood/violence/death, depictions of human trafficking, a lot of Emotions, reader used to be a thief, mentions of the joker and harley quinn, alfred cameo !! and one smutty-ish sentence?

main masterlist.

The ground was sodden with rainwater, mud clinging onto his black boots. Its long laces were loosely dragging through the dirt, wet and filthy, but he couldn’t be bothered to retie them. Rain dripped from the hair that hung limply from his head, frigid drops pricking his skin and meandering down his cheeks. The cold air from the sky was a pleasant but striking juxtaposition to the hot tears slipping from the corners of his eyes, conveniently camouflaged by the rain. It wasn’t often that Bruce Wayne cried, but for you, he allowed himself to shed a few tears.

After all, it was the third anniversary of your death.

He hadn’t shown up to your funeral—well, from what Alfred told him, he wouldn’t have made much of a difference. There were hundreds of people there. He was just glad he wasn’t there so the vultures of public press didn’t have the chance to shove flashing cameras into his face.

He could just imagine the headlines: Bruce Wayne At Gotham’s Most Notorious Thief’s Funeral, Y/N L/N And Bruce Wayne: A Tragic Romance, Bruce Wayne’s Ex-Criminal Fiance Killed By The Joker.

Bruce coughed into his fist, masking a strained, broken sob as his eyes trailed down your headstone, where your name was carved in stone. His shoulders trembled. The sky thundered. He bit down on his tongue. His lungs felt thick and heavy, as if slickened with tar.

There were nearly a dozen bouquets of flowers crowded around the stone. Bruce noticed that there were several wilting roses amongst the heap of petals and thorns.

You hated roses.

“Hope you didn’t leave me any of those,” said an eerily familiar voice from behind him. All of a sudden, the rain stopped pelting his head, shadowed by a dark umbrella, just enough to stop the tears of the sky from mingling with his own. “You know I hate roses.”

His shoulders tensed.

Chest constricting, your name slipped from his lips, nearly lost to the pelting rain.

“The one and only,” you said. “It’s been a long time, Bru.”

He turned around, stiff. His eyes twitched in disbelief. There was a bitter taste in the back of his throat. A part of Bruce, the grief-stricken part, wondered if he was hallucinating you.

But you were here, in the flesh. And there was a small grin coyly toying at the corner of your lips. You had a hat pulled low over your head, nearly shielding your bright eyes as well, and you were dressed in loose, dark clothing.

The ring he gave you dangled on a thin silver chain around your neck, gleaming as if regularly polished. You silently noted that he still wore his own engagement ring.

Bruce’s supposedly dead fiance tilted their head, regarding him with veiled fondness.

“Come on,” you said, pointedly turning away so that the umbrella was no longer hovering over him. He flinched when the cold rain touched his skin. He stood there for a second longer, still in shock, before numbly following behind you.

Rust.

Bruce could smell it everywhere.

“I know it isn’t much,” you said, shouldering the creaky door to the abandoned warehouse open, “but it’s home. For now, at least.”

You glanced over your shoulder, catching Bruce’s hardened eyes. With pursed lips, you shook the water out of your umbrella before shucking it closed, tossing it somewhere in the corner. Bruce watched as you busied yourself with lighting small gas lamps on rickety metal chairs, before allowing his gaze to briefly dart around the room. It was spacious in a way that was unsettling—dark and dreary, cold and lifeless. There were a couple dozen boxes stacked along the opposite wall, lining the large, moldy windows. A beaten down sofa was placed off to the side, with a thin blanket messily thrown over the back.

You’d been living here this entire time?

When he spoke—his first words to you in three entire years—it was shaky and saturated with raw hurt. He was… he was so inexplicably angry with you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered, so quietly you nearly wished he was yelling instead. “How could you… how could you do this to me? To Alfred?”

The splinter within the fractures of your heart was all of a sudden a large stake, and Bruce held the hammer.

A small sigh fell from your lips and you turned to face him fully. “It’s a long story.”

Bruce’s frustrated countenance remained unchanged. “You better get going, then.”

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, before dropping down onto your patchy sofa. “You don’t wanna sit down?” you asked. He gave you no response. “Alright, then.”

There was so much to tell him. You didn’t know where to start.

After clearing your throat, you finally croaked out, “That night three years ago—I contacted the Joker through Harley Quinn. She was an old pal of mine from my crime days. Through her, I asked him to meet me under Gotham’s largest bridge because I had a deal to make with him. A part of me wasn’t sure he was going to show but—my reputation as the city’s most famous ex-thief was more than enough to convince him. He was curious, you see. He thought I was coming back into the business of stealing. It didn’t take him long to realize that I wasn’t planning on working with him, and he was about to call his cronies for back up, but I knocked him out before he could reach for anything. I planted evidence of my death on him—a knife with my blood on it, his fingerprints over my equipment, his hair on my clothes, my skin under his nails. The next couple of hours, I was across the city, ingesting a fake-death pill—potassium cyanide. The next day, the entire world thought I was dead, killed by the Joker—though if you dug up that grave you were standing over earlier today, you’d find it to be empty. I framed him so he’d land in jail, Bruce. Like he deserves to be.”

Bruce’s pallid complexion made it look like he was going to keel over and hurl. “Why? Why did you do it?”

“There were people trying to kill you because of me, Bru,” you whispered. “They wanted me dead, and they wanted you dead, too. I was protecting you. If I’m gone, then they’d no longer have a reason to kill you.”

“YOU COULD’VE TOLD ME!” he roared, his pain ricocheting throughout the warehouse. All of a sudden, he was no farther than an arm’s length away from you. The blue of his eyes gleamed with a mirage of resurfaced bitterness and anger. His voice quietened, “I could’ve done something. I could’ve helped you. We could’ve worked through it together.”

You shook your head. “You knowing I was alive would’ve put us both at more risk. I had to do it, Bruce. I… I had to do it so I wasn’t under the eye of scrutiny anymore. Being the most famous ex-thief and Bruce Wayne’s fiance meant more eyes on me than practically anyone else in the country. One tiny slip up, and I’d be in jail right next to the Joker!”

Bruce reared back upon realizing what you were saying. “You faked your death to steal again?”

“No!” you bit back, voice cracking. “Not to steal. To help—just without the cops on my back. Without the Penguin breathing down my neck. Without Deathstroke hunting me down. I did it to protect you and help the city in my own way.”

Silence stretched thin between the two of you. Bruce was tense, frozen in front of you, repeating your words over and over in his head.

“I still love you, Bru,” you said, reaching out for his arm. “That’s never changed.”

He moved out of your way, flinching at the mere prospect of touching you.

“Then what do you want from me?” he snarled, gruffer than he had intended. “I grieved you. I couldn’t—I couldn’t live with myself knowing that I’d failed you. I couldn’t save you. It tore me apart, Y/N. I just… I loved you so much. You meant so much to me. And to just… leave without so much as a goodbye! Not even a note!”

Your hand fell back to your side, a sharp ache clawing within your ribcage.

“I’m sorry,” you said, gritting your jaw and willing the surfacing tears away. “I’d love to hash this out with you, B, but there’s more pressing matters at hand. I would’ve never told you that I’m still alive if I really didn’t need your help.”

There was a beat of silence. Bruce shifted, shoulders hunched over as if he wanted to cave in on himself. The thought of being around you right now was simultaneously the worst thing he could do to himself, and what he desired most.

He missed you—painfully so. He missed the hard, determined edge to your expression whenever you concentrated on something. He missed the way you used to cradle him close to you when he had terrible nightmares, kissing around his bruises. He missed the way you’d playfully bump your hip against his while the two of you worked on the same table. He missed the way you'd lewdly moan your special nickname for him—Bru—into the mattress when he rolled his hips into yours from behind, pressing hot kisses down your arched spine. He missed your infamous grin, and how it never failed to replicate itself onto his own lips. He missed your scent—a homely mix of cinnamon and lavender, a smell he wanted to drown himself with. After you’d died, he’d sleep with your hoodie pressed against his nose—and he did so until the perfume wore away, and the last trace of you was gone. He missed your laughter, your lighthearted banter with Alfred, your help on missions when he found himself at a dead end.

This time, you were asking for his help.

And how could he say no to that?

Bruce’s sore eyes darted from the rusty ceiling to you, watching him intently. “What is it?”

Hope sparked within you, like a candle lit in the middle of a hurricane. “Human trafficking, Bru. That’s what I’ve spent the past three years trying to take down. Gotham is rampant with it. If I told the police… they would’ve been five steps ahead and relocated across the country and we’d be right back to square one. I finally got my hands on some intel—they’re moving a bunch of kidnapped children through the abandoned railways under the city tomorrow night. I don’t know where they’re going, but I can’t let them leave, or things would get infinitely more complicated. I don’t know how many exactly. Could be a couple dozen. A hundred. Maybe even just one. But I know I have to stop them—and I can’t do it alone.”

There was something akin to awe behind Bruce’s blue irises. “The five missing kids randomly appearing in a homeless shelter last year—that was you?”

A weak grin nudged at the corner off your lips. “Yeah. The poor things were being forced to manufacture illegal firearms with scrap metal parts.”

Another beat of silence. The hesitance in Bruce seemed to wane away with each passing second.

“How do you know it’s not a trap?” Bruce stepped closer to you, eyebrows furrowing. The fact that all of this was happening right under his nose made a sick feeling twist his stomach.

Your lips trembled. Slowly, you pulled out your phone, pressing on a video file and held it out to him. He took it from you, watching with horror as the grainy footage played. Half of the screen was black, as if filming from behind a wall. The kids were chained, manhandled and shoved into a truck by several armed people, screams and cries echoing along the metal walls. There was a louder shout, closer to the person recording, and the camera began to wobble and shake, pulling away from the crime scene as they began running. The video was cut off there.

He felt sick. His eyes flickered back up to you, anxiously worrying on your bottom lip.

“I filmed that around a day ago,” you whispered, throat thick with emotion. You began to physically shake. “I saw it. I tried to stop them—but I messed up. One of the guards turned around the corner and saw me. I killed him, Bruce, or the entire operation would’ve been blown. I… I—”

There was a cold hand on your shoulder. His thumb brushed against the bare skin of your collarbone. Your fiance kneeled in front of you, nodding his head to silently tell you to go on. You swallowed nervously.

“Thankfully, the rest of them didn’t know I was there. I don’t know where the kids are now, and it kills me to wait. All I know is that they’re planning on taking them through the railways tomorrow. It’s the best shot I have.”

Bruce’s stare burned into you. “You’ve been managing on your own for the past three years. Why are you only asking for my help now?”

You winced, pursing your lips. “The man I killed—he didn’t go down without a fight.”

Gingerly, you shifted your hands down to the hem of your shirt, lifting it up to reveal tightly wound bandages over your stomach. Much to your dismay, they were soaked through with copper-hued blood, a dark shade that sent a queasy tremor up your spine.

Almost immediately, a shadowed, closed-off expression melded over his features. You couldn’t exactly tell whether or not he was angry at you, or just angry in general.

“You’re bleeding,” he stated, rather bluntly. You bit back the urge to berate him for spelling out the obvious, and remained quiet as he told you to lean back. “Do you have extra bandages?”

“Yeah—in that box in the corner there. Nicked ‘em from the pharmacy down the block.”

Bruce frowned at that, but didn’t vocalize his disapproval.

In the box, he’d noticed a bottle of alcohol beside the bandages, grabbing that as well.

He strode back to you, softly asking you to peel back your bandages. You complied, but not without a grumpy divot appearing between your brows. If you weren’t practically bleeding out in front of him, Bruce would’ve found it to be rather endearing.

There were several lacerations across your abdomen, some shallow, and others deep. There were stitches across the more serious wounds, but they were done shoddily. Bruce sent you a look, swallowing hard.

“These look awful.”

“Why don’t you try stitching yourself up, then?” you hissed, biting down on your palm as he started cleaning up your wounds with an alcohol-doused bandage.

Bruce couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that he was cleaning up his fiance’s stab wounds after three years of their supposed death. A part of him wondered if he’d wake up from this nightmare, sprawled across his bed with his nose tucked into your hoodie.

But this was real.

Your muffled groans of pain brought him back down to earth.

You were real.

As swiftly as he could, he neatly wrapped fresh bandages over your waist, murmuring a shaky apology when you cried out from the stinging agony of the combined pressure and the cleansing alcohol.

“What else have you been doing?” Bruce asked, much to your surprise. Your eyes darted to his, and his skin flushed with heat, shifting his gaze to the ground.

It took you a moment to formulate a response. You were walking on eggshells around him, afraid that a slip of your tongue would make him get up and leave. “I’ve been in international waters for the majority of the time—staking out meetings, organizing heists, stealing from the rich—all that lovely jazz. I went to France, Mexico, India, New Zealand—trying to find something to do. My purpose. I guess I was traveling all over the place to run away from Gotham for a while. But I came back—because Gotham will always be my home. Because Gotham is where you are.” You fixed him with a pointed gaze, and Bruce swallowed uneasily. The hazy blue of his irises darkened a shade. You spoke again, voice lowered, “I gave all the money to charities, by the way. A couple of orphanages, too. Balancing out the scales, Bruce. For all the shitty things I’ve done.” You gritted your teeth when he wound another set of bandages over you for good measure.

Your words made an overwhelming sense of nostalgia wash over him, like a tidal wave crashing against the shore. There was good in you, no matter what the press had to say about that. Bruce knew that you were doing your best to help Gotham, just like he was. In your own way, of course, but it was what made Bruce fall in love with you in the first place.

You cared so much for Gotham. For its people. Even when they probably didn’t deserve it.

“Ironic that I fell in love with one of the richest men in the world, isn’t it?” you chuckled, lolling your head back onto the sofa’s armrest, staring up at the rusty warehouse’s ceiling. Bruce could feel his chest constricting. “What about you, Bru? What’ve you been up to since I’ve been dead?”

The man gave you no response, merely lifting one of his shoulders in a tense shrug. He wasn’t sure he was ready to divulge the past few years to you just yet. As much as he missed you, dreamed of you coming back to him—he couldn’t find it within himself to tear down all the barriers he built around himself since your death.

It was all too sudden. Bruce needed time.

You understood him all too well, much to his mild relief, and hummed noncommittally, as if to say ‘take your time’.

“You can’t tell anybody that I’m alive,” you said breathlessly, after a moment of terse silence. “Not even Alfred.”

Bruce’s jaw flexed. He didn’t like keeping secrets from the closest thing he had to a father, but he knew that it was necessary. “What’s the plan?”

“They’ll be moving tomorrow. Are you in, Bruce?”

Only now did he realize that his hands were still splayed out over your bandaged abdomen, and he jerked back, as if he’d burned himself. You propped yourself up on an elbow, a hint of an amused grin tugging at the corner of your lips.

God, you were so beautiful.

It took a great amount of effort for him to look away from your lips, and he focused on leveling his gaze with those bright eyes of yours.

“I’m in,” he said.

You smiled, all warm and utterly heart-breakingly wide, and Bruce could swear the air stilled around the two of you.

“Alright.” Your hand reached out to clasp his pale, cold one. He couldn’t pull away. He should’ve. He didn’t want to. “We strike at midnight.”

There was something about Bruce’s Batman suit that made you stop and stare at him with awe. Quite a few adjustments had been made to the outfit the past three years—the bulletproof platelets over his chest and abdomen were much more form-fitting than before, and a lightweight cape draped down to his ankles, dark as the night. His mask was different as well—it was tighter and covered more of his face. Seeing him like this made you remember that Batman didn’t hide in the shadows—he was the shadow.

He caught you watching him, the blue of his eyes flashing almost dangerously beneath the moonlight. You noticed the way his gaze trailed up and down your form, soaking in your own suit.

It was a simple outfit, made up of a long, cowled coat, the hood draping over your forehead and stopping just above your eyebrows. It was a mottled hue of grey, perfect camouflage for the dull concrete jungle of Gotham city. A mask of the same color covered your nose and mouth, leaving just your eyes for Bruce to see. The rest of your outfit beneath the coat was dark and well-fitted, with several compartments to store your gizmos and gadgets.

There were two daggers slid into your utility belt and a third emergency one strapped to your left shin. Further hidden within your pockets were a multitude of smoke grenades, ropes, and throwing stars.

You had a small pistol wedged into your belt, but that was only for worst-case scenarios. You knew Bruce didn’t like guns.

The two of you stood before the entrance of the abandoned railways, the gaping tunnel overgrown with moss and greenery. He gave you a weary glance, non-verbally asking if you were ready. You gave him a soft nod in response. Graffiti lined the walls near the front, but as the two of you walked in, there were fewer and farther in between.

The plan was clean-cut. Locate the children, take out the guards, and high-tail out of there. Your fiance (or was it ex-fiance? You weren’t quite sure) had made you promise not to kill anybody but—given the circumstances, you weren’t entirely sure if you could hold up to that promise.

Bruce had this innate ability to move in a way that if you hadn’t known he was already there, you wouldn’t have seen him at all. His hands loosely wrapped around your wrist to guide you to the right, and you couldn’t help but hold your breath at the minimal contact.

In the distance, the two of you heard echoing murmurs, gruff voices of what sounded to be a pair of boisterous men. They were getting closer, and getting close fast. In a whirl of dark fabric, you found yourself pressed up against the wall, Bruce’s face mere inches from yours. His long cape draped over the both of you, blending seamlessly into the shadows.

It took you another second to realize that his entire body was slotted against yours. His scent warped around you and consumed you whole, an overwhelmingly nostalgic aroma of fresh mint and blueberries and something purely, entirely just Bruce. You inhaled sharply.

This close, you could see the thin flecks of pale green amongst his blue irises, the smudged mascara around his eyes, the small, faded scar on his jaw. You could—

Oh.

A lump formed in your throat. You could hear his heart beating—feel it—thundering against his ribcage, just above where yours was.

Heat spidered beneath your skin, crawling up your neck and flushing your cheeks. Bruce watched you with an indiscernible gaze, jaw set. Perhaps it was a trick of light, but you could’ve sworn you saw his pupils dilate, dipping towards your lips for a millisecond before flicking right back up to meet your heady stare.

Desperate for a distraction, you craned your neck, and caught sight of the two men passing by. You bit onto the inside of your cheek, swallowing down a tirade of curses when you saw that they both held guns. Of fucking course they did.

Another couple of minutes, and they turned the corner, speaking to each other loudly. Bruce stepped away from you then, still keeping his eyes trained on you.

They both have guns, you signed with your hands. Sign language was something the two of you learned together during your first year of dating—it was always handy in case of emergencies such as this.

Bruce cocked his head in understanding. Stay in the shadows, he signed back.

You nodded, and the two of you took off once more, skimming across the gravel so quickly that you were practically floating.

The two of you slowed to a halt in front of several wrecked train cars, rusted and filthy with neglect. You peered through the glass, noting a few guards milling in front of trucks on the opposite side. That must’ve been where the children were. Tilting your head to look further to the left, you caught sight of a row of children lined up against the wall to the side of the tunnel. Chains shackled their wrists and ankles together. They were entirely silent, which unnerved you more than anything.

You’ve done this a million times before. Why were you so nervous?

Ah, right. Maybe, just maybe, because last time, you got stabbed. Or maybe it was because the love of your life was right by your side—the man who was supposed to think that you were dead.

You bit down on your tongue in a fruitless effort to quell the nausea roiling about in the pits of your stomach.

With a gentle hand to Bruce’s shoulder, you signed, Six kids. Get them to safety. I’ll take the guards.

Not allowing him the chance to protest, you reached into your coat’s pocket and brandished two smoke grenades, your other hand sliding out a dagger. You leapt through the totaled train’s doors, before pulling the pins out with your teeth, chucking them amongst the lounging guards.

Shouts erupted as two large plumes of ashy white smoke encompassed the entirety of the tunnel. Silent as the night, you snuck up behind two guards, bashing their heads together hard enough to render them unconscious. Your dagger flipped in your hand as you knelt, sweeping around and stabbed another right in the leg, dragging the blade down the entire length of their shin. An ear-splitting scream ricocheted across the stone walls of the tunnel.

That was when the gunshots started ringing out. You were able to dodge them lithely, watching the trajectory of the amber sparks made by the ricocheting bullets and ducking away from its sweeping arc. You drove your dagger straight into the jugular of the guard with a gun, kicking him back until he fell into the gravel, gurgling incoherently through the blood flooding his mouth.

Out of the corner of your eye, you spotted Bruce ushering the children through the wrecked train cars, towards the exit. Panic seized its dark hands around your heart as you spotted another guard—the last one in sight—pointing their gun towards Bruce.

You ripped your dagger out of the guard’s throat in no less than half a second, pulling your arm back to hurl it through the air. The blade embedded itself cleanly through the side of his head, the impact sending him crashing into the wall.

A breath of relief slipped your lungs, and you ran over to scoop the fallen gun up, shoving it into your belt.

Bruce had all the kids—it was time to go.

You dashed through the first set of doors into the train.

A deafening gunshot rang out to your right, and you dove down out of pure reflex.

But you were too late.

Searing pain blossomed over your chest, your stomach, your head—everywhere.

Children screaming.

Footsteps thundering.

The gravel beneath you—cold and sticky with your blood.

Bruce yelling your name, panic saturating every syllable.

The edges of your vision flickered with darkness.

Chest heaving—heaving—heaving—your breath leaving you—

Bruce… the children…

Oh, fuck. Everything hurt.

Your head throbbed angrily.

“Wake up, Y/N. Look at me. LOOK AT ME!”

Bruce’s voice was tightly interwoven with dread—bordering on hysteria as he knelt down over you, palm applying direct pressure to the bullet hole in your abdomen. A low moan fell from your lips at the searing agony that shot up your body.

As soon as your eyes dazedly cracked open, Bruce swore under his breath, mild relief seeping into his blown eyes. You’d only been down for no less than two seconds before he ripped his batarang from his armored chest, sending it arcing through the air to the last gunman, striking him down.

Not a single thing registered in your mind as Bruce swept you into his arms, carrying you down the tunnel and ushering the children along with gritted teeth and panic-laced words.

An overwhelming sense of terror still coursed through the very fibers of his being. He couldn’t lose you—not again.

“Bats, put me down,” you said, hoarsely. “Put me down.”

A protest was on the tip of his tongue, but the warning glare you sent him made him reluctantly comply, gently lowering you down to your feet. Your hand clutched his bicep for stability while the other still held pressure against your bullet wound. There were so many emotions coursing through him that he nearly felt dizzy with the overwhelming barrage of turmoil.

The two of you soon reached the end of the tunnel with half a dozen kids in front of you. Bruce herded them into the back seats of the Batmobile—it was a tight fit, but they were small and eager to leave. One of the little girls started crying as soon as she sat down on the leather seat of his car, and Bruce could feel his heart lurch with an ugly amalgamation of anger and concern.

He slid into the driver’s seat just as you slumped into the one next to him. A groan of pain left you as you began rifling through the car dash’s compartment, whipping out a roll of bandages and began winding it around your abdomen.

The car purred to life and in no less than half a minute, you were jetting off, leaving the dirty crime scene far behind.

Bruce’s eyes darted from the dark road to you, nearly bleeding out in the passenger’s seat. You were panting shallowly, head tilted back as you swallowed uneasily. Sweat beaded your forehead.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” he whispered.

“No,” you replied, a biting edge to your tone.

Bruce’s eyebrows drew together. “You have a fucking bullet in you.” His voice lowered, hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turned white. “I can’t lose you again.” The last bit was said softly, his voice cracking with raw hurt.

You shook your head, stubborn. Your voice was quiet enough so the trembling kids in the back wouldn’t be able to hear you. “Don’t take me to the hospital, Bru. It’ll ruin everything I’ve built the past few years. Nobody can know I’m still alive.”

There was a beat of hesitation. Bruce clenched his jaw so hard it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack under the pressure. “At least let me take you back home. Alfred can help you.”

You frowned but kept silent. Going back to the Wayne Mansion was less than desirable, but it was the best choice you had—the other being bleeding out to death in your rusty abandoned warehouse. Your nose twitched as you slowly shifted to look out the window.

The drive went by much quicker than expected, mostly because you were fading in and out of a pain-induced unconsciousness. When you cracked your eyes open again, your head was pounding angrily and your bullet wound pulsated hotly in tandem with the thick, languid beating of your heart. You could faintly make out Bruce in his Batsuit just outside of the car, leading the kids into a building.

Your gaze shifted upwards, a sigh of relief falling from your lips upon seeing the gotham orphanage sign. Bruce helped the woman at the door usher the children in, before handing her about a dozen fat wads of cash. The look on the woman’s face was priceless—mouth gaping and eyes misting over with unshed tears. His lips moved, but you couldn’t hear him from inside the car.

Once Bruce made sure the kids were safe inside, he nodded once to the woman, before turning back to the Batmobile.

He slid in smoothly, checking all the mirrors to make sure that nobody had followed you.

“How are you holding up?” he asked, quiet and uncertain.

“I’m alive,” you replied. “Could really use an Advil right now, though.”

He huffed out a humorless laugh. “Think you need a bit more than an Advil.”

You couldn’t find it in you to reply, the edges of your vision darkening at a concerningly rapid pace.

“Hang on for me, baby,” Bruce whispered brokenly, his hand darting out to grasp your limp one as he drove to the Wayne Mansion, slamming down on the gas. “Hang on.”

The street lights began to expand into a million shards of light as your eyelids drooped.

Blinding, blinding, blinding.

And yet you could see everything. The blue of Bruce’s eyes that constantly glanced over at you. The trembling of his pale hand on the steering wheel. The tacky blood that meandered down your sides and pooled into the crevices of the leather seat.

All of a sudden—

It all went dark.

It’d been three years since you stepped foot in the Batcave.

Really, it was just a private underground railway beneath the Wayne Mansion, but it definitely wasn’t fit for its original use and you were sure at least a couple dozen bats made the dark tunnel their permanent home, thus its name.

Bruce carried you out the car and into his work station, worry woven between every muscle. He deposited you gently onto the table, just as the elevator door rattled open.

Alfred stepped out, and he immediately blanched upon seeing you, bleeding and teetering on the edge of death itself.

They exchanged a couple hurried words, but you couldn’t hear much. Everything was blurry.

A tear slipped down your cheek when Alfred made his way to you, his hand cupping your cheek. He had a medkit clutched in his hands, and he popped it open right beside your head.

“Hi, Al,” you murmured hoarsely. “Long time no see.”

“Hello, my dear,” he replied fondly, deathly calm. It might’ve been a trick of the dim lights, but you could’ve sworn you saw his eyes misting over with unshed tears. “Last I checked, you were dead.”

If you weren’t in so much pain, you would’ve laughed, and given him an easy shrug. “Plans changed, I guess.”

Mustering what little energy you had left in you, you turned to look at Bruce as Alfred began peeling your clothing back to start working on your wounds.

“Hey, Bru,” you whispered. Bruce’s lips twitched at the nickname. “If I don’t make it—”

“Don’t say that,” he gruffed.

His warning fell upon deaf ears and you spoke again, determined. “If I don’t make it, for real this time, just remember that I love you. And I’ve never stopped.”

Something in his chest broke, and a suffocating sob thundered within him. He clutched at your limp hands, whispering out your name just in time for you to hear before you let the darkness take you one last time.

The first thing you noticed when you came to was Bruce’s hand still holding tightly onto yours. The second thing was the fact that the pain in your abdomen was no longer unbearable, but instead subdued to a sharp ache.

Your gaze roamed around the room, and you dimly realized that you were in Bruce’s bed—the bed that the two of you had slept in together when you were together. He was asleep by the edge of the mattress, hunched over in a position that wasn’t at all good for his spine.

He still had the black eye makeup on, smudged and flaking off, dried bits of mascara on his cheeks. His hair was mussed, as if he had raked his fingers through several times.

When you shifted a bit on his expansive mattress, Bruce stirred awake, the blue of his eyes shifting from confusion to panic to relief in a matter of seconds.

“Hey,” you croaked. “Thanks for getting me here. And tell Alfred thanks for patching me up.”

“We nearly lost you,” Bruce replied hoarsely. A muscle in his jaw flexed. “Alfred wasn’t sure if you were going to make it. There was so much blood.”

A pained smile stretched your lips thin. “Well, I’m alive. Sort of. How long was I out?”

“A couple hours,” he replied. He exhaled quietly, lowering his head. “I never stopped loving you, too. After all these years… I should be mad at you. I was, at first… but I’m not anymore. I’m just—glad. I’m glad you’re here.”

You blinked, tilting your head. Slow, you wrapped your wrist around his hand, gingerly moving it up to your lips. You kissed the back of his palm, and he cupped your face tenderly just as the familiar sensation of tears began stinging the corner of your eyes.

“Oh, Bru. I’m so sorry for causing you all this pain. I’m sorry.” You hiccupped, not wanting to dissolve into a mess of tears right in front of him. “I love you so much. I wanted to come back every day, I swear. I had to do it. I did it for you.”

A glimmer of pain warbled in the blue of his irises. “After you died… I was in a bad place. I nearly killed the Joker when I visited him in prison—I was this close. Gordon took me away before I could. From then I just… I lost myself without you. I spiraled. I was vengeance. Then the anger just sort of left and all I had left was just this… this ache. This hurt that never went away.”

A part of you was surprised he was opening up. It was as if the dam had cracked, and the water was spewing out and Bruce just couldn’t stop. He began to cry softly, the dark mascara meandering down his face once more and his hand shaking against your cheek. You could feel your heart crumbling through the bones of your ribcage, and you wanted nothing more than to hold him close to you.

“Please stay,” Bruce croaked. “I can’t lose you—not again. I can’t go through that again. Please don’t let me go through it again.” His forehead fell to the mattress right beside your hip as his hand fell away from your face and his body shook.

This was him begging, you realized in shock. He was begging you.

Helplessness placed its dark hands on your shoulders, and you were frozen for a second.

“Bru, baby, I—”

“Please don’t leave. You can fight crime undercover with me. Here. By my side. Please—I love you.”

Tentative, you reached over and gently ran your fingers through his overgrown hair. This seemed to quell his shaking just a bit. He stayed in that position for another minute before peering up at you.

“I’ll stay,” you said. “But we’re going to have to be careful. I can’t risk more people finding out I’m alive—and I can’t risk dragging you down with me. I need you to understand that if things go south, I’m leaving immediately—to protect you, Bru. And as long as you won’t hold me back from my own missions. We might’ve stopped one trafficking transfer tonight, but I have no doubt that there’ll be plenty more to come.”

For the first time in a very long time, Bruce smiled. It was a small one, the kind that twitched at the corner of his lips and wrinkled the corner of his mirthful, tear-glossed eyes.

He shifted upwards so he sat beside you on the bed, pressing a chaste, affectionate kiss to your forehead. His palm found its way back to your jaw, and he rested his temple against yours.

It’d been three long years since you kissed him.

You arched your neck just enough so his lips would meld over yours. A pained, broken noise fell from Bruce’s throat, and he surged forward, kissing you back with just as much vigor. He missed this. He missed you.

He avoided touching your stomach, afraid that he’d hurt you or rip the stitches of your wound. The last thing he wanted was to explain to Alfred how you’d managed to hurt yourself even more.

As he kissed you, your hands moved to grip his biceps, nails digging into his shirt. His nose bumped softly into yours and he could feel your radiant smile growing against his lips, utterly contagious. Your homely smell, the mesh of cinnamon and gentle lavender invaded his senses, and he nearly started sobbing again at the pure nostalgia from it all.

You were back. You came back to him.

“As lovely as this is,” you husked, voice lowered an octave, “I still need you to promise me you won’t hold me back. You’d be Batman and I’d be… a ghost.” It pleased Bruce immensely to see your chest heaving, and your pupils dilated as they shamelessly darted from his eyes to his lips.

“I promise,” he whispered against your lips in reply. Despite everything that had happened the past few days, he still trusted you to take care of yourself. A thrill shot through him when the cold engagement ring around your neck pressed flush against his chest. “How’d I be able to hold back a ghost, anyway?”

You smiled into him, before tugging him down for another kiss.

476 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

Note

AHHHH UR WRITING IS JUST CHEF KISS I CANT GET ENOUGH OF IT, ITS SOO GOOD AND UR CHARACTERIZATION OF EDDIE IS JUST AMAZING IM OBSESSED, ALSO FLUSTERED EDDIE IS EVERYTHING MAN I LOVE HOW SHY HE IS ✋😫

Now make them kiss 🔫👹

Oh God oh shit don't shoot I haven't picked up my makeup order yet. Btw sorry this is so short ??

Imagine the Riddler being your secret admirer. - Part 4

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 3] [Part 5]

Eddie always insisted on walking you home. At first, you didn't want to trouble him but you soon realized that the little favour meant more to him than it did to you. There was something about you being left vulnerable to Gotham's cruelty that made him jittery; his clingy, anxious nature could paint true masterpieces of horror disguised as intrusive thoughts. Besides, it was a good pretext to stretch out your date for another thirty minutes or so.

His hands were always warm and soft, which was part of the reason why you like holding them so much. The other satisfying thing was the adorable bashfulness the act of affection elicited from him. Despite his vivid shyness, once he had a hold of your hand, he was committed - not letting go until absolutely necessary.

When you arrived at your apartment building, you quietly questioned whether the distance from the coffee shop you met at was always this short. It seemed as if anytime Eddie was walking you home, the streets of Gotham became suspiciously short as if specifically trying to spite the newly found lovers.

You pushed the door to building open, even letting one of your feet step over the threshold before you stopped altogether. There was something you'd been thinking about for the entire day, barely holding the urge in and now, when his longing stare was watching you disappear into the night, you let those recurring thoughts win.

Unable to hold back a smile, you turned around to face Eddie. "Actually, I nearly forgot to give you something."

"You... have something for me?" he asked while you were walking towards him. A blush appeared on his cheeks as it usually did when you showed him any kind of interest.

"Yeah, just a small thing," you answered with a shrug. For all he knew, you meant something completely insignificant.

Before Ed had an occasion to question you further about the enigmatic, if not elusive, gift, you leaned forward and placed a kiss on his lips. You could still taste the root spices from the pumpkin pie he and you ate.

Eddie froze. His mind was about as blank as it could physically get. You were kissing him and he definitely wasn't asleep. Lacking experience in that department, he tried to kiss you back as best as he could manage. He was probably going to overthink that beautiful moment when he gets back home, yelling at himself for being so awkward but at the moment no coherent thought could form in his mind: there was only you and the way your soft lips moved against his. A faint aroma of vanilla entered his nostrils - your lipstick must have been a scented one.

When you pulled away, the chill night air made his face feel unbearably cold. "Nearly forgot to give you a kiss," you whispered. Then you pecked the corner of his mouth and went inside your apartment building. The click of the front door locking shook Eddie awake.

All of this... actually... happened. He could die a happy man now.

479 notes · View notes

imaginedisish · 2 years

Text

I Want You To Love Me (Bruce Wayne x Fem!Reader)

A/N: Hello friends!!! Here is the Bruce Wayne fic I promised!! This is a combination of the last two Bruce x Reader requests I got (reader finding his journal/a big fight with Bruce), so I hope you guys enjoy!! I based this on “I Want You To Love Me,” by Fiona Apple. It felt like it fit. Next post will most likely be chapter two of “Two Weeks,” (my Din Djarin chaptered fic). Also, lmk if you want a part 2 of this with smut. See you guys soon!

Summary: You and Bruce get into your biggest fight yet, which leads you to find something you shouldn’t have seen.

Warnings: Major mutual pining, lots of angst but eventual fluff. Cursing most likely, mentions of gun shots/wounds/blood/typical cannon violence. Probably some grammatical errors I didn’t catch.

Word Count: 3,095

The rain violently tapped against the window, threatening to break through the glass and flood the room. You almost wish it would. At least that would stop Bruce’s unwavering tirade on your supposedly irresponsible and dangerous behavior.

You had gotten a bit too close to one of the Penguin’s bodyguards during a bust at the Iceberg Lounge. You thought you were helping Bruce, keeping the guards off him as he went in for the Penguin. You underestimated their strength and overestimated yours.

And then, suddenly, as if out of nothing, you were dripping blood. You hadn’t even felt the stinging pain stemming from your waist until a few minutes after the shot had rung out.

You didn’t mean to get shot. That obviously was not a part of your plan. But, it happened. Luckily, the wound was completely external, and only just barely brushed up against you. Alfred was able to patch you up in seconds. It had cost you the mission, but you were simply thankful to be alive.

Bruce, on the other hand, was unfathomably mad. This was easily the angriest you had ever seen him. Once Alfred closed your wound, Bruce began his assault on your decision-making skills.

“What made you think that was gonna work?” He spits, his brows furrowing as he walks towards you. You watch Alfred back out of the bedroom out of the corner of your eye. You push yourself to sit up against the headboard of Bruce’s bed, grabbing at your side as the wound continues to sting.

You inhale deeply, shutting your eyes, mincing your words in a way to avoid further persecution from Bruce. “I thought I could take them,” You explain, your voice shaky in a mixture of pain and fear. “I guess I was wrong.”

Bruce shakes his head as he reaches the foot of the bed. “You guess you were wrong?” He scoffs, his fingers gripping tightly around the footboard, his hands forming fists as his knuckles turn white. “That’s the understatement of the year.” His eyes refuse to break away from yours, ripping into your soul, judging you for the crimes you seemingly committed.

You can feel tears welling up in your eyes as Bruce’s relentless words fill your brain. He was right. He was forced to stop what he was doing to save you. The Penguin got away, and you were left with less leverage and strength than you had started the day with. You had completely ruined the mission. It was all your fault.

“I-I’m sorry,” You choke. You pull your knees into your chest, clutching them tightly inside your arms. “I didn’t mean to-,”

He cuts you off immediately. “But you did, and it cost us everything,” He shouts. He finally breaks his eye contact with you, his head hanging in between his shoulders. You knew this was serious, but not this serious. This was about something else, and you weren’t going to allow him to project his stresses and fears onto you.

“It happened, and it’s over. We’re going to be fine,” You say, letting go of your legs to swing them around to the side of the bed. You place your feet on the wooden floors below, standing up and walking to Bruce’s side. “We’ll keep moving for-,”

He cuts you off again, his eyes opening as his head turns towards you to meet your gaze. “We?” His voice is harsh and heavy. “There’s no we anymore.”

Your heart drops to the pit of your stomach. His words repeat over and over again in your head. This was far too overwhelming for you to handle, especially at a time like this. You blink just once and an army of tears storm down your cheeks.

“There stopped being an us when…” He trails off, as if he’s gauging whether he should say what’s on his mind. “When your brother died.”

You’re immediately brought back to election night. Your brother had just been elected mayor of Gotham. You had convinced Bruce to take the night off, despite his pleas to attend the celebration as Batman, lurking in the shadows. He gave into you, as he so often did, and you both spent the night as civilians.

And then, all hell broke loose. You watched your brother get shot, and from the wings of the stage, you were unable to do anything.

What Bruce didn’t realize was that you blamed yourself. Bruce had been right, and had you listened to him, your brother wouldn’t be dead.

That was the last straw, the thing that set you off. Bruce could attack your abilities, criticize your intelligence, but he could not blame the death of your brother on you. You figured the man who had been your best friend for your entire life would never say something so rude, so aggressive. He took it a step too far, and you weren’t going to let him win now.

You turn away from him and walk towards the door. You pause, turning to face him, hoping he could redeem himself. “So you’re really blaming all this on me?” You ask, your voice cold, laden with anger.

Bruce is silent. He doesn’t look at you. He keeps his hands pressed against the footboard of his bed, his back facing you. His silence is deafening. It says more than enough.

“Wow,” You mutter, forcing your legs to move back towards Bruce. You wanted him to hear you, to see how upset he made you. You stumble as you walk, having forgotten about your injury, and as if by instinct, Bruce rushes over to you. He grabs a hold of your wrist, and you try your best to wiggle out of his grasp, but he doesn’t budge.

“Why are you helping me?” You question, resentment bursting in each word that falls from your lips. “Aren’t I your problem?”

“No,” He barely whispers, as if he didn’t want you to hear him. His words shock you. If it wasn’t you, then what was it? What was making him act this way towards you?

He guides you through the dark, wooden door of his room and out to the hallway. After a few steps, Bruce stops, and twists the knob of a closed door. The room inside is massive, but not as large as Bruce’s. There’s a canopy bed in the center, dawned in white sheets. Most of the walls are covered in wooden bookshelves, and the ones that aren’t reveal the room to be a pale green.

It was beautiful, as if it was made for you.

Once he’s sure you’ve got your footing, he lets go of your wrist. You hate to admit it, but you instantly miss the contact of his skin on yours. It’s a feeling you’ve done your best to fight, a feeling that you’ve pushed down over the years.

You shove the thoughts to the back of your head and wobble over to the bed. You sit down on the plush mattress. It’s far more comfortable than you had anticipated, and you feel like you’re practically melting into the sheets.

But still, despite the room that’s clearly been made to match your tastes, the warm comforter, and Bruce’s denial that you’re to blame, his words continued to plague you.

There stopped being an us when your brother died…

You couldn’t hold back anymore. “If I’m not your problem,” You start, immediately regretting saying anything at all. But there’s no backing down now, you have to commit to the role you’ve given yourself. “Then what is? What’s going on?”

Bruce is silent again. His hands press down into the pockets of his sweatpants as he stares down at his feet. He isn’t going to tell you. He isn’t going to say a single word. You watch him take shallow breaths, one right after another. He finally looks up at you, running a hand through the bangs that lined his forehead.

But again, he doesn’t say a word.

He turns towards the door and grabs the knob. His steps are heavy, as if his mind is struggling to control his body. He’s unsure of himself. It’s clear that part of him wants to stay, to apologize, to make things right, while the other part of him is forever trapped in the revolving door of making Gotham a better place.

“Where are you going?” You ask, forcing him to stop for just a split second. But you already know the answer. There’s a brief moment of silence, where all you can hear is the faint sound of the central air whirling in the hidden vents of the tower. You wonder what else is hiding in this place.

“Out,” He says curtly. You could’ve guessed that.

And then he was gone.

——————————————————————————————————————

You’re starting to get restless sitting in the room by yourself. You aren’t tired, especially not when Bruce is out by himself. Sure, you messed up every now and again, but most of the time you were an asset to Bruce. You remember him saying once that he was shocked that he had ever done the Gotham Project without you. All of that was over now, though.

You decided you’d wait for him in the cave. You needed to finish the discussion. There was no way that this was how things were going to end. And so, you push yourself out of bed, clutching your wound in the process. You were surprised at the lack of pain as you walked towards the door and out into the hallway. The stairs weren’t too much of a problem either.

“You should really be in bed,” Alfred mutters. You turn your head to face him and smile softly. “Master Bruce asked me to make sure you don’t move a muscle. He’s quite worried about your condition.”

“I’m fine, really,” You ensure, turning towards the stairs down to the cave. “I’m just gonna head down for a bit.” Alfred nods in response, and you carefully start down the stairs.

You immediately notice that Bruce’s suit and bike are gone. You knew that it was Batman and not Bruce that had left, but this confirmed it. You had silently hoped that he had just gone for a ride to blow off some steam, but you knew that wasn’t the case. That would never be the case for him. You took a deep breath, hoping that he’d be alright by himself.

You shuffle against the cold ground, and you make a mental note to wear shoes next time you’re down here. You wondered how Bruce spent so much time in the cave. It was uncomfortable, freezing, and rather unwelcoming.

Bruce had left his music on. I Want You To Love Me by Fiona Apple reverberates against the uninsulated walls of the room.

I've waited many years

Every print I left upon the track

Has led me here

And next year it'll be clear

This was only leading me to that

And by that time

I hope that you love me

You Love me

After a few moments of walking around the cave, you finally sit down in a swivel chair in front of a desk. You look down to see a notebook, and you open it up. You start to read through the pages, each filled with data and logs regarding the missions you and Bruce have gone on. It doesn’t seem to be a personal journal, so you continue on.

But you were completely wrong.

You hit a less statistical entry. It started normal, discussing this last night out, but then quickly turned into something else entirely.

It was about you. You know you shouldn’t read it, but you can’t help it. If he won’t tell you what’s going on, you needed to find out for yourself. And so, you started to read the page:

I don’t know what to do. I have to keep her safe. She’s all I have left. If she ends up like her brother, I won’t be able to live with myself.

She got shot tonight, and it was my fault. I didn’t have her back, and if I just stayed a little closer to her the whole thing could have been avoided. I was so angry with myself that I took it out on her…I made her think it was her fault. But it wasn’t, none of this ever has been. This, and all of it, is on me.

I need to get her away from all this. I should’ve never let her join the project. She’s going to be another casualty, another thing I can’t control. The second her brother died, I should have told her to leave me, to leave Gotham. Keeping her here would be selfish. It doesn’t matter that I want her to stay with me, or that she thinks she wants to stay. She deserves to be happy, to live a life that means something.

I didn’t even know how to speak to her tonight. Her sitting in my bed, bleeding out, it was too much to handle. This is it, this is the last straw.

I can’t tell her how I feel, especially not now. It’s too late for that. And this hurts more than anything I’ve ever felt before.

But I love her, more than words can say.

You blink away the tears in your eyes and they roll down your cheeks. You were shocked, but it all made sense now. His cold and callous attitude, his silence, the comment about your brother. None of it was rooted in hating you or blaming you. It was rooted in loving you.

Your breaths are shallow and uncontrollable. You feel like you’ve just ran a mile, like you hiked up a mountain and then proceeded to fall down the other side of it. Those were the words you had been waiting to hear for years. Your tears drip softly down your cheeks, dropping to the pages of the journal below.

The sound of a motorcycle screeching off in the distance, followed by the sound of the garage being pulled up, rips you from your thoughts. Your head whips over towards the noise, and you watch as Bruce enters the cave.

He notices you and your tears immediately, quickly parking his bike and taking off his helmet. He rushes over to you, kneeling down to your level, his hands firmly grasping your thighs in an attempt to comfort you.

“Hey,” He whispers, his demeanor completely different from before. “I’m so sorry,” He says, repeating the words as if he’s afraid you can’t hear them.

Bruce turns his head towards the desk and sees the journal. You watch him carefully, noting the way his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat as he swallows harshly. He studies the journal a bit more closely, and his eyes widen as he realizes what page you’ve landed on.

You take a deep breath, ready to apologize as firmly and intensely as you possibly can. You wipe your tears away. “Listen, I didn’t mean-,”

“I love you,” He cuts you off. Your heart beats rapidly against your chest. You’re shocked at his kindness. His hands grip your thighs a bit tighter. “You deserve to hear it from me.”

“Bruce, I-,”

He cuts you off again, “But you need to leave. I can’t lose you too.” You can see the tears welling up in his eyes. There’s a soft, bittersweet smile playing upon his lips as his fights back his tears. “I love you so much, you have no idea…” He trails off, his eyes gazing deeply into yours. He sniffles a bit, tears finally spilling down his cheeks.

“I love you too, Bruce,” You whisper. “But I’m not leaving,” You say firmly, bringing a hand up to his cheek to swipe his tears away with the pad of your thumb.

His hands leave your thighs and he stands up. You shiver at the lack of contact, instantly being reminded of the frigid temperature of the cave. You stand up and follow him as he walks over towards the other side of the room. He’s pacing nervously, unsure of what to do or say next.

“You’re not supposed to love me,” He says, his back to you as he rests his hands against an open spot on a table.

You shake your head. “I’ve loved you since we first met, Bruce,” You say, apprehensively taking a step closer to him. “And you aren’t going to lose me, I promise.”

He whips around to face you, his eyes red from exhaustion and crying. “You can’t promise that, you know you can’t.” He takes a step towards you, his hand coming up to rest on the nape of your neck. The touch sends chills down your spine. It was something you had wanted to feel for so long. “If I can’t protect you, then-,”

You cut him off this time, “I can protect myself,” You say, shivering as Bruce’s other hand snakes around your waist, pulling you even closer to his chest. You were just inches away from his face, from his lips. The tension was palpable. “I’m staying. It’s not up for debate.” Your words are final, unwavering, firm. You’re not quite sure how you were able to get them out, given how Bruce continues to close the space between you and him.

“Why do you want this?” He questions, his breath brushing against your cheek. He looks at you in disbelief. “You could live wherever you want, I’d make sure of that.”

You smile softly. “Because it wouldn’t be living without you.”

And with that, his lips come crashing down onto yours. The tension resolves itself, melting away as he pushes himself closer to you, as if being flush against you just wasn’t enough. Bruce’s hand makes its way under your shirt, his fingers trailing across the skin of your back.

His lips part from yours, but his arms keep you pressed against his chest. He pulls you in tighter as his head burrows into the crook of your neck. He’s savoring you, cherishing you, as if in seconds you’ll turn to dust, disappear into nothing.

His lips brush against your ears. “I’ve wanted this for so long,” He whispers.

“Me too.”

And now you had it.

And I know none of this'll matter in the long run

But I know a sound is still a sound around no-one

And while I'm in this body I want somebody to want

And I want what I want

And I want you to love me

2K notes · View notes

outercrasis · 1 year

Text

Don't Be A Stranger

Pairing: Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x gn!Reader

Word Count/Rating: 4.7k // PG-13

Warnings: references to canon-typical violence/injury

Summary: There's no mistaking that silhouette. It's him in your living room. The Batman.

It was pure chance. Anyone in Ms. Atwood's fourth grade class could have ended up with him as their pen pal. You're not sure you believe that the stars aligned just right or that fate was on your side anymore than it being a true, one-in-a-million fluke. Still, you're the one who ended up with Bruce Wayne as their pen pal.

You didn't know it was him at first. You were only given his first name and a non-descript address. The PO box didn't exactly scream the prince of Gotham. Sometimes you wonder if you would have treated him differently if you had known. There's a good chance you would have.

As young as you were, no one could forget the bold, block letters of the Gotham Gazette from early that September. THOMAS AND MARTHA WAYNE DEAD. The editor didn't even attempt to give it any flair. It was shocking enough on its own.

Your father had been devastated, a large supporter of Thomas Wayne's mayoral campaign. Your mother had regarded Martha as a style icon, in shambles over losing her favorite inspiration. You remember reading the byline about young Bruce surviving the ordeal, trying to comprehend what it would mean to suddenly no longer have parents.

It was news that rocked the entire city and the very next day it's all your classmates could talk about. Robbie Carter said his grandpa thought it was all a conspiracy, Monica Gibbs told you her dad was one of the first officers on the scene and that blood had been everywhere, and Avery Parker told everyone to shut up. You were glad Avery did, as the discussion had been making you start to feel queasy.

A few months later though, when your pen pal was assigned, the name Bruce didn't really click. After all, why would Bruce Wayne of all children be writing to someone in the Gotham Public School system?

Blissfully unaware of your pen pal's true identity, you wrote to him like you would have any other kid your age. You introduced yourself, telling him the important details like your favorite ice cream flavor and what you wanted to be when you were older. He was kind enough to not point out that an astronaut chef was an unlikely job.

His responses were a bit muted in comparison, but you didn't mind. It was clear Bruce was intelligent early on with his large vocabulary and varied topics. More than once you had to look up words in the dictionary or pull a reference to understand what he was talking about. Having to look things up sometimes was far better than a boring pen pal – like Andrew Clark who had a pal that only wanted to talk about a specific species of shark.

At the end of the school year with a parent's permission you could send your home address to your pen pal to keep the correspondence going. It took three days to get your mom to grant her approval and worth every extra chore you agreed to. Even more thrilling was that Bruce wanted to keep writing to you too.

Somewhere early fifth grade you figured out Bruce's real identity, not that he'd ever truly been hiding it. The pieces had been clicking together for a while but the clear mention of his bedroom in the Tower cinched it. There's only one capital T Tower in Gotham and everyone knows it belongs to the Wayne family.

You chose to not acknowledge it. Looking back on it you don't know why – it just didn't seem to make a difference. Bruce was Bruce, Wayne name attached or not.

You both kept writing consistently all the way through middle school. Considering the attention span of kids, especially pre-teens, it was a remarkable feat. From what you knew, you were the only one to keep in touch with your pen pal for so long.

For whatever reason your parents never chose to look over your letters and without a teacher's watchful eye, you could say anything. No topic was off limits. There was no judgment between you two. The bond was sacred, sharing every last thought and feeling. You normally made up for where he lacked in the feelings discussion, where Bruce had plenty of thoughts for the both of you.

High school was where things started to slip. You were caught up in keeping your grades high, extra curriculars, and the drama of who’s dating who. You’re not really sure what Bruce got caught up in – as far as you knew he didn’t even attend the posh boarding school for Gotham's elites.

Needless to say, the established schedule fell apart a little. It certainly wasn’t once a week anymore but you did your best. Even when you didn’t get a reply for a while, you kept sending your letters. Someone had to be clearing out the PO box because none of them were ever returned.

Bruce’s letters came to a complete stop soon after graduation. It coincided with his widely-reported disappearance from Gotham, so you weren’t surprised, but it felt wrong to give up on your correspondence. A pen pal for this long shouldn’t end without a proper goodbye.

You kept at it – the frequency of your post varying with the ups and downs of life. College brought exciting times but also a fair amount of strife. You kept Bruce up to date about everything. New friends, new partners, new addresses when you moved, celebrations of passing exams, excitement over what was on the horizon, grief at the untimely loss of your father, the burden of bills and low wages.

While there weren’t any letters being sent in return, Bruce would find a way to pop up in your life from time to time. You’re not sure what he was up to in his world, but it was enough to know he was reading your letters. A surprise delivery of baked goods at your doorstep filled with your favorite confectionaries, a large anonymous bouquet at your father’s wake, a mystery deposit in your bank account when your bills became a bit too tight.

You'd offer a brief thank you in your next letter, nothing that would embarrass him, but enough that it was acknowledged. After all this time you had a good idea of how to properly toe that line.

Part of you wished for a real response. Even a short missive emblazoned on impersonal Wayne letterhead. You weren't ungrateful for his little gestures, but you missed his voice, his mind. Bruce had the most interesting way of looking at the world. You missed being privy to it – you hoped one day he would let you back in.

—

It's late when you get home. Clean-up at the volunteer shelter took longer than you expected, meaning your trip home was more nerve wracking than usual. Your apartment isn’t in the Narrows, but that isn’t saying much. Gotham isn’t the kind of city to have a truly “safe” neighborhood – the promise of violence just varies from borough to borough. You’d say yours provides an even 50/50 shot.

The mostly-empty subway cars are uninviting despite being the fastest and safest option. With less bodies crammed inside the tubes it means your chances of being targeted go up. Every squeak of the train track seems louder, every rattle a little more threatening. You keep a tight hold on your bag. The streets themselves aren’t much better. Moonlight barely reaches the street, blocked by the thick clouds, and streetlights are inconsistent at best.

You breathe a sigh of relief when you see your apartment door. Six stories up with two locked doors between you and Gotham's nighttime streets means you can finally relax. It's not really paranoia, more so staying vigilant in a dangerous city.

You flick on your small table lamp and fall into the couch. There's an attempt to fling your bag onto the coffee table, but it hits the side and it slumps onto the floor. Not a big deal. You'll grab it tomorrow. The comfort of home settles in, nearly tempting you to close your eyes right there on the couch when your stomach growls. Food, eating, important. Right.

Rolling off the cushions, you catch a small whiff of yourself. You don’t smell bad, but you’re not sure it can be said that you smell good. Your priorities quickly become apparent. Food, shower, then sleep. Anything else is tomorrow’s problem.

Deciding what to eat is easy when there isn’t much in your kitchen to start with. Grocery shopping was supposed to happen yesterday, but with how busy your week has been there’s been no time. Luckily, there’s still enough to scrape together a serviceable sandwich. You eat it over the sink, not wanting to deal with a dirty plate and trying to keep the crumbs contained.

By the time you finish your sandwich, your eyes are half-open. Skipping the shower until tomorrow morning is incredibly tempting, but the idea of slipping into your sheets squeaky clean just barely beats it out.

It takes a little time for your water to heat properly, the result of aging infrastructure and a half-caring landlord. In an effort to keep yourself awake, you pull out a pen and paper and begin to scrawl a new letter to Bruce.

It's been nearly two weeks since your last one. You've gotten through the simpler details when the water has finally heated, abandoning the letter on the kitchen counter.

The choice to shower was the correct one. There's immediate relief standing underneath the warm spray, the stress of your day-to-day melting away. The city's grime sloughs off of you, collecting in the tub. It eventually makes its way down the drain – a clogged pipe that you can do nothing about always leads to an inch of water for you to stand in.

You're nearing the end of your shower when a noise catches your ear outside the bathroom door. You quickly write it off. With an apartment six floors up it would take a worthless amount of dedication to find a way into your place. Any smart thief wouldn't enter the apartment with a light on either. It's nothing.

Rinsing your hair, there's another louder noise accompanied by a heavy grunt. There's no mistaking that. Someone has found their way into your apartment.

Panicked, you quickly grab a towel and wrap it around yourself. If someone is going to break into your place they aren't going to catch you completely naked. Looking around the bathroom, you quickly settle on the plunger for a weapon. It's not much but definitely better than nothing. The thought of the baseball bat perfectly nestled under the edge of your bed taunts you.

The shower is still running, but your water bill is the least of your concern at the moment. If you die in the next ten minutes you won't have to pay it anyway.

Inching towards the door, you mentally walk through your gameplan. Throw open the door, plunger raised, run at the intruder yelling, and rain fury down upon them. Hopefully they'll be so shocked by your deranged appearance that they'll immediately frighten and leave.

You only manage to execute the first two steps of the plan – the shock of what you find stopping you dead in your tracks.

There's a man standing there, but it's not some random drophead like you thought. There's no mistaking that silhouette. It's him in your living room. The Batman.

Before you can really process the insanity of the situation he stumbles, landing hard on one knee. You rush over, terrified that the masked vigilante of Gotham is going to die here on your secondhand rug.

He's heavy. With more than half his dead weight falling onto you, it's a shock you don't completely buckle underneath him.

"Come on, at least get to the couch before collapsing," you grunt, leading him over.

His eyes are partially closed, clearly struggling to keep them open. He's breathing heavily with his suit half blown to hell. You have no idea what to do.

The most intense medical experience you have is shooting someone full of narcan to help prevent an overdose at the volunteer shelter – an experience you're not exactly eager to repeat. You weren't built for stitching up wounds and preventing infection. Clutching your towel, the realization that there is nothing you can do for him is crushing.

Water is becoming a puddle on the floor beneath you, your breaths becoming more ragged to match his with every passing moment. Something about your fear seems to awaken something in him.

"Front– pocket. Auto– injector. Thigh." Every word is a labor. It takes you a few moments too long for his words to click.

"Now."

The force of his words snaps you into action. You launch forward, frantically flipping through all his pockets to find the right one. Front pocket, honestly. He couldn't have been more vague. Eventually, your fingers wrap around something that looks similar to an epipen.

"Twist. Then–" he breathes in sharply, struggling for the next word. "inject."

You can do that you think. His armor is thick, but the fabric on his inner thigh thins a bit. With his sprawled position, it's easy to access.

You twist the injector, watching the liquid turn royal blue before stabbing it into his thigh. He cries out slightly, his body tensing, before collapsing back into the cushions.

"Good job."

His eyes slide shut. His chest continues to rise and fall at a slow but steady pace. The mania of the last few moments washes over you, panic transforming into shock and confusion. How did Batman manage to choose your apartment out of millions? What the fuck.

You stand there looking down at him, suddenly realizing you're only in a towel and the shower is still running. A flush of embarrassment courses through you as realization crashes. There's only the barest hope you didn't flash him in all the commotion.

Drying off and changing as quickly as you can, you bring a clean rag and some warm water over to him. You're guessing whatever he asked you to inject him with is some kind of super-serum but you can't imagine being so filthy is doing any favors. The absurdity of this isn't lost on you. You're really about to clean up Batman's wounds.

It's a slow process. You take your time, periodically switching out the water. At some point you grab a different rag to clean up the torn edges of his armor as well, trying to keep everything as sterile as you can. You do your best – you're not exactly an expert at this.

Even as you clean him up it's difficult to come to terms with the fact that this is really happening. Following the aftermath of the Riddler a couple years ago, Batman went from freakish rumor to celebrated hero overnight. He still seemed more myth than real to you, but there's no question now. He is very real and seemingly very human. You hadn't been sure if the bat motif went deeper before.

You finish up and are left with the conundrum of what to do next. You're more exhausted than ever, but leaving him here just seems wrong. In the end you settle on dragging over your moon chair and grabbing a book. This isn't weird right? You're just making sure he doesn't die or convulse or something.

It was foolish of you to think you could stay awake. Between your preexisting fatigue and the adrenaline come-down, you don't make it through a paragraph before falling asleep.

—

The first few rays of sunlight streaming in your windows are what wakes you. There’s a moment of panic before registering that you’re just in your living room, safe and sound. You stretch and rub at the tight spot in your neck. Falling asleep curled up like that is never a good idea.

Your eyes drift over to the couch and you freeze. He isn’t there. Had you imagined it all? Was last night actually some incredibly vivid dream or hallucination brought on by exhaustion?

That’s the final straw. No more doubles that roll into volunteer shelter shifts. Your body can’t handle that toll anymore. You give another big stretch, your spine popping, and let out a small yelp when you turn to the kitchen and see Batman standing there.

If last night seemed ridiculous then you don’t even know what to call this. What is there to say or think when the city’s masked vigilante is standing in your kitchen like he belongs there? And how the hell is he even standing after the condition he was in?

He doesn’t say anything. You’re not sure what you expected. You don’t know what to say either. It doesn’t even feel like he’s trying to psych you out or anything, he’s simply… quiet. His eyes return to your letter that he’s holding.

“Hey! That’s private!”

You rush into the kitchen, pulling the letter out from his hands. Gotham’s protector or not, he doesn’t have the right to start reading your private correspondence.

He doesn’t seem all that bothered by your anger. "Sorry, I probably shouldn’t read ahead."

You stare at him in slight confusion and wonder as the pieces click together. Holy shit. How did you not put it together before? It seems so obvious now – like you’re in the fifth grade again realizing your pen pal Bruce is Bruce Wayne.

Bruce Wayne is Batman.

His letters stopped years ago, but you would still venture to say you know Bruce Wayne better than anyone else and it all fits. More wealth than he knows what to do with, a desire to continue his father's legacy to improve Gotham, and a deep, dark scar left on his heart all too young.

You always imagined he would start doing some serious philanthropy work, but you suppose this is in line with that. It's not all that shocking that he wants to do it with his own bare hands. Bruce has always wanted to do things himself.

In the eighth grade he told you about a computer he was working on, going into great detail to explain its complexities. It was going to be one of the most advanced systems ever designed once he was through with it. He also mentioned offhand how he nearly blew himself up with it. Becoming Batman seems right on target with that.

What doesn't make sense is why now? Why tell you at all, this many years in? He's let Batman remain a mystery to you for nearly five years. You didn't do anything new to gain his trust.

“I um, I think I need to sit down.”

You stumble back against your countertop looking for stability. From him showing up unannounced in your apartment to this, it’s all a bit much to take in. You’re grateful Bru-Batm-Bruce doesn’t immediately intrude on your personal space, giving you room to breathe. There’s a good chance you would have fully freaked out on him if he did.

You take measured breaths, careful to not let yourself spiral. Although, if there was ever an appropriate time to do so, this would be it. This is a lot to put on anyone, especially so abruptly. The answer to why Bruce couldn’t use his incredible intellect to plan this better will evade you forever.

Once you can trust yourself to not start panicking again, you look back over at him. You have no idea what comes next. This is not how you ever imagined meeting Bruce. You thought maybe one day he would begin to write back again, leading to the decision to meet for a coffee or dinner. It seemed realistic – a bit more adult. This feels like something out of a dream.

You close your eyes again, trying to take it all in. He’s still there when you crack them back open. To be sure, you give yourself a little pinch on your arm. If Bruce finds that odd, he doesn’t say anything about it.

Needing to do something before addressing the elephant – or rather bat – in the room, you grab a glass down and pour yourself some water. It feels strange to ignore him, so you offer you uninvited guest water as well, to which he shakes his head no. It at least feels like a semi-normal moment in all of this.

From there, you wander back to your living room, taking up an end of the couch. Bruce follows, politely letting you lead the way. You wonder if he’s told many others or if he just knows this is best for you. You have absolutely no idea of where to begin.

“Um, hi I guess,” you venture.

You’re by no means an expert in the expressions of Bruce Wayne, but you’re willing to bet that’s the ghost of a smile on his lips. “Hello,” Bruce says.

“So you uh, you’re the Batman then? I feel like I should have been able to put that together sooner.”

“I would have been surprised if you did.” You’re not certain on how to respond to that. Your shock must come across clearly on your face, because Bruce is quick to clarify. “I’ve worked hard to keep people from putting the pieces together.”

Not many must know his true identity then. You can’t say it’s surprising, given Bruce’s usual habits about divulging personal information.

You’re not too proud to admit that sitting across from him in his full suit, even as beat up as it is, is incredibly intimidating. The reason for the bat motif evades you, but looking at him helps you to understand more. He looks large in the suit, an imposing figure by anyone’s standard. His eyes stand out against all the black in stark contrast, the icy blue pinning you in place. It makes it a bit hard to think straight.

“Would you mind um, taking off the–?” You hope you’re not overstepping. He’s trusted you with his identity, but you’re not sure if that also means trusting you with his face.

Your breath hitches as his hands move. The cowl comes off in one fluid motion.

You’ve seen photos of him of course, even recently, but being face to face is something else altogether. The tabloids have at least one thing right. He’s gorgeous.

His hair is long and in severe need of a brush after a night under the helmet, and yet it works. There’s black makeup hastily smudged all around his eyes, maintaining the contrast of his eyes. Stubble dusts his sharp jawline, drawing your attention to his plush lower lip. You’re not sure if this has calmed your nerves or made them worse. He looks like he was just dragged out of a gutter, which for all you know he might have been, and it’s as though he stepped off the cover of a magazine.

You suddenly realize you should say something more instead of continuing to stare. “I guess I can’t pretend it wasn’t really you after all this,” you half-heartedly joke. You’re not sure if it lands.

Bruce readjusts slightly on the couch, drawing your eyes back to his injuries. Whatever serum he had you pump him full of clearly did its job. The exposed skin still looks angry, but cuts are already stitching back together and there's no longer any active bleeding.

The state of his suit is something else. It looks like he was chewed up and spit back out only to be chewed up again. Massive holes are torn clean through, numerous singe marks across his chest. He's lucky to have not lost the pocket where he was keeping that emergency vial.

“Are you okay?” you ask, “I was a little worried you’d die on me in the middle of the night.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ve had worse.” You think that was meant to be comforting.

Once again, you’re not really sure where to go from here. It feels like your life has now been turned upside down from when he first stumbled into your apartment last night. Simply patching up Batman would have been plenty to deal with and process, but now you know his identity too? Calling this whole thing strange is underselling it.

It peaks your curiosity though.

“Why now?” you ask.

Bruce's eyebrows twitch upward for just a moment. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, why tell me now? You've been Batman for a while and I can hardly remember the last time you wrote to me," you explain. "There's essentially no point in telling me so why? How can you even trust me?"

You wish Bruce wasn't so hard to read. It's nerve-wracking, unable to tell what he's thinking or feeling. It's also entirely unfair, knowing that your heart is on your sleeve.

"How long have we been writing to each other?" Bruce asks. You're sure the non-sequitur has a point, so you let it slide.

"Since we were nine. Although I'm not sure the past few years count as actual correspondence."

"It counts," Bruce asserts, “Trusting you is the easy part. I’m sure my childhood secrets would have fetched a fair price to the right reporter."

Bruce’s mention of selling his letters off is the first time the thought has ever crossed your mind. It makes sense, you suppose. There were definitely times where that extra cash would have come in handy, yet it was never something you considered. You didn't ask for Bruce Wayne as your pen pal and he didn't ask for you – who are you to betray that sacred childhood bond?

“Still doesn’t explain why you’re choosing now to tell me,” you say.

“Your address was the only one I could remember last night.”

You've never been more touched and more concerned at the same time. You caution moving slightly closer to him on the couch.

"You still didn't have to tell me," you say. Bruce looks confused, so you press on. "You woke up first. You could have easily left and told me sometime later."

"Would you have preferred that?"

You think on it for a moment. "Well I guess not but-"

"You deserved to know," he interrupts. "I came here and you cared for me having no idea who I was. The explanation was warranted."

He's not really wrong. The explanation does and doesn't make sense, but what seems to matter most is that Bruce is so certain of it. There's not a single trace of doubt – you're not sure what to do with so much confidence in yourself.

You think back to all the years of silence from him. So many years where you filled him in on nearly everything in your life while learning none about his. Any sane person probably would have stopped writing. Any sane person probably would have changed his PO box and yet, neither of you did.

Sitting across from him now on your well worn couch, you suppose you have an answer for all his unsent letters. You know what he was doing. Sure, the details are missing, but you know and for now that's plenty.

Something more significant than childhood letters are shared between you now. Neither of you are unaware of the shift.

"I need to get back," Bruce tells you. "Alfred is probably worried."

You remember the name of his childhood butler from his letters. It warms your heart to know he's still a large presence in Bruce's life. He always seemed to have the young heir's best interests at heart.

"Will I see you again?" you ask. You desperately hope this meeting isn't bound for more years of silence from his end.

Bruce slips his cowl back on. "I'll be in touch."

You nod, watching him walk across your small apartment back towards the window. The ever-present clouds in the Gotham sky should provide enough shadow for him to sneak away undetected. He's certainly had enough practice.

Bruce is half out the window when he turns back to you and asks, "Why did you keep writing?"

You don't have to think hard about your answer and give it almost immediately. "I didn't want you to be lonely."

His mask obscures most of his face. You hope that he's touched and not offended – the thought of growing up alone in that Tower just always struck you as empty.

Bruce gives you an almost imperceptible nod and then he's gone. You hope he won't be a stranger.

A week later, there's a letter in your mailbox.

Comments & reblogs are always appreciated 💕

Tagging a few people who seemed interested:) @skeletoncowboys @green-socks @nobodys-baby-now @moonlight-prose @autumnleaves1991-blog @1800-fight-me

#bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x reader #the batman fanfiction #bruce wayne fanfiction #crasis writes

207 notes · View notes

sweetums0kitty · 1 year

Text

I’ll Be Home For Christmas: Chapter 1: Baby It’s Cold Outside Edward Nashton X Reader

Once upon a time winter was a dreaded time of year for Edward, the cycle of the seasons; death and rebirth never more apparent than when Jack Frost’s icy fingers would slip in through the cracks of the orphanage and steal the life from one of the unfortunate urchins left to rot. But in the present blissfully curled against you in a mess of blankets and limbs the bitter chill brought on by the blankets of snow currently covering Gotham had no way to reach him now.

Sighing contentedly you snuggled yourself deeper into Eddie, turning inward more laying your cheek onto his chest. He was caught in a love-drunk haze gently tracing question marks into your back while occasionally tracing the tendons of your spine through the sleep shirt you were wearing. The night was almost perfect save for the question rattling around in your mind. The holidays were hard on him, you knew that Eddie tended to retreat into his shell this time of year. It couldn’t be exactly easy to be bombarded with images of family togetherness and warmth when that was something you had never known. Plucking up the courage you had you shut your eyes and spoke. “Eddie?” Gently you ghosted the whisper of his name. No response on his end, still giving you that dreamy-eyed look, paired with a silly little smile printed on his cubby cheeks. Reaching your hand up you lightly tapped the tip of his nose with your pointer finger, at the boop life blinked back into his deep green eyes.

Suddenly, his soft yet deceptively strong arms were rolling and lifting you gently from your place snuggled into his side to a new position. Being placed so you were laying across Edward’s long body. Once you settled comfortably where his chest was your pillow and the wonderfully plush flesh of his stomach served as a sort of cushion for the lower half of you. Legs bundled together. “Hi.” he whispers voice warm with affection as the tips of his fingers hold your chin, thumb gently grazing the bottom of your right cheek, while his other arm was thrown protectively over the middle of your back keeping you flush with his body and radiating with the heat from within the nest of blankets and the scorching intensity with which his gaze held yours. “H-hi.” was all that squeaked past the frozen features of your face. Dexterous fingers danced up the chin as his large thumb began to methodically stroke your lower lip. Instantly flushing everything that wasn’t the crushing waves of his adoration and all thoughts out of your pretty, little skull. “Eddie!” Shrill whines breaking past your lips as you flop your face into his chest. Mouth muffled by the well-worn jersey of his “There Might Be Giants Shirt.” Giggles erupt from both of you as you shyly look up from his chest. A rosy blush covers his cherubic cheeks as he speaks. “Sorry Pumpkin, but you’re just too cute!” Giggling as his fingers delve into your sides tickling you and eliciting shrieks of laughter. “Stop-“You whine adding extra o’s into the stop as you attempt to swat his wandering digits from your hips. “Can’t stop, won’t stop!” He insists pressing soft kisses into your forehead, right cheek, left, and finally your chin!

Lips almost capturing yours as you chase after him, but always pulling away at the final second. Pouting, you coo “Be serious!” As you lean up to grip his cheeks and finally press his soft and all at once slightly chapped lips to yours. Humming into the kiss as the arm at your back snakes up to tangle itself at the back of your skull lightly gripping your hair and holding you still. The other had moved to hold your cheek. Your thumbs tenderly massaging the apples of his cheeks turn the hum into a groan, but before the moment can deepen you pull away with a sharp breath. Whining at the loss of contact, it’s then Edward’s turn to attempt to chase after your lips. “Edward, honey-“ you said eyes scanning his face and tone slightly concerned. “can I ask you something?” At your question, your dorky boyfriend almost looked offended that you would even think to ask him before telling him something. You were his angel, his beloved, his soulmate! The only shining light in this infernal cesspool of a city. He would insist that you were a lighthouse in the swirling, storming seas of his mind. There was nothing you could or would do that could stop him from loving you! Before Edward could once again tell you all this you cut him off. “And I know you say that I can tell or ask you anything but this-“ trailing off and tearing your gaze from his eyes as you began to chew your lower lip out of anxiety “-would be a huge step for us! Only if you say yes!” Frantically spitting out the ending of your rambles. Anxiety began to gnaw at his mind as all the possibilities for what you would want and all the ways he could possibly ruin it for you began to plague his mind. But before the fear could congeal you spit out what had you both so worried.

“Would you want to come home with me for Christmas?” Said all in a rush, with a puff of air shoved out as if the words flying out of your mouth had burned you. To say Edward was shocked would be an understatement. Not a bad shock in the ways his mind had twisted and spewed. But the good kind- the kind that caused warmth to bloom in his chest and grow as a soft, golden heat throughout his body. “Home for Christmas…” he mused internally. Imagining waking up snuggled in your bed, in your childhood home, getting to seeing your baby pictures, and meeting your family! Truly view the people who helped foster your beautiful soul.” Sure there was a lingering sense of pain and the niggling self-loathing that floated in his brain but it was covered mainly by the fact that you wanted him to come home with you! To meet your family! Your parents! Your siblings! Everything! The warmth had turned his brain to a pile of warm, sticky mush so caught up in his lovesick musings he failed to hear you nearly panicking and taking his silence as a rejection.

As soon as you asked him, you desperately wished you could take it back. The words belly-flopped out of your mouth with all the grace a sack of Jell-O would have if it attempted a swan dive. Shame with its good friends; regret and self-loathing began to weave a tapestry in your mind of all the ways this was a terrible thing to ask. “Great job, come home with me so I can rub having a nice family and good childhood right in your face Eddie.” Bitterly the thoughts kept swirling until he looked down at you and smiled like you had hung the stars in the sky just for him and whispered.

“I would love to.”

#my wriitng #edward nashton #edward nashton x reader #edward nashton x you #edward nashton imagine #edward nashton fanfiction #edward nygma #edward nygma x reader #edward nygma x you #edward nygma fanfiction #edward nygma imagine #the batman 2022 #the batman #the batman fanfic #the batman imagine #the batman fanfiction #christmas fluff #fluff

180 notes · View notes

viennavortex · 2 years

Text

bruce wayne snippet

“If Bruce Wayne doesn’t stop melting in your hands, he’ll collapse, and there would be no one left to save Gotham from itself. And there is nothing he loves more than this city, though you come begrudgingly close to it.”

#hello #i have joined the battinson craze #thoughts on this x reader moment?#inspired by t swift btw #battinson #battinson x reader #bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne fanfiction #the batman x reader #the batman #the batman fanfiction #fanfic #writers on tumblr #writeblr

130 notes · View notes

hollandorks · 8 months

Text

please fill out this quick poll either here on google docs or below about the POV for my new fic idea!

#battinson #battinson fic #fic stuff #the batman #the batman 2022 #the batman x reader #battinson x reader #the batman fanfiction

14 notes · View notes

majahu · 2 years

Text

To Die on Your Lips

Chapter 1: Late Night Outbursts

Next Chapter

Robert Pattinson Batman x Gn Reader (angst, slow burn)

Note: This fic was just supposed to be a one shot but I got carried away so now it’s a full story lmao. Trying to use gender neutral language on this one. Let me know if I slip up. Comment or message to be added to the tag list.

Summary: With Bruce Wayne’s attention anywhere but Wayne Enterprises, Alfred makes the decision to hire outside help managing the company. After a while, you begin to share the butler’s frustrations with the company’s heir, the two of you constantly butting heads during working hours. Soon, however, your feelings towards your boss begin to change as you start to unravel one of his best kept secrets.

Warnings: angst, lots of yelling, graphic language, suggestive content (wink, wink) in later chapters. Minors DNI.

Word Count: 1.3k

You had been working for Wayne Enterprises for the better half of a year, doing everything from book-keeping to meeting with potential and current investors and not once had you received any kind of help from the company’s owner.

You rarely saw Bruce Wayne except for the rare occasions where he was dragged to a mandatory meeting with the company’s board. Your interactions with him were mostly countless unanswered messages that you left on his work phone, asking for clarification regarding various paperwork, transfers of funds, etcetera.

Mostly, your communication to your boss was through Alfred Pennyworth, his butler, who you bet did more for the company than Bruce Wayne ever did. It wasn’t fair that he was the face of this whole company, when it seemed like he’d rather be doing anything other than his fucking job.

You were currently at your desk, your office being located at the very top of Wayne Tower (which was a pain in the ass when the elevator was being serviced; at least all the stairs gave you some pretty killer calves). One hand rested in your hair, while the other clutched a mug of drip coffee; it was your third of the night and you had hoped that it would help you stay awake long enough to go over the book-keeping you needed to, but all it had managed to do was give you a massive stomach ache. The glare of street lights barely reached your office window, and illuminated by the light of a single desk lamp, the majority of your office was bathed in shadows.

Wayne Enterprises had several branches, and though they all had their own team of accountants and managers, you were entrusted with giving everything a final look-over to make sure that nothing was amiss. With so many employees and branches, it would be relatively easy for someone to embezzle a couple hundred dollars, thousands even, without being noticed. It could easily get lost in piles of paperwork had it not been for your or Alfred’s tireless efforts.

“Thank god I’m getting paid overtime for this,” you sighed, eyes grazing over lists of charges from the past month from Wayne Electronics. There were, of course, deposits of investments that you easily recognized; the withdrawals were the tricky part. Most of them had clear names, some money even being transferred to various branches like Wayne Tech, others, the ones that you didn’t recognize, you scrawled down in a small leather bound notebook to bring up to Alfred or try to decipher on your own.

The numbers on the page started drifting slightly to the left as your eyes came in and out of focus.

God, you were tired.

You had been at work since 8:00 AM and it was currently—you checked your watch—9:47 PM.

Your eyes fluttered closed, and you had nearly drifted to sleep when you thought you heard your office door creak open.

“I’m really starting to lose it,” you muttered to yourself, eyes warily scanning the dark corners of your office.

Sure enough, your door was closed. You turned back around only to come face to face with a shadowy figure standing at the front of your desk.

“Jesus, fuck!” You shouted, nearly falling backwards in your swivel chair.

“What are you still doing here?” the figure said, voice strained like he hadn’t talked to anyone in a while.

You blinked a couple times, eyes coming into focus, and sure enough there was the face of your boss, dimly illuminated by the lamplight of your desk.

“Mr. Wayne?”

You said, tilting your head to the side, “What are you doing here?”

As your eyes further adjusted to the man standing in front of you, you noticed what looked like some intense dark circles under his eyes. “Maybe you should go back home and get some sleep…” you muttered, not really meaning to speak the words aloud.

“What?” he said, the beginnings of a sneer on his lips. He seemed more annoyed by your presence in your own office than you would’ve expected him to be, especially since you were working overtime to help make sure his company was staying afloat.

“Look, is there something I can help you with?” you said, bitterness creeping into your tone. It’s not that you meant to give your boss attitude, but you had had a long day, you were tired, and you wanted more than anything to be back in your apartment under the covers of your bed.

He paused for a moment, opening his mouth as if to say something before looking away from you, “No, it’s nothing. I noticed a light was on and I came to check and see if everything was okay.”

You said nothing, staring blankly back at him.

“You can go,” he said.

Your annoyance at your boss was starting to bubble over, a long rant about responsibilities and leadership pulling at the corners of your mouth. You were so so tired, and you probably shouldn’t provoke one of Gotham’s most powerful men, but before you could stop yourself the words were flowing out of your mouth,

“You came to see if everything was okay?” you scoffed, “since when do you ever do anything for this company?”

The man stared at you, brows knitting together slightly, his expression hardening.

Gripping the arms of your chair, your knuckles began to turn white as you leaned forward in your seat, “I have been working myself to the bone, coming in early, staying late, all to make sure nobody is taking advantage of how fucking disorganized this company is. You only ever come to meetings when Alfred drags you there like you’re some spoiled little brat, and even then you look like you’d rather be anywhere else. You could at least try to care! Or put nearly half the work in that your employees do, who, by the way, make a fucking fraction of your annual salary when they’re the ones carrying this place!”

You were shouting now, and only when you noticed the expression on Bruce Wayne’s face did you shut your mouth, wishing you could retreat into the cushions of your chair.

What did I just do?

You had just lost your cool; majorly, by the way, in front of your boss. You were almost positive you were going to be fired for this.

Bruce Wayne looked like he was about to have an aneurysm, or wrap his hands around your throat, or spontaneously combust. You weren’t sure what was about to happen, all you knew is that it wasn’t going to be pretty.

He placed his hands on your desk, thumb covering the corner of your notebook. He opened his mouth, speaking slowly, choosing his words carefully. He leaned in, bringing his face closer to yours as you fought the urge to shrink away from him, “do you think I chose this?”

“I never wanted to run this company,” he said, “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he tore his eyes away from you, casting them to look out of your window, studying the Gotham skyline, “do you know how hard it is to live up to his legacy?” he said quietly.

“Mr. Wayne I-”

“Don’t speak.” he said, pausing for a moment.

“Every time I set foot in this place, I am reminded of what I’m not.”

“And I don’t need you, someone who I hired not even a year ago, to remind me even more of it or to pretend you know me and what I do for this company, for this city.” He said, his tone venomous.

Bruce Wayne looked back at you, his eyes narrowing, “Do you really think you’re such an invaluable piece of this company? That you can’t be replaced? You have no idea what goes on behind the scenes.”

He looked as if he wanted to say something more, like he was holding back.

Instead, his eyes studied you for a moment longer before tearing away from you again, “Get out.”

Not daring to say anything more, you stood, not even grabbing your notebook, and walked out the office door.

Tag List: @lesyeuxdebritty @rat-theghoul @withbeautyandrage

143 notes · View notes

psychedelic-ink · 2 years

Note

Hello dear author!!! How are you doing??

If it's possible, could you please write a battinson x reader first kiss moment??

Thank you!!!

I'm doing good anon thank you!! hope you're doing well too <33

Feel.

pairing: battinson x fem!reader

word count: 238

☕️ drabble weekend (closed) ☕️

You watch as drops of rain drip down his cowl and on to the marble flooring of your balcony. He looks so broken, so tired. Your heart goes out to him and you take a step forward. Batman– Bruce– shakes his head, you know how he feels, he feels undeserving of love or any kind of affection. He feels as if he has failed Gotham, failed you. But that’s not true. Not at all. It’s thanks to him that you can rest a tad bit better at night, it was thanks to him that the residents of Gotham had an ounce of peace of mind.

So you ignore the way he flinches when you place a hand on his damp cheek, you ignore the way rain hits your skin like hail. The fact that Bruce leans in closer gives you courage to press your lips against his. The kiss wet and tender. You feel his fingers digging into your waist, rain pouring from the heavens as he tilts his head and sucks on your bottom lip. Blood rushes to your ears, only the hum of the city and the beating of your heart audible. Your head spins.

You whine when his lips leave you, the lingering sensation of his hand on your cheek right before his presence disappears completely. When you open your eyes he’s gone, only a thick fog visible to your eyes.

You miss him already.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne x fem!reader #bruce wayne #battinson x reader #battinson!bruce wayne x y/n #battinson!bruce wayne x you #battinson!bruce wayne x reader #battinson #the batman x reader #the batman #the batman fanfiction #the batman movie #the batman x fem!reader #the batman 2022 #your friendly neighborhood queue #scheduled #drabble weekend !

277 notes · View notes

danowh0re · 2 years

Text

I FOUND THE WHOLE ASS GANG OF EM

𝐅𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐩𝐚𝐮𝐥 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐨 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐬 𝐩𝐭.9

#paul dano #paul dano edits #paul dano icon #paul dano icons #paul dano the riddler #paul dano x reader #the riddler x reader #the riddler 2022 #dano riddler #the riddler #riddler #riddler x reader #riddler 2022 #the batman fanfiction #the batman fanfic #batman x reader #the batman 2022 #the batman

923 notes · View notes

ichorai · 2 years

Text

family tree ; bruce wayne.

track six of DEAR SCIENCE.

pairing ; rpatz!bruce wayne x gn!reader

synopsis ; bruce didn't think he'd find family in you, of all people.

words ; 2.1k

themes ; fluff, slight angst, sorta childhood friends to almost-but-not-yet-there-lovers ??

warnings / includes ; mentions of death, allusions to childhood trauma, one mention of scars, bruce is a dramatic emo softie, alfred is just worried™, reader is a smartie, bruce is on the "save the bees" agenda from now on, an extension of the found family trope i'd say

main masterlist.

Bruce didn’t like it outside.

He wasn’t a fan of the way the sun would glare angrily into his tired eyes, nor was he too keen on the way the wind was blowing the dark strands of his hair away from his forehead. The birds were too loud, the ground felt uncomfortably soft beneath his boots, and he constantly had to raise his palms to gently wave away a bumblebee that merrily buzzed past his nose every five minutes.

But he liked you. He liked the way the sun looked on your skin, bathing you in a warm honey glow. He liked how you’d pluck at blades of grass and toss them for the wind’s mercy. He liked how you’d comment on how pretty he looked in his black hoodie despite it being so very hot outside.

So he bit down all his complaints and sat down beside you on a picnic blanket you’d spread out on the grass as you sketched into a large drawing pad, tapping the edge of the pencil against your bottom lip in thought. Bruce watched in rapt intrigue as you scribbled with mute concentration, creating a new design for his vigilante costume—something that he hadn’t ever meant for you to get involved in, but you found out nonetheless after connecting the dots (those dots being his runny black mascara he forgot to take off and the large collection of scars he steadily acquired). You were always the more intelligent of the two, anyways.

“What are those?” he asked quietly, pointing to the small bumps on his utility belt.

“Hidden storage units,” you responded at an equal decibel, sparing him a glance and a knowing smile that left his heart stuttering desperately against his ribcage. “A place where you can hide small devices people can’t find if you were to be searched. You know… just in case.”

“That’s smart,” commented Bruce, face remaining stoic as ever. You read him plain and clear, however, and nudged his shoulder affectionately before ducking your head back down to keep sketching.

It wasn’t often that he spoke on your little outings. That was perhaps one of Bruce’s favorite things about spending time with you. He didn’t feel like he was out of place with you—nor did he ever feel pressured to speak. If he had something to say, he knew you’d listen, and if not, he knew you were still there for him. Besides, he’d much rather listen to you talk—he quite liked your voice and highly respected your thoughts and opinions. And sometimes, just sometimes, you made funny jokes that’d make him let out a little laugh.

You’ve been a constant in his life ever since… well, ever since he lost his parents. Alfred had taken you in on a cold and stormy night more than two decades prior—you were drenched and shivering to the point of no return. The Wayne Manor was a desolate building, no place for a child so young and afraid. Nine-year-old Bruce watched from the shadows of his ghastly mansion that night, observing the moonlight on your tear-soaked cheeks, the stiffness of your fingers as it lifted the steaming mug of sweetened tea Alfred had fixed for you. He recognized the anguish in your youthful features—it was the very same as what he saw in the mirror every day.

As the weeks droned by, and Bruce came to realize that you were here to stay, you became a familiar figure in his life. In the beginning, he pretended like you were never there. He lived life like he did before—an emotional little boy with no idea what to do with said emotions. Only now, he was the very same but just… bigger and somehow even broodier. Oh, and with time he began talking to you, too, albeit barely more than two-word phrases at once. It took an excruciating ten years or so of walking on eggshells before Bruce finally grew close enough to you to call himself your friend. You were all quiet smiles and thoughtful gestures; it wasn’t that much of a surprise when he found himself falling head over heels for you, even though he was appalled at himself for feeling such a thing.

“Do you think we would’ve met if Alfred hadn’t taken me in all those years ago?” you postulated in the gentlest of tones, snapping him out of his reverie.

It took him another second to realize that you’d already packed away your sketchbook, now shuffling so that you could lie down on the blanket, staring up at him with a look that meant nothing good for Bruce. It was the look that always made him stumble over his words—the one where your eyes went all wide and inquisitive and affectionate. You were close; so close that your knees brushed against his side and your arm was pressed up next to his thigh. It didn’t help at all when Bruce inhaled sharply, the scent of park flowers and your honey-like perfume invading his senses. You were driving him crazy without even realizing it.

“I don’t know,” he admitted tentatively, voice hoarse from neglect. You briefly wondered if he’d had anything to drink today. “You’d probably know Batman. Not…” He trailed off before he could say his own name, gesturing vaguely to nothing.

“Not Bruce Wayne?” you murmured for him, hand reaching upwards to brush your knuckles over his sharp jaw, relishing in the way he leaned into your touch ever so slightly. “I think I prefer my Bruce over your dark alter ego.”

His heart nearly gave way when you called him yours. You weren’t wrong, though. He was yours.

“I’m not quite done with the new suit design yet, by the way,” you said, dropping your hand to trace random, mindless shapes into the blanket. “But I’m thinking of giving you more kevlar reinforcements—heat resistant and bullet proof. Besides, extra protection never hurts. What do you think?”

“Yeah, ‘s good,” he grunted out bluntly, nodding once. You hummed in response, a lazy smile curling at the corner of your lips.

The two of you lapsed into a comfortable silence once more—with you watching the clouds drift by above and Bruce observing you do so.

When your phone buzzed in the pocket of your jeans, you twisted to fish it out, propping yourself up with your elbow resting across his lap, answering it with a swift, “Hello?”

Alfred’s concerned voice buzzed from the other end, and Bruce could faintly hear him ask where you were right now—and that dinner was ready and it’d get cold if you didn’t hurry back.

“Don’t be a worrywart, we’re coming!” you said with a mellifluous chuckle. “Bruce says hi, by the way.” Your eyes locked with his and an amused grin painted itself golden over your lips. “Alright, Alfred. I’ll tell him that. Love you, too.”

When you hung up, you removed your arm from him, and he had half the mind to grab your wrist and pull you closer once more. Obviously, he didn’t. His hands fidgeted anxiously in his lap. “What did he say?”

You fixed him with a humorous faux-glare. “He told me to tell you to stop drawing on the floor. Who knew spray paint was so hard to wash out, huh? I swear, I thought you grew out of that habit when you were fifteen!” you burst into several peals of laughter, clutching at your own abdomen at the thought of Alfred walking into a room full of random violent words and arrows spray painted all over the floor. Against his own will, Bruce could feel a grin twitch at his lips.

“Don’t laugh,” he gently admonished, prodding your arm. “I didn’t have any paper.”

“I literally live right across the hall from you,” you replied pointedly as you got up, ushering him off the blanket so you could fold it up. “You could’ve just asked. I have plenty of paper.” Then, after a considerable pause, you tacked on, “In fact, you could come to my room whenever you want. Whether you need paper for your nancy drew-ing or not, my door’s always open for you.”

Sometimes it felt like Bruce was constantly dangling on the very precipice of emotional turmoil, feet just barely skimming the surface of agony. But you were his tether to reality, his anchor to shore, the beam of light to guide his ship back to land. What did he ever do to deserve someone like you in his family?

Wait… did he just call you his family?

Family was the most fickle thing, Bruce mused. Family meant pure, undulated love and care—family didn’t have to only mean blood of his blood.

“You’re my family,” he said, so uncharacteristically sudden, flushing deeply when you looked back at him with those inquisitive, round eyes.

It was ridiculous at this point—he’d known you for upwards of twenty years and it was still hard to speak to you without losing his damn mind. Quite reminded him of how he still refused to tell the waiter at the local diner the two of you often frequented that he always orders a burger with no pickles (the acidity of the brine made his head hurt), even after receiving a burger stuffed to the brim with the accursed things, despite being a regular customer there for ages by now. You’d urge him to say something every single time, but knew not to push him too far—besides, he needed to learn how to deal with things like that himself.

He sucked in a breath. This time, slower, he added, “You… You mean a lot to me. I don’t know what I’d do without you. Thank you.”

He cautiously waltzed around the word love because he’d probably combust into spontaneous flames if he professed his love for you in the middle of a bee-infested park. What made it all the worse was the fact that you’d often casually say the dreaded L word to him as if it were a regular greeting. It frustrated him to no end because he wasn’t entirely sure if you meant platonic love or romantic love. Or both. Bruce was just happy you loved him at all, if he was to be honest. Don’t get him wrong, he was very much content with platonic affection, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t want the latter kind of love from you.

And it wasn’t like he’d never tried to tell you about his true feelings before. There was that one time he made you sit down and listen to Heart-Shaped Box by Nirvana after hours of psyching himself up, carefully watching you for your reaction. If sharing his utmost favorite song from his most favorite band with you wasn’t enough for you to take the hint of his extremely profound and complicated feelings, Bruce supposed it was hopeless for him.

He’d always had a flair for the dramatics, hadn’t he?

The blanket you were holding crumpled beneath your tight grip. You blinked once, then twice. Bruce wanted the ridiculously soft ground to open up and swallow him whole. How embarrassing—this was probably the most he’d ever vocalized how he felt for you. He wanted to run back home and lock himself into his dark room that stank of toxic spray paint chemicals.

Recognizing his subtle distress, you stepped forward and placed a hand on his pectoral, the other coming to tenderly lodge itself beneath his chin, maneuvering his dark gaze to look away from the grass and to you. “Oh, Bruce. You’re my family, too,” you assured him with a sweet smile that made his insides cave in on themselves. “And you mean the world to me. More than you can ever know.”

The last sentence was said with somewhat of a bittersweet, hollowed tone, and Bruce could feel his mind gear up into overthinking panic mode. What did you mean by that? Was there even the slightest chance his feelings were reciprocated? He didn’t want to get his hopes up, but oh—he could already feel his hopes getting up.

“Now, c’mon, I’m ninety-nine percent sure Alfred is at his wit’s end with us right now. We should get back before he ruptures a blood vessel or something.”

His stomach coiled into nervous knots when you slipped your free hand into his, lacing your fingers together, tugging him out of the secluded park to go back home. A bumblebee flew past his ear for the millionth time since he stepped out of the comfort of his expansive manor. Bruce didn’t like it outside, but with you—with his family that he L worded—he supposed he’d be able to tolerate it.

548 notes · View notes

undiscovered-horizon · 1 year

Note

Bestie- u didn’t just deliver u served and I’m the greedy gremlin who’s eating this up, that was amazing, he’s so skrunkly I love him 😔Ur gonna kill me here but bestie I need them to meet I can’t 😩

This is the effect of me doing sudokus and crosswords in the ethics lecture... Was listening to Jasmine Thompson's cover of 'Rather Be' while writing this and honestly?? A whole mood

Imagine the Riddler being your secret admirer. - Part 3

[Part 1] [Part 2] [Part 4] [Part 5]

That day felt weirdly long as if hours were stretching out as much as the universe would allow them to. You haven't felt that tired and fed up in quite a while, dreaming about the soft comfort of your own bed during your commute back home.

Home, however, had another surprise in store for you:

"Perfect timing, Eddie," you said to yourself as you tore the envelope off your front door. "Could use a little pick-me-up."

You opened the letter and couldn't help the surprise at the front of the card you were given. For some reason, it said "Invitation" in fancy, glittery writing. Inside, on the left side was another torn-out page from a poetry collection.

Underneath an apple-tree Sat a maiden and her lover; And the thoughts within her he Yearned, in silence, to discover.

Under the piece of a poem were written only two words: "Meet me". Your gaze followed the vague message to the right side of the card where a small map was drawn. It looked like a bird's view of a restaurant or a bar with a question mark drawn over one of the, as you had assumed, tables like the little map was the continuation of the unfinished sentence. On top of the drawing was scribbled an address, a date and an hour. You were supposed to meet him in a week's time.

From that moment on, you could hardly think about anything else and, little did you know, so did he. It was going to be a fateful Wednesday evening.

"That's the place," you whispered to yourself as you checked the GPS on your phone again.

You found yourself standing before a desolate diner that looked like it was taken straight out of Quentin Tarantino's movie. But you had to admit that the Pulp Fiction feel to the locale was charming in some way as if gracefully continuing your dilemma whether you were now the main character of a rom-com or a slash horror film.

"Here goes nothing," you said with a sigh. With each step towards the front door of the diner, your restlessness was only increasing.

The bell near the door chimed cheerfully as you hesitantly entered the building. At first, you couldn't see a soul inside - even the waitress was more of a cryptid as you could only hear her quiet chatter with the cooks coming from the kitchen. They left the door slightly ajar. According to the drawing, the marked table should be the one under the vintage-style graffiti with a pin-up girl holding a tray of apple pie. Your heart stopped for a moment, seeing that the booth was occupied.

Ever since he sat down in that booth, he'd been eyeing the door, waiting for the fateful moment you enter. The muffled laughter of the waitress rung in his ears and Eddie was half-convinced that she was laughing at him. After all, who was he to ever believe that you were actually going to show up? That you would be anything but disgusted with him?

He watched as you checked his little drawing once more. You turned your head towards him and Ed could swear the time actually slowed down if not entirely stopped when your gaze met his. The moment you realized that it was him, a bright smile appeared on your face, making Eddie's palms even sweatier than they already were. He just knew he was going to mess things up - there was no way in Hell that he could impress you. That much was obvious to Eddie.

You were just so... unreal to him. There he was: the loser, the loner, the butt of the joke and there were you, the epitome of grace approaching the table he was sitting at. He couldn't believe his own senses, some anxious beast still gnawing at his thoughts, that you didn't immediately turn around and left once you saw him.

"Hey," you said softly as you sat down across from him.

"H-hi," he nervously stuttered out.

Eddie looked more or less as you expected him to: a quiet, kind of awkward and easy-to-overlook guy who had no idea what he had gotten himself into. Your friends always found it very amusing that you had a thing for underdogs. No matter how strange it might sound to anyone else, you thought there was a certain charm to his awkwardness like an adorable deer caught in headlights.

"You have great taste." You waved the "invitation" card before putting it back into your purse.

"In what?" Eddie asked sheepishly. His mind was fluctuating between blankness and intrusive thoughts, so coherence and reason weren't something he could count on at the moment.

You shrugged. That bright, showstopping smile was still on your face and Eddie felt he wouldn't be able to look away from you even if he wanted to. "Poetry. Flowers," you counted. "Girls."

His chubby cheeks turned crimson red at your words. Your confidence made him even more aware of his incapacitating insecurity. Eddie believed his intrusive thoughts: there was nothing he could delight you with.

"I loved your riddles," you confessed. "You're really good at it."

A flutter of his heart and a ray of lovesick hope.

469 notes · View notes

tarrenterror25 · 1 year

Text

Title: When the Night is Over Chapter: 1 of ? Pairing: Alfred Pennyworth (The Batman 2022) x F!OC Rating: E Word Count: 4.1K

Summary: After the flood, Dulce looks to do her part to help Gotham heal and hopes to bring change to the city. As a wealthy designer there’s little she can do, but when she becomes privy to the identity of the Batman, she seizes the opportunity to help the caped crusader. With her close to Bruce, Alfred Pennyworth fears she has ulterior motives for the vigilante, but little does he know who she really has eyes for. Dulce learns what it’s like to live a double life and the sacrifices it takes to save a city.

Tags: post-The Batman, alcohol, smoking, MxF, age-gap (30′s/50′s), mention of disaster, post-disaster

Playlist here

Notes: Title is from Streets by Doja Cat. It’s here!! Just in time for 100 followers!! I am SO excited to begin this story and hope you guys have fun reading it! This is my second published OC ever and this story and her character are close to my heart so I’m excited to share her with you guys! I also am no fashion expert (love it to bits tho) so I am doing a LOT of research for this!

Chapter 1: Someone Like You

“Quality is remembered long after price is forgotten.” - Aldo Gucci

The Gotham City Museum hall is packed with an assortment of high society; mostly entrepreneurs and business moguls, but there are a few celebrity names. Among the crowd you can spot Johnny Charisma chatting up some folks or you can spot Jack Ryder weaseling his way through the guests looking for the next scoop. Of course, wherever the next headline is, Vicki Vale is never far off. People with money and enough drink in them will spill all kinds of secrets.

Champagne flows and hors d’oeuvres disappear faster than they can be plated. Loud music from a live jazz band fills the air combined with the sound of high pitched haughty laughter and chattery gossip from the guests. Everyone’s dressed in their finest; expensive fabrics flow and drape on the shoulders and hips of wives and mistresses while the men don their best suits, neatly pressed and shoes shined. The scent of the most obnoxious perfume and cologne creates a rather unpleasant cloud of smog once it meets with the cigar smoke. Mix in the vapors from all the liquor and it gives Ace Chemicals a run for its money.

“Why are we here again, Alfred?” Bruce Wayne asks with his hands in his pockets.

The older man gently nudges his ward and makes a gesture for him to stand up straight. Bruce mutters an apology and obliges.

“This is a benefit for those affected by the flood, Master Bruce,” Alfred explains.

“We couldn’t just write a check? I mean...I don’t see much reason for me to actually be here...I don’t see how this helps anyone.”

Alfred’s face wants to frown, but underneath the poor attempt is the hint of an amused smile. “Mayor Bella Reál insisted that you be present,” he says. “I warned you plenty of times that this was coming up. Just smile for a little longer, say some nice words, and then we’ll head home.”

Bruce nods and scans the room boredly.

There’s a large screen towards the front of the room next to the band with a dollar amount on the display; the numbers tick higher and higher every so often. Currently, the number is in the hundred thousands, just shy of a million.

Dulce’s gaze breaks from the screen and scans the room of guests. She scoffs and turns to Bella Reál and says, “So, we get to drink our weight in champagne while the rest of Gotham still wades in the harbor?”

“Don’t worry, Ms. Salazar,” Bella says assuringly. “Reconstruction for lower Gotham is already underway and we have federal assistance helping rebuild the seawall. The money from tonight will help locals reclaim their livelihoods and homes.”

With an understanding nod, Dulce sighs. “You’re right, I shouldn’t overthink it. It just...it doesn’t feel right,” she says politely refusing a champagne flute from a passing server. “Us here and the people affected...not. The danger may be gone, but the aftermath has only started.”

The mayor smiles and places a comforting hand on Dulce’s shoulder. She turns to her friend and says, “The people need to see that no matter what they think divides us, we are working together. This is our city, too.”

The two women embrace warmly. “Gotham is lucky to have you,” Dulce comments before pulling away. “You have my support no matter what, but now more than ever, whatever you need, I’m there.”

“You’ve always been generous to the city and I’m grateful for that,” Bella says. Her smile fades as she continues. “I wish I could say the same for the majority of Gotham’s elite.”

Dulce catches the mayor’s gaze wandering from her so Dulce glances over her shoulder and sure enough there’s the Prince of Gotham hanging back in the hall looking like he’d rather be literally anywhere else.

Bella sighs and says, “He’s come around since the flood, but it’s still a battle getting him involved.”

“Maybe he thinks there’s no hope for the city,” Dulce says dryly. “We should focus on the people who believe we’re worth saving.”

“I think he just needs some convincing,” Bella says. She gives a look to Dulce.

“Wait, what?” Dulce raises a brow, but Bella’s pleading face says it all. “You want me to talk to him?”

“Listen,” Bella says. “Spring is coming and you have your fashion show coming up! Get him involved, make it public, and use it to rally people! Boost some morale around here!”

Dulce shakes her head and waves a finger at Bella.

“Bella, no! Partnering with Bruce Wayne is not a good idea.” She makes sure her voice is quiet when she says that. “He’s hardly ever out of his own home much less has his hand in his own business!”

Bella grasps Dulce by the shoulders and looks her dead in the eye with all the seriousness she can muster. “Look, you are one of the most influential people in this city,” Bella says.

Dulce smiles and opens her mouth to thank her but Bella cuts her off.

“Behind closed doors,” she adds.

“Bella, I don’t do anything for the attention of it, you know that. I just-”

Bella interrupts again. “I want to see you both come out at the top of this. What was that about ‘whatever you need, I’m there’?”

Dulce is quiet and has to stop from rolling her eyes mid-roll.

“You’re my friend, both of you, and his name holds a lot of weight in this city. Please,” Bella pleads again.

Dulce has only ever seen Bruce Wayne from afar. She’s never actually formally met him though he’s never bothered to introduce himself to anyone anyways, she’s never had a reason to talk to him.

Bruce straightens when he sees the mayor and Dulce approaching him and Alfred.

“Bruce Wayne,” Bella says extending her hand to him. “Good to see you out and about. You look great.”

Bruce shakes her hand and offers a polite smile. “Good to see you, too,” he says.

“I want to introduce you to a close friend of mine,” Bella says. “This,” she gestures next to her, “is Dulce Salazar, a huge supporter of Gotham City. She’s partaking in efforts to rebuild Gotham’s infrastructure.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Bruce says extending his hand to Dulce.

“Charmed to finally meet you, Mr. Wayne,” Dulce replies shaking his hand.

There’s an odd silence that settles between the group. With a raised brow, Dulce’s eyes flick over to his companion as if to remind him of his manners.

“Oh, this is Alfred,” Bruce adds quickly.

The butler, with a smile warmer than his master’s extends his hand. “Alfred Pennyworth, miss,” he says.

Dulce shakes his hand. Her eyes can’t help but hold his gaze for a fraction of a second longer than she know she should.

Bella and Alfred leave the other two alone. The conversation between Bruce and Dulce is strained and awkward. Bruce is out of practice with how to. speak and without Alfred to feed him lines or give him cues, he’s stumbling a bit. It doesn’t help that Dulce just doesn’t seem interested in talking to him so her answers are short and clipped.

“So, we haven’t met before?” Bruce asks, his tone tentative but even, like he’s putting together a puzzle. “I feel like I know you?” A moment later and then he gives a small smile. “You own the fashion house in the diamond district?”

Dulce’s smile tries to hide that she’s not offended by his ignorance and poor memory. She’s doing her best, really, she is, but she can’t help the sarcasm that slips through when she speaks. “No, Mr. Wayne, we haven’t been formally introduced,” she says. “We have met briefly in passing though you wouldn’t remember.”

Bruce raises a brow, sensing the hostility. Quickly, Dulce clears her throat and adds in a much nicer tone, “And yes, I own the Castillo fashion house as well as the boutique, Castle Co.”

He nods thoughtfully and gives a very small sly smile, like he knows more than he lets on. “The Castillo fashion house, I’m familiar with it,” he comments. “But...your surname is different?”

A small, but genuine, sly smile graces Dulce’s features. “You’re more perceptive than you let on,” she says straightening up. “Castillo is my family’s name.”

“But not yours?”

“No,” Dulce quips. She mutters an apology and continues. “I was denied my father’s name. Salazar is my mother’s maiden name.”

Bruce nods. “The rest of the family must get a kick out of that,” he says with a soft chuckle.

Though she senses that he’s trying to be playful, Dulce doesn’t smile.

“There might be...distant familial relations somewhere, but as far as I know, I am all there is to ‘the family’. I am what’s left of the name and the house, much like you, Mr. Wayne.”

His smile fades into an apologetic expression. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to-”

“This city is my family now,” Dulce adds.

Bruce gives a small smile, it’s soft and understanding. “You and me both,” he says.

Dulce’s offensive posture softens as she’s sees something different in Bruce’s eyes; something lost and hurt. Maybe it was always there and she was being too stubborn too notice, but she sees it now. She scolds herself for forgetting his own experience with loss and being too concerned with putting up an aggressive front. She corrects her tone and posture to be more warm and inviting. He takes to it and slowly straightens up as the conversation moves along much smoother than when it initially started.

As the two continue to talk and bond a little over their similar familial structures, Dulce can’t help but steal glances at the gentleman who accompanied Bruce.

She’s seen photographs of him, mostly his profile from a distance as Bruce is typically the focal point for the paparazzi. Tonight is the first night that she’s seen him in person and this close.

None of the media do him justice.

Despite that he may appear as a humble butler, Dulce can detect another sort of mysterious air about him, a graceful aura. She notices he stands with by far the most poise of any of the other guests, hands neatly folded in front of him. She watches him walk, how he carries himself when he’s speaking to the other guests; so polite, smooth, and refined. For a man his age, he’s also impeccably handsome, the distinguishable rogue scar on his brow contrasts the neatly trimmed facial hair. It’s simultaneously sophisticated and rugged.

Mentally, Dulce slaps herself, a twinge of shame coming over her for looking at him in such a way. She can’t help it. Every time her gaze dances around the room, her eyes land on him. His presence is so magnetic and Dulce wants nothing more than to go over and talk to him. A somber thought occurs to her that no one knows when Bruce will show his face again. Dulce might never see Alfred Pennyworth again beyond this night.

As Bruce begins to excuse himself, Dulce thinks quickly and retrieves a business card from her clutch. She hands it to him. “Come by and I can fit you for something,” she says happily.

“I take it these clothes bother you?” Bruce jokingly asks.

She chuckles at his joke. “Three buttons is a little 90′s, Mr. Wayne and we can talk more about raising funds for the city. I have a proposal you might be interested in.”

He accepts the card and walks off. Dulce wastes no time in turning her attention back to Alfred, frowning and gently shooing away a server trying to offer her some kind of appetizer.

Dulce plays like she’s just hanging back and taking in the room, but she’s taking the opportunity to look Alfred over completely. Being a designer, she can’t help but look over his outfit and she notes how handsome and striking he is in it. Most of the men here, the younger ones and the older ones trying to pretend they’re young, are wearing sports blazers or just a pressed shirt. They have gaudy ties that don’t match their attire, they’ve adorned their hands with every hulking ring they own, and they saunter like the world owes them something. Dulce finds the lack of care and the audacity of them distasteful.

Bruce and Alfred are about the only two who are wearing three-piece suits and Alfred is about the only one with his tie on properly; not poorly knotted or pulled loose from the neck. For his accessories, he has on only a gold watch that pairs nicely with his cane. Everything about him says “proper” and it makes Dulce’s heart swoon. Yet his expression, when he isn’t smiling, but watching and observing, is harsh and stern. The way his brow quirks up makes him look like he’s getting ready to tell someone off. It has Dulce feeling a certain way and she’s not sure if she likes it or not.

Dulce doesn’t realize Alfred is walking towards her until he’s a few yards from her. She pulls herself from her thoughts and smooths out her gown and adjusts the strategically placed loose curls from her updo. Soon Alfred stands directly in front of her.

She gives a polite smile and says, “Bruce stepped away for a drink I think.”

“I hope he wasn’t too off-putting,” Alfred jokes. “His conversational skills are a bit rusty, I’m afraid.”

“He seemed to do well enough,” she replies.

The light coming off of the candles and golden light fixtures in the museum hall do wonders in catching the blue of his eyes.

“I don’t think we’ve met properly,” Alfred says.

“No, we haven’t,” she replies. “I’m Dulce, I’m a designer and run the Castillo fashion house.”

His smile is cordial. “I thought the name sounded familiar,” he notes. “The mayor says you are an avid supporter of the city, do you do any sort of political work or...?”

“Oh, no!” Dulce says. “Nothing like that, I’m just a designer and I make clothes.”

“No one is just anything, miss.”

A warmth spreads to Dulce’s cheeks and she has to turn away from him. “You certainly are too kind, sir,” she says off-handedly.

From the corner of her eye she catches the swell of his chest at the title. The thought of calling him that again flutters briefly in her mind.

The pair chat awhile longer, longer than Dulce realizes. From across the room, Bella taps her watch and waves her over. Reluctantly, Dulce excuses herself from Alfred’s presence.

The rest of the night carries on with the usual unpleasantries of these things; drunken laughter, a few unwanted touches, and blissful ignorance. Hardly anyone seems actually interested in why they’re there, they just seem to gloating in the fact that they are. The money that’s being donated is only done as a show of power. Dulce watches how every political official, socialite, and business power clams up the second Bella mentions the flood and its victims. Dulce’s one of the few at this party who has actually stepped foot in lower Gotham. Most of these guests haven’t so much as lifted a finger in their entire lives.

Dulce can’t help but be sarcastic when she makes conversation with the rest of the guests. She doesn’t pretend about liking them like they do with each other. Many of these people covet Dulce’s work and would love to talk to her, but it’s speaking to Dulce, herself, that is less than desirable since she’s seen as unpleasant. But she has to be, she can’t help it. If Dulce were anything but unpleasant then these people would walk all over her. But she tries to be nice for Bella’s sake this evening.

Even while navigating the rest of the party, Dulce’s mind comes back to him.

Alfred.

On the drive home and all the way to her front door where she kicks off her heels, she’s still thinking about him. Not even the scalding water of her bath can numb her to whatever feeling she’s clinging onto, the one she felt when he was standing so close to her. She sighs and slumps further into the tub, submerging herself until the water stops right under her nose.

It’s been a long time since she’s felt this way about someone. It’s difficult; being successful and having an equally successful relationship. Trying to balance the two was exhausting, especially when most men were against her being the breadwinner. After her last relationship some time ago, she just stopped trying. She hardly even bothered giving anyone the time of day now. She didn’t really feel the need for a partner anyways. She didn’t need dates or to flirt, didn’t need to hold hands with someone or look forward to seeing them. Or was she just telling herself that?

She closes her eyes.

Something about Alfred gave Dulce the whole butterflies in her stomach; it was a little pathetic, really, how weak she suddenly was for a well-dressed man. A much older well-dressed man. Oh, that makes Dulce’s face heat up. A flush comes over her and suddenly the water’s cold. Dulce, herself, is only in her 30′s which, in Gotham, is quite young since most of the powers that be have been around since she was born. It’s those people that look down their noses at her. They think she’s too naive, not yet mature enough to understand how things work in Gotham. But Dulce understands all too well how things work in Gotham’s higher social circles and it’s why she doesn’t want to think about Alfred in this way, but she does.

Her mind starts to wander from the features on his face, his eyes, jaw, to his torso, so broad, to his hands and...

She has to completely submerge herself in the water to keep from imagining how his hands would feel on her skin.

A clock on the wall of the Castillo fashion house chimes that it’s noon.

Bruce and Alfred enter the establishment.

It’s been some time since the benefit, but the butler has managed to get Bruce out of the tower to be properly fitted for something to “keep up appearances”.

Right now, Bruce wears a t-shirt with some jeans and a sports coat while Alfred is dress in his usual neat attire. Bruce removes his sunglasses and tucks them into his coat when he enters the building, his eyes squint at the light coming off the white walls and furnishings. Alfred is clearly the more well-rested of the two.

A woman comes up and takes their coats as Dulce approaches them with an amiable smile. She’s dressed in a pinafore jumpsuit and a simple blouse. Her hair is pulled up into a ponytail, nothing like the tight updo from the party. She seems much more relaxed here.

Dulce leads the pair to a dressing area of sorts where there’s a small short platform in front of a massive trifold mirror. She guides Bruce to stand on the platform and begins to look her over curiously. He scans the room a bit like he’s expecting someone else to come in.

He notes how Dulce collects a tray of supplies and sets it on a small end table next to the platform. Its contents are needle and thread, tape measure, pins and pin cushions, scissors, and whatever else he suspects a seamstress or tailor might need.

“You know how to sew?” he asks, surprise slipping into his tone.

Dulce just smiles as she picks up the measuring tape and gestures for Alfred to have a seat on a couch nearby. “Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Wayne,” she says looking up at him.

“What do you mean?”

She begins taking his measurements as she speaks, occasionally jotting down the numbers on a notepad. “I think people underestimate you,” she says. “People think you don’t care to notice things and I admit, I was one of those people, but really, you seem to be quite the detective.”

Bruce stiffens a bit at the comment.

Dulce goes on and says, “But yes, I can sew. I can cut, drape, and stitch. I like doing things myself. Why do you ask?”

He shrugs and replies, “Most people, designers, who do this stuff don’t, I guess. They just tell someone else to do those things.”

Dulce straightens and looks him right in the eye. “I am not most designers, Mr. Wayne,” she says with a curt smile.

Bruce rolls his eyes and looks away.

As Dulce continues measuring him, she steals a few glances over to where Alfred sits on the couch. His legs are slightly apart and his cane sits between them, both hands resting atop the pommel. There’s a soft power in how he sits; his back straight, chin up, and shoulders back. She can’t explain it, but it has her, Dulce, a woman who prides herself in being bold and confident, feeling very small.

All the men she had been with before didn’t have the same grace about them and it was laughable how they thought their crude dominance would bring her to her knees, not like that would ever happen anyways. But something about just the way Alfred was sitting exuded a quiet air of authority and again Dulce can feel the butterflies in her stomach.

Everyone else she’s ever been with didn’t even know how to hold a woman, but Dulce can tell that Alfred looks like he would hold someone like a gentleman would.

She finishes up the measurements and has a few employees bring out some clothes for Bruce to try on. He disappears behind a nearby dressing screen to try each one on and then resumes his place on the platform to look himself over. Dulce makes some adjustments to a jacket he’s wearing, putting pins in where she wants to make alterations. Bruce looks over his shoulder and asks Alfred for his opinion. The butler rises from the couch and walks over to get a better look.

Oh dear.

Alfred is close enough that Dulce can pick up the faint scent of his cologne. She clears her throat as Alfred speaks to Bruce and adjusts one of the sleeves of the jacket, her hand accidentally brushing Alfred’s. She looks up at him to apologize and for a brief moment their eyes meet. In this light, his eyes are like oceans; bright and blue. There’s no doubt she could get lost in them.

Dulce clears her throat again to break the tension and moves to adjust the lapels on the jacket. “As I was saying earlier,” she says trying to compose herself, “a notch or peak style lapel suits you much better, brings out your shoulders. A shawl style you should save for formal occasions. For pants, I think a straight leg style works for you, makes you look more broad. And I think an overcoat is in order, a peacoat doesn’t suit your figure.”

Bruce gives a small smile as he looks himself over in the mirror. “I’ll try to remember all of that.”

After trying on more clothes, Dulce insists that she bring the finished pieces to Wayne Tower herself. She and Bruce discuss payment and though the former tries to argue against it, Bruce insists.

“You said you had an idea about raising funds for the city,” Bruce says as Dulce returns the clothes to a garment rack nearby.

“Oh, yes,” she says handing him and Alfred their coats back. “I’m about to present my spring collection in an upcoming show and the funds from it will go towards the flood relief efforts. I would like to have you as a sponsor. Your name attached to it would certainly draw a crowd.”

Bruce nods thoughtfully. Though his face has his usual stoic expression, Dulce can tell he seems to agree with her reasoning.

“Sounds good,” he says.

He gestures for pen and paper and Dulce hands it to him. Bruce scribbles down some information. “Here’s a number and you can come by Wayne Tower to make arrangements. Whatever you need we’ll cover it,” he says.

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne,” Dulce says taking the pen and paper. She’s a little shocked, not entirely expecting him to go along with the idea. “Truly, I appreciate this.”

“Just Bruce is fine,” he replies with a small smile.

The pair leave and Dulce begins work on the garments for Bruce. A few times she pricks her finger with the needle and swears it’s not because her mind is drifting back to the only person who’s been on her mind since the party.

She sighs and sets down the jacket she’s working on and sits back in her chair.

A small smile graces her features as she thinks about how she can see Alfred again when she brings the garments to Wayne Tower.

Notes: I had to pay homage to Lucius from The Dark Knight because his soft sass is unmatched 💕

“I need a new suit.” “Well, three buttons is a little 90′s, Mr. Wayne.” “I’m not talking fashion so much as function.”

I am so worried I made Dulce too mean, but she can’t be perfect, she has to grow okay 🥺

#when the night is over #Alfred Pennyworth #alfred pennyworth x oc #the batman!alfred pennyworth #the batman!alfred pennyworth x oc #alfred pennyworth fanfiction #the batman fanfiction

24 notes · View notes