Alexandra Williams.

Ever since you started living in the Manor with him, this was a routine for the both of you. He would leave for the night and come back when the sun was rising— sometimes earlier than that if you were lucky. This time, he came back later than usual. Maybe that was why you couldn’t sleep? You were not sure but it still bugged you that he wasn’t with you, hugging you in his strong arms and face dove right in your chest…

You could only realize he came back when he opened and slammed the door back with such great force that it echoed in the corridors of the Manor. You were standing right next to the bed when he saw you. He froze right there, obviously not expecting you to be awake.

The sheet in your hand dropped back to the bed as you slowly made your way to him. For some reason, you were scared that he would get angry because something happened while patrolling. He looked… pissed.

You wanted it to be gone.

Before you could get to him, he paved the way with two steps. His hair was wet. He probably showered in the cave to clean himself off of Gotham’s streets.

You gasped when he pulled you to himself by your waist. He was unclothed, you were only in your nightdress. You could feel the tension sprawling out of his body. His hand on your waist travelled down your hips and grasped a fistful of your ass alongside with the fabric of your dress. You had no time to even hiss as he grabbed your hair and pulled you into a devastating kiss.

He was fast, at least faster than normal, with his kiss. He devoured you with his mouth. His breath slammed against your lips. When you couldn’t catch up with his lips, he angled your head and helped you out with his speed— but this time you moaned loudly against his mouth when his hand on your ass squeezed and rolled up the fabric of your nightdress.

“Bruce,” You tried to push him away to take a glance at him but he didn’t budge. You were so close that you could feel him swallowing.

“I need you,” he left open mouthed kisses on your lips right before traveling down. “I need to fuck you.”

Before you could say anything he made you turn around. You could feel his erection on your ass. Your back made contact with his chest. His hands were steady on your hips. His lips were soft as they touched your neck. He licked your skin before speaking again, “No underwear?”

For a time, you couldn’t even tell if it was a question or not, so you decided to answer anyway. “I… I was thinking about you.” You looked down at the floor and his eyes followed your stare only to land on the discarded panties. A smile of his perched on your neck. He was getting even harder.

You gasped loudly when his two fingers made contact with your clit before you could even know what happened. “And so wet… all this for me?”

“Who else, Mr. Wayne?”

He grunted an answer before pulling you into a bruising kiss. Your neck started to hurt from the position you forced yourself into. He must have realized your discomfort since he repositioned himself to give you a better stance.

Down there, his fingers were working wonders. He was circling your clit with his thumb, making you even more wet. You mumbled against his lips when you felt his finger circling around your entrance. He pushed a finger in without giving you a moment to breathe. Your legs trembled with joy as tears formed in your eyes.

But this joy was shortly cut when he pulled his fingers out and away from you— as well as his mouth was pulled away from your lips. Bruce didn’t wait a second before pushing his fingers into your already opened mouth. He grunted next to your ear when you closed your lips around his fingers. And finally you could elicit a loud moan from him by touching his hard dick.

Your hand stroked him up and down. Feeling the way he squeezed his abs on your back, you couldn’t help but sigh with the thought of him being inside you, making a moaning mess and him being as loud as you.

It was a dream that could easily be achieved.

Bruce’s free hand slipped the strap of your nightdress down. His eyes met yours in the mirror of your vanity as he kept pushing it down. He twitched in your hands with the feeling of your tongue circling around his fingers in your mouth. You saw him close his eyes for a few second through the mirror. When he opened them back, his eyes fell on the view of your breats. He gently tocuhed the swell of your breasts, fingers brushed over your nipple. His gentleness vanished away when he squeezed you in his palm, making you yelp one more time.

He finally slipped his fingers out of your mouth. Spit followed his tracks as he went down and down until he reached your pussy one more time. “My pretty woman,” he whispered to your ear. “So wet and ready for me… As always.”

Your eyes nearly rolled back in their beds. God, the things he could make you feel with only his words…

You couldn’t wait anymore. Bending yourself over to the vanity, you teased your entrance with his hard cock. You heard Bruce curse, his filthy mouth was on your neck as he breathed deeply. “Bruce, please… Please.” Your pleas kept slipping out of your mouth. He gently pushed your hand on his cock and held himself against you. He pushed your gown a little bit down, making it pool around your waist. After he gave your tits one last squeeze, he pushed your body over the vanity, having you completely lean on it. You watched your perfume bottles falling to the ground but neither of you couldn’t care any less.

You could see Bruce from the corner of your eyes, you could see everything he was doing, but nothing could prepare you to the sudden feeling of his cock entering your cunt in a swift move. You almost screamed as you were pushed forward by his hips hitting yours. Bruce let out a groan alongside with a loud “Fuck” meanwhile you were getting accustomed to the fullness inside you.

He hit such places that made your eyes roll back. Your mouth was agape. You thought it would be the peak and then you’d get used to his cock being inside you— but when his hips started beating yours in a harsh speed you’ve never had before, your moans filled the room. You heard the slapping of your hips even through your moans and his gruntings. He hit the places you never knew existed.

“Bruce…” You whined into nothing. Your hands tried to grab something but couldn’t find something suitable. Even though you had found something, you wouldn’t be able to grab it because as soon as Bruce realized how desperate you were, he caught both your arms and pulled them behind you, locking your hands together in his grasp.

His other hand grabbed a fistful of your hair and helped your head up, showing you your reflection in the mirror, and him behind you. “See how pretty you look when I’m inside you,” He pulled himself out, only leaving the tip inside, then pushed again. You saw the woman in the mirror gasp and laugh at the same time. Must have been the pleasure you were gettting… “You take me so well, love. Just for my cock to fill.” His hand grapsed your chin this time. You saw his smirk in the mirror. He was having so much fun. His moans arrived at your ears when you squeezed around him. “Cum on my cock, angel, I can feel you.”

You could feel him, too. He was close, so close, but was waiting for you to finish first. This was something Bruce had, it was like an obession with him. He had to make sure you were having your pleasure. His pleasure was such a small thing next to yours.

“Bru— I’m so fuckin’ close.”

It was like fuel for him to hear your words. After giving your cheek a good caress, he places his hand on your hips. Now, as he was pounding into you, he was also pulling you towards himself, doubling your pleasure. The fact that your hands were held behind you, away from being able to touch your aching clit was making you go even madder. Before you could close your eyes with the building knot inside you, you felt his hand slap against your ass. “No, watch yourself. I want you… to see…” You realized he was holding himself. He was so close. “What I love seeing.”

So you watched yourself come undone. It wasn’t like you could focus on your face as he pounded into you, making you see stars, but you didn’t avert your eyes from the sight in the mirror as you came on his cock. You felt something wet going down your chin, but you didn’t care. He slammed his hips one more time and stayed rooted deep inside you. You felt his cum hit your walls. His graps in your hands got loose and eventually he let your hands fall. You placed them on the wood surface of the vanity. Bruce leaned over your body until his chest was resting on your back. He left small kisses on your shoulder as he took deep breaths.

You still could feel him twitch inside you, but as seconds passed, he was getting softer. He slowly pulled himself out of you and you whined into the void with the sudden emptiness. His seed was leaking through your cunt and flowing down your tighs. Bruce caught them before they could stain the carpet, and pushed right back in.

“Bruce…” You warned him. Everything was so sensitive.

Bruce laughed and pulled you both to stand up. Your legs were shaking, he knew that, so he had you lean into him. His arms wrapped around your body, completely cooconing you. “You were so good.” He whispered against your skin.

“I see your mood is up.”

“Thanks to you.” He grabbed your legs and picked you up, making his way to the bathroom.

Your arms hugged around his neck and did not move an inch while he was cleaning you up. His touch was so feather like that you barely felt him there. Your eyes were nearly closed, sleep was haunting over you, but you found the strenght in yourself to kiss his cheek. You felt something slick on your skin once again and this time you checked what it was.

“Ugh, disgusting.” You murmured and he raised an eyebrow. “I can’t believe you had me drooling.”

A cocky smirk was placed on his face. He wiped your chin with the back of his hand. “Sweetheart, we do worse than drools. If you think that is disgusting—”

“Oh, shut up.” You slapped his naked chest. You placed your head on his shoulder as he kept cleaning your body with a wet towel. You were sitting on his legs and it was the most comfortable place ever. “What happened tonight? What got you so mad?”

“I can’t move,” Bruce says, perfectly serious, yet somehow managing to look like a sulking child caught in a grown man’s body.

He’s drunk—clearly, unmistakably drunk. You’d left him alone for only about a half hour, barely enough time to smile through a long conversation with a few older patrons of the gala, and in that short span he’s managed to drink himself into a lazy sort of ruin. The warmth has risen to his cheeks, to the curve of his neck, a faint bloom of color that doesn’t belong to Gotham’s brooding prince. But it does to your lovely fiance.

The ballroom hums like a living thing—low laughter, strings murmuring under the steady pulse of jazz, perfume and champagne weaving through the air like silk. Light spills from chandeliers in amber ripples, scattering gold across the marble, gilding the crowd in a shallow illusion of perfection.

And there he is: your fiancé, the man who can command boardrooms and terrify criminals, sprawled inelegantly across a velvet loveseat like a boy too tired to play pretend any longer.

“I can see that,” you murmur, settling beside him. From a distance, you imagine the two of you must look ridiculous—your posture precise, your gown uncreased, hair still obedient to every pin, while beside you, the city’s favorite son has come undone.

You’re too tired to care. You’re always the one who has to be perfect, to prove your worthy of him to the tabloids. He, at least, is allowed to fall apart.

“Oh dear, you’re going to ruin my dress,” you chide lightly, placing a hand on his ankle. The fabric of his trousers is warm under your palm, faintly rough with the texture of fine wool.

He tilts his head to look at you, eyes hazy and soft, pupils dilated from drink. There’s an odd reverence in the way he stares—like he’s afraid that if he blinks too long, you’ll vanish. The one ghost he would hate for it to happen to.

“You look beautiful tonight,” he murmurs, the words thick but genuine, his voice low and rough-edged, carrying something fragile underneath.

“You look drunk,” you counter, leaning closer to tame the wild disarray of his hair. The strands refuse to yield to your touch, springing rebelliously back out of place. How fitting for him.

He hums, eyes half-lidded. “Your hands…” A pause. “They feel like butterflies.”

You stop mid-motion, laughter slipping through before you can swallow it. “Are you flirting with me, Mr. Wayne? Seriously? Now? At a charity event?”

“…No,” he says after a beat, far too serious for his own good. His gaze doesn’t waver. If anything, it deepens—dark and fond and heartbreakingly open.

“Everyone’s watching,” you whisper, your smile practiced but your pulse unsteady beneath the lace gloves that go down to your wrist.

He looks at your mouth then—slowly, like he’s rediscovering the shape and color of something sacred—and reaches up, his hand trembling just enough to betray him. His thumb drags gently across your lower lip, smudging a perfect placement of tint. The touch isn’t graceful or clever, but it’s real. There’s a strange purity in his clumsiness, like a confession in a language only you two speak.

“Can’t kiss you here,” he mumbles.

“Bruce.” His name escapes you on a sigh, half reprimand, half tenderness. You grasp his shoulders and try to pull him upright. He’s uncooperative at first, all stubborn weight and slurred protest, but then he relents, moving with a kind of sleepy trust that knocks something loose in your chest.

His legs end up sprawled across your lap, heavy and warm. You glance toward the crowd; no one seems to be looking, but you know better. The tabloids have a way of seeing everything.

He tilts his head against your shoulder, breath warm against your skin, and murmurs something incoherent. You think he might be apologizing. Or confessing. Or simply existing in that rare, unguarded state he only lets you see when the masks have fallen away, your boys are asleep, and Gotham wants nothing of him.

You smooth his collar, fingers brushing the pulse at his throat, steady and alive beneath the whiskey and exhaustion. The chandelier light pools over you both, soft and forgiving, and for a fleeting moment, you think you could almost live here—in this absurd, golden bubble where everyone expects perfection and the only thing that matters is the man trying to hold your hand without falling asleep.

“Who’s the future wife here?” you grumble, shifting slightly to adjust your dress beneath his sprawled thighs so it won’t ride up.

“Me.”

He says it with such confidence that you blink up at him, caught somewhere between disbelief and laughter. The glow from the chandeliers above scatters across his tousled hair, highlighting the flushed warmth of his cheeks.

“Oh?” you chuckle softly, leaning forward to brush away a little crust at the corner of his eye — a remnant of the nap he’d taken, mid-chaos, right there on the love seat. God. You can’t even leave him alone for thirty minutes. At least he’s a sulky drunk; probably glaring at anyone who tried to approach. Not you, though. Never you. For you he's sap. Like caramel that refuses to wash away.

“Mhm. I’d take your last name if you weren’t so against it,” he mutters, voice muffled, forehead pressing against your shoulder, soft and warm like a sleepy animal seeking shelter.

“You’re not going to convince me, Bruce,” you hum, smoothing the fabric of his jacket where it’s creased, tracing the line of his collar with careful fingers.

“Why not?” he grumbles. You catch the faint burn of whiskey on his breath, mingled with a sharp hint of mouthwash — the two scents feeling oddly domestic against the formality of the gala with how familiar it is to you.

You flick his forehead lightly. “Because Jason’s adoption papers still need to go through. That’s going to take about a year, honey — and we already wrote ‘Wayne’ as your last name on every paper. Alfred already sent them in and we can't change them now. We’ve been over this.”

Bruce pauses, blinking slowly. You can see the gears turning behind those wide, hazy eyes, the fog of alcohol tangled with the sharpness of his pride. Then, after a beat that feels too long, he goes—

“So you hate me.”

You groan, nudging his legs off your lap with exasperated patience. “You didn’t listen to a thing I said, did you?”

“You despise me,” he insists, voice a pouty mixture of mock outrage and childish hurt, as he collapses backward onto the loveseat with a theatrical plop.

“I truly do,” you mutter under your breath, the words dripping with fondness. He’s impossible, but the affection behind your voice betrays the irritation you feign for the sake of propriety.

When you tug at his arm, surprisingly, he cooperates, letting you lift him with only minimal resistance. His weight leans against your side, solid and familiar, grounding you both amid the swirl of people and distant laughter. One hand steadies him at the waist, while the other drifts to your wrist, fingers brushing the diamond bracelet he bought you months ago. He rolls the tiny gems between thumb and forefinger as though confirming, silently, that this moment is real.

To his credit, he doesn’t look that bad — he never does. Just rumpled enough for an observer to chalk it up to another eccentric Bruce Wayne evening.

You, however, feel less like a glamorous fiancée and more like a weary mother who’s handed an tablet to her toddler just to make a quiet escape, silently praying no one notices how thoroughly this grown man has undone himself on your watch. God, even Jason is easier to handle than Bruce. Speaking of your soon to be son, you start planning what to cook him for dinner as you make your way to the car while you simultaneously pray that Bruce doesn't fall into the concrete. You'd truly have utterly no choice but to just leave him there then.

Jay would understand.

Dick would be estatic.

It takes you a few minutes to get to the car — one of Bruce’s newer indulgences, a vintage beauty that gleams like polished obsidian under the golden spill of the gala’s exterior lights. The air outside is crisp, humming faintly with the chatter and laughter leaking from the open doors behind you. The night smells faintly of champagne, exhaust, and rain that never came.

Bruce stumbles beside you, leaning more heavily on you than he’d ever dare do when sober. His hair is a little mussed, collar undone, and a ridiculous flush paints his cheeks. It softens the sharp edges of his face in a way that makes him look more human, more tender, like a prince caught unaware by his own heart. The city lights flicker across him, casting tiny golden stars on his skin and ice blue eyes, turning the world outside into a blur of dancing luminescence.

You always thought Bruce was like a ice statue in his beauty, reflecting the good of the city around him—shining as he shoots it back for everyone to see.

You guide him into the passenger seat with gentle insistence — not too gentle, because even drunk, he’s still Bruce Wayne, a man who can bend worlds to his will with a single glare. You pause before closing the door, mesmerized by the far-off look in his eyes, the way the moon-light ripples over his pupils as if the world itself bends around him.

“What is it, honey?” you murmur, letting your fingers cradle his jaw, tracing the faint prickles of stubble that have grown since morning. The warmth of his skin seeps into your palm through your glove, and for a fleeting moment, the world beyond the car seems to melt away like mist.

“My wife—” he begins, hiccuping mid-word. The seriousness on his flushed, disheveled face makes it all the funnier, and a soft, tinkling laugh escapes you, light as a wind-chime in a summer breeze. He blinks, confusion flickering across his features like a candle struggling against the draft.

“My… fiancée,” he corrects after a pause, voice trembling between earnestness and the fragility of someone slightly lost. “She won’t like you touching my face like this.”

You hum softly, thumb tracing tiny, tender circles against his skin, each touch a lullaby without sound. The city noises fade into a distant lull, the blare of horns and clinking glasses receding like a far-off tide. “I am your fiancée, Bruce,” you murmur, voice low, warm, and certain, a spell cast to steady him.

He blinks, realization dawning like the first light of dawn, confusion dancing briefly at the edges of his gaze. His mouth parts into a small, helpless 'o,' and then his hands scramble through his jacket pockets, frantic, almost comically so.

“Wait—wait, where’s my ring? My ring is gone—”

“Honey, you don’t have one yet,” you whisper, steadying his hands before he can unravel his suit in panic. “We haven’t gone to the jeweler, remember?”

“…You haven’t bought your wife a ring?” His voice rises, scandalized and theatrical, and you bite your lip to keep from laughing, imagining the society pages writing his indignation in delicate, italicized print.

“My wife?” you echo, eyebrows raised, the word a gentle chime in his ears. God he loves your voice.

“Fiancée, wife—I’m both!” he insists, words slurred but conviction shining through the haze of drink.

“You are not my wife,” you counter, coaxing his impossibly long legs into the car. His cologne rises — warm cedar, a whisper of old books, the faint tang of whiskey — blending with your perfume in a soft symphony of home and hearth.

“Not with that attitude,” he mutters, pointing at his own hand like it holds the moral compass of the universe. “And not with no ring!”

You groan, resisting laughter, pushing against his stubborn knees. “Bruce, honey, please, I’ll buy you a ring when—”

“So you don’t love me,” he declares dramatically, and you can feel the exaggerated pull of his soul, like a moon tugging at tides unseen.

Finally, his legs fall into the car with a heavy thud, and the momentum nearly sends you stumbling. His head lolls toward you, half-lidded and smug, a tiny constellation of mischief and warmth, and he dares a crooked grin as you steady yourself against the door.

You exhale, breath misting in the cool night air. Behind you, the gala hums faintly, like a lullaby of golden glasses and distant laughter. But here, cocooned in the quiet warmth of your car, the world contracts to just the two of you, and the night feels like it has bent itself into a private corner just for him.

You watch him — ridiculous, brilliant, impossibly human — and all the irritation melts into something tender, a soft ribbon of affection that winds itself around your chest.

“Told you,” he murmurs, voice low and rough, “You’ll marry me. You just don’t know it yet. Dickie said you wouldn't. He owes me a 20.”

“Bruce, for the love of Krypton, we’re already engaged! And you're a billionaire do not take money from Dick.”

“We are?” He blinks, already forgetting the past ten minutes of conversation, and it makes you laugh softly, the sound like a bell carried by the wind.

Finally, your able to close the door and slip into the driver’s seat. Your coat, white and soft as freshly fallen snow, is draped over the backseat. Bruce silently reaches for it, pulling himself into the fur with the same care a child takes in hiding from the storm outside.

“It’s cold,” he huffs, burying his face into the plush warmth, leaving only the tiniest peek of those pretty eyes visible. “Heater, please.”

“…What temperature, madame?” you tease gently, tilting your head, caught between exasperation and affection.

“…This smells good,” he mumbles, nose nuzzled into your coat, ignoring you entirely.

You sigh, flick the heater on at a decent temperature, and pull the car into the night. The city has long since surrendered its sunlight to lamplight and neon, and for once, Bruce is just Bruce — no mask, no shadow, no expectation — a boy and a man wrapped into one imperfect, luminous constellation.

“…Are you cheating on me?” he asks suddenly, voice small but indignant, as you stop at a red light halfway to the manor.

“…Now… why would you think that?” you murmur, turning to meet him, your eyes catching the soft glow of dashboard lights.

He presses your fur closer, letting it tickle your cheek.

“Whose. Jacket. Is. This?” His voice is wounded, theatrical, yet softened by the vulnerability only the night and your presence can summon. “This is not my cologne! It smells like—like—”

“What?,” you murmur, amused. Red light holds you hostage, and for a moment, all that exists is his sleepy indignation and the warmth he radiates next to you.

“Heaven!” he groans again, reclaiming the coat and turning to face the window, tucking himself in as though it were a pillow.

“…I can’t bring you home to Dick and Jason like this,” you sigh, steering left instead of right, hoping a late-night diner or bat-burger joint is still awake to greet him. You'd buy Jason a burger to take home.

“…Jay would be very offended if you're cheating on me,” he adds solemnly, voice a curious mix of accusation and earnest gravitas.

You raise a brow, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Only Jay?”

“Dickie would encourage you.”

“Awh, he would, wouldn't he?” You smile fondly, the corners of your lips tugging upward like a gentle sunrise brushing the horizon.

For a moment, Bruce is quiet. The faint hiccup that escaped him earlier hovers in the air like a musical note, soft and slightly off-key. His eyes, usually sharp and commanding, soften in the warm glow of the dashboard lights. They are gentle, almost vulnerable, and for a heartbeat you think he might confess something sweetly reckless.

“You’d think he'd side with his mother more,” he grumbles, letting out another hiccup that seems to punctuate his thoughts. He blinks slowly at you, each blink deliberate, as though he’s measuring the exact weight of your confused gaze.

“…Mother?” The word floats between you, delicate and curious, almost suspended in the night air, drawing the attention of the tiny world inside your car.

Now, out of all the times Bruce has looked at you tonight — whether sulking, pouting, or teasing — it’s now that he looks most offended. His face flushes a deeper red, nose scrunching as if the indignation physically curls through him.

“I birthed him!” he declares, voice bursting with soft outrage, his words weighted with absurd pride, as though the very act of fake creation grants him authority over all familial allegiances.

You can’t help it — a soft, melodic laugh escapes you, airy and light like wind chimes in a quiet courtyard. The absurdity of the claim, combined with his flushed indignation, makes the night feel both magical and utterly human.

“So… am I the father?” you hum softly, letting your hand rest on Bruce’s knee as he sways slightly in the passenger seat. Your touch is gentle but firm, grounding him so he won’t topple into you.

“Yeah,” he mumbles, voice low, thick with the haze of drink, the words coming out more like a solemn proclamation than an answer.

There’s a pause. A small, quiet moment as he tilts his head down to look at you, really look — at the way the city lights scatter across your features, at the soft glow of your skin, and the pretty little rock glinting on your finger like a tiny star in the night.

Then he hiccups. A tiny, ridiculous sound that somehow makes him more vulnerable and impossibly charming all at once.

“Do you… wanna get me—” He hiccups again, pausing to carefully, theatrically wrap your fur coat around his shoulders, trying with all the dramatic flair he can muster to appear sensual. “—pregnant again tonight?”

The words land like a feather striking a bell, and you break.

Hysterical laughter bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest, spilling across the quiet interior of the car. It’s impossible to contain, ringing like chimes in a summer breeze, echoing against the leather seats and the warm night air.

Bruce freezes for a moment, eyes wide, mouth slightly open in stunned disbelief, and then — with all the dignity of a sulking, tipsy king — he throws the coat off his shoulders and slouches back against the seat, sulking for the rest of the ride home.

The city drifts by outside, neon lights blurring into soft ribbons of color. Inside the car, it’s warmer — laughter still clinging to the air, his sleepy murmurs turning absurdity into affection. You glance at him, half-wrapped in your coat and pouting like a child, and the night settles around you like a secret. You remember, in that quiet hum between streetlights, just how much you love him.

And when morning comes — soft light spilling through the kitchen windows, steam curling from a bowl of miso soup, and a ring glinting gently beside the spoon — he remembers too.

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