#bale batman

You’re curled against Bruce’s side in the master bedroom of Wayne Manor, the rain a soft, steady hush against the windows. The city is out there, cold and glittering and cruel, but in here it’s only the low glow of the bedside lamp, the scent of his skin after a post-patrol shower, and the slow, certain thud of his heart under your cheek.

He’s wearing nothing but dark sweatpants, hair still damp, the faint white scar along his ribs catching the light every time he breathes. You’re in your twenties, seven months pregnant, and drowning in one of his old black T-shirts that now clings tight around your belly. Your bare legs are tossed over his lap, feet tucked between his thighs because they’re always cold these days and he’s always warm. You didn’t plan to get pregnant, but Bruce is financially secure and you love him. Why wouldn’t you want his baby?

His hand (big, rough but impossibly gentle) rests over the curve of your stomach like it belongs there. His thumb keeps tracing slow, absent circles, the same pattern he uses when he’s thinking, planning, or trying not to let the world in.

On the nightstand sits the half-eaten pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream you begged for at 2 a.m. and the bendy-straw water glass Alfred left with that quietly raised eyebrow. Bruce pretended not to notice the judgment; you both know Alfred’s already halfway in love with the idea of a baby in the manor again, and so does Alfred.

You’re scrolling on your phone, showing him the dumbest baby things you can find. “Look at this onesie—‘My Dad is Batman but Mom runs the cave.’ We need twelve.”

He grunts, but you catch the twitch at the corner of his mouth. That’s a yes in Bruce-speak.

Then the baby kicks hard, a solid thump right under your ribs, and you grab his hand without thinking, pressing his palm to the spot. “Feel that? That was definitely a batarang.”

His fingers spread wider, waiting for the next one. When it comes, his eyes soften in a way the rest of Gotham will never see. “Already fighting,” he murmurs, voice low and rough with something that might be pride, might be fear. “He won’t ever have to fight.”

You set the phone down. The rain gets louder for a second, like the city’s reminding you both it’s still there. You reach up, brush that stubborn lock of dark hair off his forehead.

“You’re going to be the best dad,” you whisper. “You know that, right?”

His jaw flexes. For a heartbeat he looks like the man who’s lost everyone he’s ever dared to love. Then he turns his head, presses a kiss to the inside of your wrist, right over your pulse.

“I’m going to try,” he says, raw and honest. “Every single day.”

The Batcave was quiet in a way that only felt peaceful when he was home. The air was cool, humming faintly from the servers, and the low echo of dripping water filled the space between sounds. Bruce sat at his workstation, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, surrounded by half-assembled weapons, open schematics, and a scatter of small metallic tools that caught the light in pale, glinting slivers.

You sat on the stool beside him, chin propped in your hand, watching him with the kind of soft, intent stare that always made him pretend he didn’t notice. His shoulders moved with each precise adjustment, muscles tensing beneath the dark cotton of his shirt, and his expression stayed locked in that state of quiet focus that you found impossible not to fall for.

He always got this look when he was working. It wasn’t the same as when he was suited up, and the mask turned him into something unrecognizable. This was different, it was unguarded, human, and somehow gentler than it was serious. His brow was furrowed, eyes shadowed beneath the glow of the overhead lamp, lips pressed together in a line of pure concentration. You’d seen him like this a thousand times, but tonight, something tugged at you harder than usual.

Maybe it was the light. Maybe it was the faint streaks of silver catching at his temples, gleaming soft against the dark hair. The change had crept in slowly, over months that bled together, and now it had settled there like it had always belonged. He didn’t seem to notice it much, but you did... every time he bent over the table, every time he brushed his hair back with those scarred fingers, every time the light hit just right.

You finally stood from your stool, moving toward him without saying anything, until you eased down into his lap. He didn’t startle, instead his hands stilled on the gadget, but his face didn’t change, only his eyes lifting to meet yours. The faintest smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, that small, private one that only ever came out here.. with you.

“Can’t work like this,” he grumbled, voice low and rough from not being used for so many hours, his words threading through the hum of the computers.

“You absolutely can,” you hummed softly, looping your arms around his neck. “You just don’t want to admit that I make it better.”

He gave a quiet half sigh/half laugh, and tilted his head a bit to look at you and take your closeness in. “You think so?”

“Absolutely, otherwise I wouldn't still be sitting like this.” You said it easily, tracing your fingertips through his hair, feeling the soft contrast between the dark and the silver.

He set down the small tool he’d been holding, his fingers sliding instinctively to your waist. “You’re staring again,” he murmured, his tone gentle but knowing, as though it wasn’t the first time he’d caught you doing it.

“Can you blame me?” your voice softer now, fingers brushing through the strands almost absentmindedly, your cheek pressed against his broad shoulder as you batted your eyes up at him. “You look unfairly good like this.”

“Like what?” he asked, a quiet challenge in his tone even as his mouth tilted in amusement.

“Like time’s trying to catch you and you’re still winning.”

That earned you a low chuckle, his shoulders easing as though he couldn’t fight the smile that tugged at him. His hand shifted higher on your hip, the warmth of his palm making your eyes flutter shut for a moment. “Most people try not to point out when someone’s getting older,” he teased, his voice dipping a bit.

“Most people aren’t me.” You smiled as you said it, the light from the monitors catching faintly in your eyes. “And anyway, the silver makes you look…” You paused, your hand brushing gently against his temple. “It makes you look real. Like you finally belong somewhere instead of trying to carry everything.” After a moment, your tongue poked your cheek as a grin lit up your face, "And it makes you look hotter."

He studied you for a long moment, the silence stretching comfortably between you before he huffed a small breath of laughter. “You always have something to say, don’t you?”

“Only when I’m right.”

He smiled at that, it was a slow and rare thing that softened the sharpness of his face. “You’re scarily obsessed.”

“Utterly,” you admitted, fingers still sliding lazily through his hair. His eyes fluttered shut briefly at your touch, and you felt his breath warm against your wrist.

You tilted your head closer, your voice low near his ear. “Do you even know what you look like right now? You could walk into a room and stop hearts. You don’t even need the suit.”

He opened his eyes again, meeting your gaze with that half-amused, half-embarrassed look you adored. “That’s dramatic,” he said, but his thumb traced slow circles over your hip.

“So is the man who lives in a cave,” you whispered, smiling against his jaw, your lips pressing gently to the scarred line of his skin. “You can’t blame me for appreciating the view.”

He laughed quietly, the sound muffled against your lips as you gave him a gentle kiss, full of love. With a soft content sigh, he leaned forward to rest his forehead against your shoulder, your cheek squishing against the side of his head. His voice came out low, half a mutter. “You’re going to make me stop working completely.”

“That’s the goal,” you admitted simply, your hand still in his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp. You felt him relax beneath your touch, the tension bleeding out of his frame as his breath steadied.

After a moment, he spoke again, quieter now. “You ever think about what happens when it’s all grey?”

“Then,” you said, your tone softening, “I’ll finally get what I’ve been waiting for... the perfect silver fox.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his mouth curving in that subtle, nearly hidden smile. “You really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“Never,” you whispered, brushing a thumb across his cheekbone. “Not when it comes to you.”

He kissed you then. It was slow and deliberate, with the kind of tenderness that made everything else fall away. You felt the scratch of stubble against your skin, the faint metallic smell of oil still on his hands, the warmth of him sinking into you completely. When he finally broke the kiss, he stayed close, his breath catching softly against your lips.

“You’re supposed to let me finish this before you start distracting me,” he murmured, though the roughness in his tone made it sound more like a confession than a complaint.

“You’re really thinking about work right now?” you teased, your hand brushing through the silver again just to see his eyes flutter shut. “When I’m sitting right here?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, his hand found yours, his thumb tracing over your knuckles in slow, absent patterns. The silence between you felt steady, safe — the kind that didn’t need to be filled. When he finally spoke, it was quiet, almost to himself.

“Maybe I’ll finish later.”

You smiled, leaning in until your forehead rested against his. “That’s what I thought.”

ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

Christmas in Gotham was no joke. This year was no different, as the invitation found its way to your door,

"Christmas at the Dent's: 7:00 pm - late 25052nd Street"

Ah. The usual, then. You roll your eyes and sigh, pains shooting through your heels at just the thought of having to stand around making awkward conversation all night. Still - no one does Christmas quite like Harvey Dent these days, and you weren't about to ruffle feathers by refusing his invitation.

As you walk along the corridor into your penthouse, your doorbell rings. Strange - 8:07 pm wasn't exactly the time for visitors, and you weren't exactly expecting anyone. As you peek through the small window at the top of your door, you see no one out there.

Perhaps a package?

Opening the door, you find your guess validated as a neatly tied box sits in front of your door. Along the sides of the box, the 'Wayne Enterprises' logo sits embellished. Glaring back at you.

What the Hell would Gotham's very own prince - the billionaire playboy himself - want with you?

Naturally, you're wary as you take the package inside, carefully pulling apart each ribbon, one by one. Inside, a small letter addressed to you,

"See you at Dent's Christmas Gala~ P.S. I do hope you'll wear the dress."

The utter nerve! First of all - how on Earth did he know you'd been invited? Second of all - who was he to instruct you to be there? You had half a mind not to attend at all now, as your eyebrows drew together, anger coursing through your veins. Who the Hell was he to be so pushy?

Your eyes now find the cloth, neatly folded into the box. As your hands lift it up, the wine red of the dress rappels down. And despite the anger that had just flooded your soul, you can't help but think just how pretty the dress would look on you.

Gods damn you, Mr Wayne.

On the other side of Gotham, in an awfully comfy (but lonely) bed, Bruce Wayne sat - twiddling his thumbs as he lay there. Thinking. Overthinking.

"I'm sure she'll like the dress, Master Wayne."

"Huh? Oh. Erm. Who, Alfred?"

"Do you think me so dense?"

"Dense? No.."

"I know you better than that."

"..I know, Alfred."

"Now. Dinner?"

Bruce sighed, nodding and groaning as he pushed himself up from his bed, muscles screaming as they ached. Each movement was torture as he pulled over a shirt, trudging down the stairs. Alfred followed behind with a small smile, rolling his eyes as he collected an old mug from the room. Downstairs, the table had already been set. As always, Bruce sat alone, with a beautiful plate of food sat in front of him.

Why did it feel so cold, then?

Cold and lonely?

Time flew by as you tried to ignore both the gala, and the dress that now sat in the corner of your room, still in the Wayne Enterprises box. Everytime you walked into your penthouse, there it was. Taunting you, mocking you and practically begging you to wear it.

So when the day itself came along, you found yourself groaning as you did finally try the dress on.

Dear Gods - how was it that it fit just right? Just perfectly? First of all - how did the Gotham's playboy know your measurements like that? There was no way he had the chance to ever know, considering that you had only really had two conversations together.

Both of which were unfortunately failed conversations, mind you.

In the first, he had accidentally spilled his drink over you - after someone bumped into him. Of course, he wasn't rude about it - but you loved that dress, so very much. You couldn't help the glare you shot at him, before rushing off to the bathroom as you tried you damndest to remove champagne stains from your dress. You had missed the way his eyes softened when he looked at you, or the way they couldn't help but to trail on after you as you rushed away.

And in the second, the two of you found yourselves at the same cafe. What began as a sweet, nice moment quickly became a huge issue, as he had taken your coffee, and you his. So when he ended up at your office, soaked in the rain and very much… unhappy, you were sure that Bruce Wayne hated you.

So why did he have such an interest in you of all people?

With every step in your "getting ready for a silly gala where you'll only stand around looking… well, silly" routine, you couldn't help but smooth your hands over the dress as you stare back at yourself in the mirror.

Despite your initial thoughts, you look hot. Incredibly hot. Your hair falls just right, your make up so perfect and your dres…

How on earth Mr Wayne had gotten such a perfect dress for you - without ever having a proper conversation with you? It must be a trap, you think. Yes, a trap! For what - you have no idea, nor do you have the time to try to understand what it could be, as your doorbell rings. You furrow your eyebrows as you approach the door, carefully opening it to…

"Hey sweetheart. Well aren't you lookin' pretty f'me tonight?"

…well, Bruce Wayne himself - who else would it be?

Your mouth drops for a moment as you try to collect yourself - to no avail. He looked… well, he looked fine as all hell, stood in your doorway. Your last meeting at the cafe must've left quite an impression on him, given how he styles his hair tonight. Gone is the neatly stuck together, slicked back hair that everyone expects of Bruce Wayne. Instead, here he stands. Hair still put together, but not quite as… corporate as usual. It's really nice, actually. And his suit and tie - they're not the usual, horribly business-like suit Mr Wayne often possesses. It's classy, black blazer, white shirt and a deep red tie - matching your dress.

You miss how he practically mirrors your expression, his eyes trailing around your hair. How it falls across your shoulders (how he barely keeps himself from brushing it aside, peppering kisses across your collarbone). The way the dress fits you just perfectly, hugging your curves as he cannot stop himself from imagining just how gorgeous you look underneath. The way your lips fall apart, separating as he imagines just how pretty they'd taste, under his own.

Killer Croc himself could come tumbling through your apartment, and neither you nor him would be any the wiser.

"You look.."

"Wow…"

"…human."

"Human? I look human? Gee, sweetheart, I'd hope so-"

"You know what I meant! You wanna explain what all this is about? I can get to Dent's on my own, you know."

"I know."

"So…?"

"Come on… where's the fun in us showin' up alone, huh? We're both gonna be bored there anyway.. Plus, Harvey'll finally stop tryna shove his weird friend on you.."

"I gue- Wait, what? How did you-?"

"I'm literally Bruce Wayne, sweetheart."

"There it is."

"Come on! I wanna be there before they roll out the appetizers! They're no fun all cold, y'know…"

Which is how you found yourself, decked out in your finest, sat in Bruce's finest. As impressive as the Rolls Royce was on the outside, it was even better on the inside. Smooth, arctic white leather cushioning you as Bruce helps you inside (you note how carefully he tucks your dress in). It's not cold, like other cars usually are. It's weirdly… nice. Yeah, nice. Warm and comfortable as the heating doesn't blast at you, but snakes around you. Welcoming you. He waits patiently for you to adjust yourself, flashing that perfect grin back at you as he closes the door. And once he does, you're given a moment to look up at the roof of the car above you. A beautiful sky of stars sits right above and you can't help but reach a hand out, gently tracing your nails over it. It's a car truly befitting of its owner.

The ride there is smooth. No unnecessary rushing, no joyriding. Bruce drives slow and smooth, letting you enjoy the ride as you find yourself fixed on how pretty Gotham looks at night. The Christmas decorations are already out, glimmering back at you as you both make your way to Harvey Dent's god awful Christmas gala. You don't notice how Bruce steals looks as he drives, using the regular mirror checks as an excuse to drink in the look in your eyes as you stare out of the windows. Nor do you notice the smile creeping onto his face, or how he takes the longer, scenic route to Harvey's gala.

Anything to keep you there just a little longer, huh? But a drive can only go on for so long, and the two of you find yourselves outside Dent's place sooner than later.

"Well.. someone's gone all out this year, huh?"

"He does this every year, Bruce."

"First name basis now?"

"In your dreams, Wayne."

He only chuckles and shakes his head, following you along the red carpet laid out in front of you, within a man made "Winter Wonderland". It seemed Dent really had gone above and beyond this time, somehow even replicating the rosy, warming cold that only snow created. Bruce found himself trailing after you with ease - not even stopping for the cameras and their judgemental flashes, as journalists screamed their questions.

Yet the only thing he could care about was you.

You, and how you commanded their attention with such ease and confidence, as though they were loyal soldiers and you their queen. You and how your giggles tickled his ears, bouncing around in his brain as he attempted to collect himself once more (because how bad would it look - Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, down bad at the annual Dent Christmas Gala?). You and how you turned to him, playfully blowing him a kiss as you sauntered inside, leaving him to shake his head and follow behind you.

He could already imagine the morning's headlines.

The gala was… well, like any other gala. Busy, stifling and awfully boring. Initially, Bruce and you had managed to stick through three conversations together. Easily evading awkward topics, and munching through appetizers as you finally thought you'd be able to actually enjoy a gala, for once.

Until you had been tugged away by one person, and Bruce by another. It was almost poetic, how the two of you searched for one another across the large - shockingly large - building. Unbeknownst to the two of you, there was a moment where you were searching for him (and he for you), stuck on either side of a very large Christmas tree.

Which is how you now find yourself up above. On an old balcony, abandoned and quiet. Where others would probably turn back and rejoin the festivities - busying themselves in conversations and gossips - you much preferred the slight chill in the air for company. Plus, there was something nice about just being alone in the quiet.

Well, actually.

It sure would have been nice to have a… certain playboy up here with you. But who am I kidding, it's not like Bruce Wayne is about to appear out of nowh-

"Well, ain't that a nice surprise, huh?"

My God. Bruce Wayne has appeared out of nowhere. And next they'll be saying he's Batman! Yeahhhh right!

Bruce walks up to you, a hand quickly finding the small of your back - warm, but not uncomfortable - and pulling you slightly closer to him. You let him, resting a hand on his shoulder as you peer back over the balcony. He follows your gaze, looking over the view with you. There's truly something beautiful about how the city lights up at night - especially during Christmas time, as the warm bright golden light only radiates around the streets.

"For all its flaws… Gotham has its own beauty, does it not?"

He can only hum in response, as his eyes break away to find you again. There's something he can't quite put a finger on, a feeling. An emotion. A need for you. When he finally realises it, he's practically kicking himself in the balls in disappointment. How could he not have realised sooner? As his mind races, another idea swims through his brain. Sure, he could just ask you. But where's the fun in that?

"Bored, sweetheart?"

"I suppose… Why? Does the great Bruce Wayne have any suggestions? Cure my boredom f'me?"

Your hand moves up from the balcony railing, as you now position yourself in front of him, your back against the balcony. Your fingers dance up his arm, finding his face as they slowly trace down, and he finally sees That Look in your eyes. Hunger, need and perhaps a secret, third thing. One that he can't quite put his finger on yet,

"There is one idea…"

"Go on..?"

He leans in, and his lips barely brush your ear as his hands begin to move along your body - securing you against him, and against the railing behind you. You let out a soft gasp at his touch, only to snake your own arms around his head - tugging him closer.

"Tell me to stop, sweet girl. Tell me to stop."

Something about the thrill of it all sent an exciting shiver down your spine as you found yourself grinning back at him,

"…I don't think so, Mr Way-"

"No, no. Bruce. None of that Mr Wayne bullshit."

"My, my- first name basis, huh?"

"Somethin' like that."

His lips trail down your neck as his hands slowly pull your dress up higher and higher. One hand hikes your leg up around his waist as his fingers massage the flesh underneath (almost begging for forgiveness from the harsh cold that hits you first). All as his lips dance across your body - warming the flesh they touch and leaving the slightest reddening mark as he builds in confidence, sucking along your skin. When he's pleased, he finally lets go of your leg, unbuckling his pants with a practiced ease as he opens himself up to the harsh airs of the night.

"Do you do this often, then? Find girls on balconies and fuck 'em over Gotham? What will people say...?"

"Only the one's I really like. And you? You seduce billionaires on the balconies of Gotham often?"

"As a noble scholar once said, 'Only the one's I really like,' Bruce.."

That earns a laugh out of him, and a giggle out of you, as he pulls you closer to him. He mutters a soft apology and presses a kiss to your neck as he slowly enters you - the two of you savouring each inch that fills you as you arch your body into his. Soft strings of curses leave your mouth, and he only kisses them away, tutting as he does,

"Tsk, tsk… and you call yourself a Lady, hmm?"

"Oh, you piece of-! Bruce! F-fuck, that's… oh, that's perf-ect-!"

He only chuckles back, shaking his head as he speaks back into your skin,

"Need ya to keep it down f'me, gorgeous... wouldn't wanna be caught so soon, hmm?"

Each and anytime you attempt a retort back at him, he only snaps his hips up into you, thrusting harder (somehow). You learn pretty quick, letting your body fall into his arms as your moans echo around him. His head falls into your neck, peppering kisses along it again as you find your hands tangled in the back of his hair - easily scuffing up the once somewhat neatened hair he had put together.

When he looks back up at you, eyes softened as the warmed Christmas lights reflect back at you, you can't help how your heart tugs for him. Nor can you help the words that tumble out of your mouth, trickling around him as he continues to thrust in and out of you - slowing ever so slightly (just enough to be able to enjoy the moment the two of you share. For if this is your one and only encounter together, he'd much sooner remember it all, than hold on to mere flickers of memories),

"B-Bruce… Fuck, Bruce, I love yo-"

You stop just short of finishing the word, as Bruce slows to a stop, looking back up at you again. It's only then that you realise exactly what it is that you've said out loud, to the cold Gotham (K)night around you, and your eyes widen, your mouth dropping open.

What do you say? You usually don't really fall in love with people after… getting fucked on a balcony?

"Say it again."

"Say what?"

So we play dumb now, do we?

"You know what, sweetheart."

"I don't know what you're on about, Bruc-! Oh, fu-ck! That's just mean-!"

Each thrust is punctuated by your sharp gasps and moans, and for a moment you think he's let you off. Surely he understands it was just a slip of the tongue, right? Except he slows down again, sighing as his hands find your face, angling it to look up at him.

Dear Gods is he a sight to take in. Hair tossed about, suit crumpled and a look of determination scrawled across his face as he collects himself, small pants huffing out into the air,

"Need ya to say it, gorgeous."

"You cannot be serious, Bruce."

"Oh, I am."

"Really?"

"Really. You think I buy dresses for anyone? Drive slow for anyone? Sweetheart…"

And the pieces slowly put themselves together, a jigsaw puzzle coming together in your mind as your eyes widen again. He can't help the smile on his face as you splutter over your words, only to sigh and smile back at him,

"So what - you were gonna ask me out midway through fu-"

"No, no. Not at all. I.. fuck, it sounds stupid as all hell, now. But I was.. I was gonna ask you out quietly. Didn't wanna make a huge deal of it, y'know?"

"Who even are you? Billionaire Bruce Wayne would never!"

"Right. Except I'm just Bruce Wayne here, with you. No fancy titles, no stupid shit. Just Bruce Wayne."

You think it over for a moment - because what do you actually say? Sure, you can't deny the feelings that have risen in your heart, stirring and begging for him, nor can you ignore how you need him - so very much. But you are still at Dent's stupid gala, and you-

Oh, fuck it all! You pull him closer, mouths finally meeting as he melts into your kiss. Tongues swiping against each other as his hands settle around your hips again. Only this time, there's real, recognised emotion behind it all. Behind each and every movement, touch and breath is another sweet confession to one another. When you finally pull away from each other, he only grins back at you, slowly moving himself out of you and redressing the two of you. When you give him a puzzled look in response, he pulls you in for another kiss, before whispering,

"Wanna get back to mine? Much more.. comfortable, I can assure you that."

"Only if I'm not just another one of your flings, Wayne."

"Never, baby. Never just a fling."

He pulls you back through the gala, sneaking through the backdoor of the function and swiftly back into his car. Only this time, the two of you can't hide the giddying excitement between you - grins and chuckles and giggles flying around you as Bruce drives the two of you back to the Manor.

He's never driven this fast, nor with such purpose.

This time, he carries you in his arms, ignoring your giggly protests as he throws you onto his bed. His oh, so soft bed, with the silks and fluffiness that you can only have dreamed of. You kick off your heels, only for him to catch them in his hands, tossing them behind him as he undresses himself once more for you. This time, you get to see all of him, gulping as your eyes drag lazily across his skin. You can't help but to drink it all in under the soft, amber candle light that barely surrounds the room. It's warm and intimate, and has you reaching up to him.

He takes the opportunity to remove your own dress from your body, zipper lowering slowly as his lips find your skin once more. As he undresses you, peeling each layer off you with a reverence rarely found in this corner of the world, you can't help but attempt to cover yourself.

Only for him to hold your arms away from your body, before cradling you up in his own arms,

"No more hiding from me, c'mere.."

He pulls you in, kisses trailing down your neck once more. Except this time, they quickly become bites and nips, tugging and sucking at your skin as he finds your breasts. Each bite accompanied with a soothing kiss, until he wraps his tongue around one bud, with two fingers working on the other.

And as his mouth and hand work on your breasts, teasing each nipple and moving left to right, his other hand presses your thighs open - giving himself space to thrust his cock back into you. Given your risqué rendezvous earlier in the night, you're already soaking wet when he enters - your walls welcoming him back in as they mould themselves around him once more. Each inch that moves within you already has you seeing stars, let alone when he finally speeds up, thrusting faster and harder as your moans tangle with his groans.

The sounds of your skin meeting his, as your walls wrap around him with each thrust and your head falls back onto the pillow, only have you blushing under his body. It's a good thing it's only the two of you around, as you struggle to hold back your cries.

You can feel yourself edging closer and closer to release, as your stomach tightens in on itself, and your nails dig into the skin of his shoulders. He only gasps back in response, before somehow pulling your legs out wider - letting him in deeper. Angles that you had never even felt before suddenly find themselves full with him. Hell's, neither you nor he can pull together a coherent sentence - both drunken on one another as you chase each other's release,

"F-fuck! Bruce, oh, Bru-!"

"Perfect! Fuck, you're so perf-ect f'me, baby, m'gonna cu-!"

And what a release it is. The two of you come crashing together, crying out at the same time as you gush out on him, and he cums over your gummy walls, that only seem to suck him in more. You can feel him everywhere, even as he slows his pace and looks back down at you, lowering his head to press a kiss to your cheek before slowly pulling out. As you whine and protest him leaving you so empty, he moves the two of you around, before lifting your body and lowering you back onto his cock, kisses pressed along your shoulder. He doesn't move this time, letting you come down from your release.

Instead, he lowers the two of you into his bed, wrapping his arms around you, securing you as you fall asleep,

"I've got ya.. get some sleep now, yeah?"

You barely feel a soft kiss pressed to your forehead as you finally drift off.

The morning comes much sooner than you'd want it to. You can barely make out the glimmerings of Gotham's first snow of the year, as birds twitter and tweet their sweet morning song. The Winter Sun's harsh light basks over the room, and you blink away your sleepy haziness as Bruce stirs with you, once again pressing kisses along your skin, before whispering into your ear,

"Mornin' gorgeous."

You can't quite manage a full response back, humming in return as you let your eyes close again. He finally pulls himself out of you, hissing as you whine in return. You take the opportunity to finally turn around, burying your face into his chest and letting yourself fall asleep again,

"Sweetheart.."

"M'sure breakfast can wait.. right, B?"

"For you? The whole world can wait, sweet girl.."

And so as journalists furiously tapped away their headlines ("Billionaire Playboy Bruce Wayne Caught With CEO! Read more on Page 5", "Bruce Wayne Finally Spotted With New Lover!" "Batman: Fact, or Fiction?") in the usual speedy fashion that Gotham is so very used to, the two of you lie lazily, savouring and basking in a slowed warmth rarely found in such a corner of the world.

merry roe-mas ❅.ೃ࿔

Months Before Everything Changed

When you entered Dr. Jonathan Crane’s laboratory, you closed the door behind you almost holding your breath; the air inside was heavy, thick with an antiseptic, metallic chemical smell, and the pale white glare of the fluorescent lights rendered every surface unnervingly clear. The rows of glass tubes, labeled bottles, and precision instruments lining the counters reflected the orderly yet obsessive architecture of Crane’s mind. Your purpose for being there was clear: to find proof that the therapy he’d been subjecting you to was illegal. Your fingers, steady but too careful to deny the tension inside you, lifted the edge of every file, read the label of every chemical bottle, opened and closed each drawer in silence; yet everything was flawless, disturbingly clean, as if Crane had turned the art of leaving no trace into a discipline.

The steel cabinet on the back wall caught your eye because it was different from the others; it was sealed with a thick electronic lock, a small red sensor light glowing steadily. When you crouched to examine it, it didn’t take long to realize that any attempt to force the code would immediately alert Crane. You could sense that something was hidden inside—you knew it instinctively. Most likely everything he had tested on you, every note, every formula, was in there. As you considered ways to crack the code, your mind rapidly scanned possibilities, trying to recall Crane’s habits, his recurring numbers, his obsessive patterns; but no combination felt safe enough. One wrong attempt could end everything.

That was when your gaze shifted to the medical waste bin in the corner of the room. The black-lidded container marked with a biohazard symbol looked like the only chaotic element in Crane’s otherwise perfect order. Kneeling down and lifting the lid slowly, you were hit with a sharp chemical odor. Inside were used syringe casings, empty ampoules, and gauze stained with chemicals. You picked up each small tube one by one, trying to read the faded labels, but none of them gave you what you were looking for. Just as you were about to give up, crumpled, torn scraps of paper at the bottom of the bin caught your attention. When you carefully pulled them out and spread them across the counter, your heart quickened.

Putting the pieces together required patience. As your fingers matched the edges of the paper, your mind worked just as fast; parts of the chemical formulas were legible, while the rest were nearly erased by liquid stains. One fragment of a note was clearer than the others. When you leaned in to read it, your stomach tightened: “Strange’s raw formula is still irrationally unstable — the side effects are unpredictable.” Beneath it, another hurried line mentioned how dangerous Strange’s experiments were and that they needed to be stopped. This was no longer just Crane’s personal obsession; it was part of something bigger and darker. Along the edge of the paper, an almost completely faded phrase could be made out through the chemical smears: Beneath Arkham — The Forgotten Tunnel. You couldn’t pinpoint its exact location, but it wasn’t hard to understand that it pointed to a hidden laboratory.

In that moment, the scandals that had erupted around Arkham in recent months rearranged themselves into a new pattern in your mind. Hugo Strange could be at the center of all of them. The therapy Crane had been administering to you might have been a byproduct of these larger experiments. As you quickly gathered the papers and stuffed them into the inner pocket of your jacket, a cold shiver slid down your spine. You suddenly realized you weren’t alone. The air in the lab had changed; the presence of someone behind you settled on your shoulders like an invisible but crushing weight.

You didn’t turn around. You didn’t show it. As Bruce had taught you years ago, you regulated your breathing, kept your hands steady, and acted as if you were still absorbed in the papers. While your heart pounded hard against your ribs, your ears strained to catch the slightest sound. Then you heard a voice—low, hard, and certain.

“I knew Crane’s weakness for you would become a problem for us.”

The owner of the voice took a few heavy steps closer. On the polished surface of the lab counter, a broad, imposing silhouette was reflected. You immediately recognized Hugo Strange’s most loyal assistant; she was the woman whose presence filled space even in Arkham’s corridors. Her muscular arms were crossed over her chest as she watched you. The air suddenly felt tighter, more suffocating.

As your fingers instinctively tightened around the papers in your pocket, the woman stepped closer, her voice now nearer and more threatening.

“Now,” she said slowly, “you’re going to hand over what you’re holding… or you’re never leaving this room.”

As the fluorescent lights hummed above your head, you realized the door stood between you and the woman, and you began calculating escape routes in seconds—because what you saw in her eyes told you this was not just a threat.

As the woman’s words hung in the cold air of the laboratory, you slowly turned to face her. Your heart pounded against your ribs, yet your expression was unexpectedly calm—almost dismissive. You had swallowed your fear and turned it into anger. Locking your eyes onto hers, you spoke while making the presence of the papers in your pocket feel like a deliberate act of defiance.

“I know you’re exploiting vulnerable patients,” you said in a low but steady voice. “Your experiments, the illegal therapies, Strange’s laboratory… all of it. And it’s all going to come out.”

The muscles in Ethel’s face tightened; her jaw locked. For a brief moment, pure anger flashed in her eyes—the look not of a professional employee, but of an accomplice cornered.

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” she hissed.

“I do,” you shot back immediately. “And you’re afraid.”

That last word fell like a spark. Without hesitation, Ethel lunged at you. Her large body moved faster than you expected, her arm swinging toward you. The reflex Bruce had drilled into you over and over kicked in without thought; you stepped back and twisted your body aside, slipping free as her hand tried to grab your wrist. A metal tray clattered to the floor after hitting the counter, and one of the glass tubes shattered, spreading across the tiles.

When Ethel attacked again, you kicked a chair between you, throwing off her balance for a split second.

“You can’t run,” the woman growled, shoving the chair aside.

“You won’t know until I try,” you panted.

The laboratory began to feel suffocatingly small; with every step you bumped into something, knocking things over. As Ethel tried to seize you, you circled the counters, recalling the basic escape maneuvers Bruce had taught you and trying to create distance. But she was stronger, heavier, and eventually she cornered you. Your back hit the cold steel cabinet, and there was nowhere left to go.

Without taking her eyes off you, Ethel touched the small earpiece at her ear.

“I’ve got her,” she said in a short, hard tone. “In Crane’s lab.”

The crackling reply from the earpiece didn’t reach you, but Ethel’s lips thinned into a tight line.

“Understood,” she muttered. “I’m bringing her in.”

At that exact moment, when her attention flickered for a single second, you grabbed a glass bottle from the counter and hurled it to the floor. It exploded, releasing a sharp-smelling cloud of fumes, and Ethel recoiled on instinct. You didn’t waste the opening; slipping past her, you lunged for the door. Her hand brushed your jacket, nearly catching the fabric, but you managed to wrench the door open and burst into the corridor.

Your footsteps echoed down Arkham’s long hallway as you heard the heavy thud of steps behind you. Ethel was chasing you. The corridor’s fluorescent lights glared in your eyes, distorting your sense of direction. You overturned a cleaning cart in your path, sending buckets and mops sprawling to slow her down.

“Stop!” Ethel shouted from behind.

You didn’t answer; your lungs burned and your legs trembled, but stopping felt like death.

When you rounded the corner, you saw two guards blocking the corridor. Their uniforms were standard, but their expressions were not; instinctively, you knew they were Strange’s men. Your heart seemed to drop into your stomach. You knew you couldn’t fight them. Your only chance was to remember the simple but vital lessons Bruce had taught you: survive. Create distance. Find an exit.

As one of the guards lunged toward you, you smashed the glass of the fire alarm with your elbow and set off the siren. The piercing alarm filled the corridor as red lights began to flash. Seizing the sudden chaos, you ducked under the guard’s outstretched arm and slammed hard into the other’s knee. You weren’t professional—your movements were messy, driven by panic—but they were unexpected enough.

The brief opening created by your collision with the guard’s knee didn’t last as long as you’d hoped. The second guard reacted on instinct, looping his arm around your neck and yanking you backward. When your back slammed hard into the wall, the air burst from your lungs in a painful rasp. As your hands clawed at his wrist in panic, the first guard recovered and drove his fist into your ribs. The blow was sharp and heavy; pain spread through your chest like a stone dropping inside it, and your knees nearly buckled. You weren’t professional—your body wasn’t used to absorbing hits—and every impact left you reeling. But Bruce’s voice echoed in your mind, the sentence he’d drilled into you for years: Don’t focus on the pain. Focus on the exit.

To break free from the arm crushing your throat, you tucked your chin and suddenly dropped your weight, then slammed your heel down on the guard’s foot with all your strength. When his grip loosened for a split second, you threw your elbow backward, blindly but with desperate force, into his ribs. At the same time, the first guard lunged for your hair, his fingers clamping cruelly around your scalp. Your eyes watered as your head was jerked back. While pain exploded behind your eyes like white light, your hand fumbled along the wall until it closed around a metal fire extinguisher, and you swung it without thinking. It struck the guard’s shoulder with a dull thud, and he staggered.

“That’s enough!” Ethel shouted from the other end of the corridor, her voice cutting through the wail of the alarm like a blade. As she approached with heavy steps, her face was twisted with pure hatred. “Do you think you can run? You’re not Wayne’s little pet anymore. No one’s going to save you here. You’re going to be part of Strange’s project, understand? A test subject!”

Her words left an icy weight deep in your stomach, but they also sharpened your anger. When one of the guards lunged again, you remembered the simple lesson Bruce had taught you about balance: instead of meeting force with force, you shifted sideways and used his momentum against him, pulling his arm and redirecting him into the wall.

As Ethel tried to reach you, you shoved the overturned cleaning cart between you with your foot, sending buckets and slick water spilling across the floor. The ground instantly turned into a dangerous sheet of ice, and one of the guards slipped and fell. Seizing the brief chaos, you darted through the nearest door. The room was dark—probably an unused storage space. When you closed the door quietly and pressed your back against it, your heart thundered in your ears, and the pain in your ribs flared with every breath.

While footsteps and shouts echoed outside, you slipped between the shelves and hid in the shadows. As you forced your breathing to slow, another of Bruce’s lessons surfaced in your mind: buildings are like people—they have blind spots. When you spotted the small security camera on the ceiling, you quickly calculated its field of view and realized the triangular patch of shadow formed by the shelves lay outside its range. You crouched there and waited without moving.

After a while, the door opened and light spilled inside.

“She ran out,” one of the guards said, breathless.

“Search everywhere!” Ethel shouted. “She can’t have gone far!”

As their footsteps receded from the doorway, you felt your muscles gradually loosen, though you stayed still for a few more minutes. Then you cracked the door open and glanced into the corridor. The red alarm lights were still flashing, but the hallway was empty for now. Mapping the cameras and their angles in your mind like a blueprint, you moved from shadow to shadow, slipping through the building with every step carefully calculated.

When you finally reached the service exit, your hands were trembling, but you managed to push the door open. The cold night air hit your face, burning your lungs as you filled them. Arkham’s dark silhouette loomed behind you. Feeling the papers still safe in your pocket, one thought crystallized in your mind despite everything you’d been through: you had to get this to Bruce.

–––

After leaving Arkham, when the city air filled your lungs, it should have felt like freedom—but what you felt was closer to exposure. The blood in your nose had long since dried, yet with every breath you could still taste its metallic tang at the back of your tongue. The split in your lip stung with every movement, the bruises on your hands throbbed in the cold night air, and all of it, strangely, made you more alert. As you walked, you deliberately kept your steps pointed away from Wayne Manor, instinctively and stubbornly turning your route toward the Gotham City Police Department. You didn’t want to go to Bruce; you didn’t want to look into his eyes and see that familiar fear, that look of someone trying to protect you like fragile glass. But you could talk to Batman. Batman wasn’t just a mask—he was the language of everything Bruce couldn’t say, and tonight you wanted to speak to that language, not to Bruce.

When you slipped onto the GCPD rooftop, it was a little past two in the morning, and the city was suspended in that strange half-sleep; the neon lights were still burning, but the streets had thinned, as if Gotham had retreated into its own shadow. The heavy metal body of the Bat-Signal stood at the center of the roof, and when you saw it, a childish thrill from your past stirred in your chest. You rested your fingers on the projector’s cold surface and hesitated for a moment before turning the switch. As the light tore through the sky and carved the black bat silhouette onto the clouds, your heart quickened. You knew the gesture was theatrical, but that was exactly why it felt right. This wasn’t a call to Bruce Wayne. It was a summons sent to Batman. And you were standing on the side you’d dreamed of since childhood—the one making the call.

You didn’t hear him arrive; Batman was never heard. He was simply there. When he stepped out of the shadows and into the edge of the light, the hem of his cape stirred softly in the wind, and the eyes behind the mask found you immediately. You saw him freeze, that millisecond of hesitation tightening something in your chest.

“…You,” he said in a low, hard voice, trying to contain his surprise. “What are you doing here?”

You stepped a little further into the light, making no attempt to hide the damage on your face. Your bloodied nose, split lip, and bruised hands became brutally visible in the projector’s pale glow. The gaze behind the mask sharpened; his shoulders tensed.

“Before you answer,” he said, taking two quick steps toward you, his voice lower now but heavier, “who did this to you?”

The corner of your mouth curved involuntarily. “No hello? This is our first meeting, Batman.”

When he reached for your chin, you didn’t flinch. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he tilted your head slightly to inspect your nose. There was restrained anger in the contact—and something deeper: fear. Not fear of hurting you, but the careful precision of someone afraid of losing you.

“This isn’t a game,” he murmured. “You’re wandering Gotham’s streets at midnight, showing up here covered in blood, and—”

“And using the Bat-Signal,” you cut in lightly. “Admit it. It was cool.”

The jaw beneath the mask tightened. “This city isn’t a stage. And you—” he paused, weighing his words, “—you shouldn’t be involved in this.”

A familiar ache rose in your chest, but you forced it down. You pulled the crumpled papers from your pocket and handed them to him. “Then you’re lucky,” you said, your tone turning serious. “Because this is already inside my world. Strange… this explains the unrest that’s been happening at Arkham.”

As he took the papers, his gloved fingers brushed yours; the contact was brief but electric. His eyes scanned the lines quickly, and the expression on his face hardened into stone. After a moment, he looked up.

“This,” he said at last, his voice low and vibrating with intensity, “will help open an investigation into Strange.”

He lowered the papers slightly but didn’t release them. When his eyes returned to you, the hardness in them was more personal. “Where did you get this?” he asked, each word precise. “No—” he shook his head faintly, correcting himself, “what did you do to get this?”

You shrugged, but the movement betrayed the pain in your body; his gaze flicked instinctively to your bruised hands. His jaw tightened again.

“You went into a lab at Arkham,” he said. “Alone. Into a locked area. A place under Strange’s direct control.” His voice didn’t rise, but each word landed heavier. “What were you doing there?”

You opened your mouth. You were about to say Jonathan Crane’s name—the lab, the illegal prescriptions he’d put you on, his invasive closeness, the voices seeping into your mind… And in that exact moment, a door slammed shut inside your head. The hesitation wasn’t accidental. The methods Crane had used in his therapy sessions went beyond classical suggestion. Words he had planted in your mind while you were in REM. Conditioning built specifically on post-hypnotic association. The word trust had fused with the tone of his voice in your mind; it functioned like a safety cue, a key that suppressed your sense of threat. Whenever you tried to speak his name, your subconscious muted the alarm signal and replaced it with a false calm. Your heart raced, but your thoughts fogged over. Cognitive inhibition.

Realizing it was almost as terrifying as experiencing it.

Batman waited. He didn’t force the silence.

“Go on,” he said at last, softly but firmly.

You swallowed. You still couldn’t say Crane’s name. Your tongue was fighting your mind.

“I noticed… something was wrong,” you managed. Even that sentence cost you effort. “In the prescriptions. The protocols. At Arkham.”

He lifted the papers closer to his chest and glanced over the notes again; his professional mask was slowly sliding back into place, but the crack that had appeared moments ago was still there. “All this time,” he said in a more controlled voice, “the place I’ve been searching for was right in front of me… How did I miss it?”

You frowned. “The place for what?”

“The Forgotten Tunnel,” he said. When the words left his mouth, it was as if a lock clicked into place.

You repeated the name, but it meant nothing to you. “That doesn’t tell me anything.”

“It tells me,” he replied, and his voice darkened. “And if I’m right, it means there’s a battlefield buried beneath Gotham.”

“We need to talk to Gordon,” you said, your breath steady but tight.

He stepped closer; the distance between you narrowed, his shadow swallowing you whole. His gaze dropped to the injuries on your face, then rose back to your eyes. “You’re not getting involved in this, Y/N,” he said, his voice low but absolute. “Because this isn’t a game. Strange—” he paused, weighing the word, “—if he’s done even half of what I think… I’m not dragging you into this war.”

“You’re not dragging me,” you shot back. “I’m already in it.”

Your hands curled into fists; your bruised knuckles throbbed, but you didn’t pull away. “I saw what’s happening in Arkham. I found that lab. I pulled those papers out. This isn’t something you can carry alone anymore.”

Batman shook his head slightly; the gesture was tired and stubborn. “You’re hurt,” he said. His eyes flicked to the dried blood on your nose and your split lip. “And this is just the beginning. Next time you might not be this lucky.”

“It wasn’t luck,” you whispered. “It was preparation. What you taught me.”

That sentence opened another door between you. The hardness in his eyes cracked for a heartbeat, replaced by something rawer. Memory. Guilt. Fear.

“I taught you that to survive,” he said. “Not to walk back into the fire.”

“The more you try to keep me away from the fire,” you replied, your voice sharpening without rising, “the more you push me straight into it. Don’t you see that? You’re trying to protect me, but all you’re doing is leaving me in the dark. And I’m not blind in the dark, Bruce.”

When his name left your lips, the air shifted. The eyes behind the mask sharpened, but you didn’t retreat; you stepped closer instead. There was almost no space left between you. You could feel his breath—measured but deep.

“I’m not your weak point,” you said quietly. “I can be your partner. I want to be. Because it’s the right thing to do. Because what they’re doing to those patients… I can’t ignore it.”

Batman’s hand moved to your arm on instinct; his grip wasn’t harsh, but it was possessive, as if he wanted to anchor you in place. “I can’t risk losing you,” he said. This time the words were unfiltered. “I lost my family once. I’m not making the same mistake again.”

Your fingers slid to his wrist; beneath the hard edges of the armor you felt his pulse, fast and strong. “The only place I’m safe is beside you,” you said intensely. “In front of your eyes. Somewhere you can control. That scares you, because then you’d have to admit how much you need me.”

The words settled heavily between you. Batman didn’t close his eyes, but his gaze softened for a fraction of a second; the edges of his resistance were wearing down.

“If I accept this,” he said slowly, “you play by my rules. You don’t leave my side. You don’t act alone. And if the smallest thing goes wrong—”

“—I pull back,” you finished. “I promise.”

You held each other’s gaze a moment longer; it was more than an agreement. It was a silent negotiation of trust, fear, and an attraction neither of you named.

At last, he inclined his head by a fraction.

“All right,” he said. He raised his right hand slowly to the side of his mask near his ear. With his index and middle fingers, he tapped the armored surface lightly. A faint beep sounded.

In a low, rough, authoritative voice, he said, “Gordon,” when the connection opened. “We need to meet. There’s a new development. Hugo Strange…”

Inside you, there was less victory than relief. Gotham kept breathing below, and as you stood at his side, you felt that this wasn’t just an operation—it was a partnership that would carry you both past a point of no return.

In the early hours of the morning, the bathroom of Wayne Manor still carried the silence left behind by the night; beneath the high ceiling, the marble surfaces softly reflected the pale daylight, and the gray-blue light filtering through the wide windows spread a cool yet peaceful brightness into every corner of the room. The dark veins in the stone walls and the old gothic carvings gave the space an almost cathedral-like weight, but the warm yellow sconces above the sink softened that severity, making the atmosphere unexpectedly intimate. You were sitting on the edge of the marble counter; your bare feet touched the cold floor, and the thin fabric of your morning robe brushed lightly against your injuries on your shoulders. The sharp scent of antiseptic hung in the air, but mixed with the manor’s clean, aged wood smell, it felt strangely comforting.

Bruce stood directly in front of you; the sleeves of his shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and even that simple detail brought back an image you recognized from years ago. He wasn’t wearing gloves. His fingers were bare. After dipping a piece of cotton into antiseptic, he gently held your chin between two fingers and turned your face toward the light. His touch was careful, measured, as if you might break.

“This is going to hurt,” he said in a low voice.

“You said the same thing yesterday,” you replied in a lightly teasing tone. “And I’m still alive.”

When he pressed the cotton to the cut at the corner of your lip, your breath caught involuntarily; the pain was short and sharp, but the warmth his fingers left against your skin was far more distracting. Your eyes drifted to his face. His brows were furrowed, all his attention fixed on your wounds, as if all the chaos in Gotham had ceased to exist for that moment.

“You’re underestimating this,” he said. “It could have been worse.”

“But it wasn’t,” you murmured. “And if I kept you from going down into the underpasses…”

His hand paused for a moment. He lifted his eyes to you; there was no accusation in his gaze, only a thoughtful seriousness.

“Strange is probably erasing the most obvious evidence right now,” he said. “When people panic, they make mistakes. They leave behind things they consider insignificant.” He set the cotton aside and carefully turned your bruised hand with his thumb. “Uncertainty might seem like it’s buying him time, but it’s actually buying it for us. We’ll talk to Gordon. Once an official investigation begins… they won’t have anywhere left to run.”

His fingers closed around your wrist; the grip should have felt purely professional, but feeling the rhythm of your pulse scattered your thoughts. You smiled faintly.

“So I didn’t really stop you,” you said. “I just… forced a strategic pause.”

The corner of his mouth moved almost imperceptibly. “If that’s what you want to call it,” he replied.

The silence was brief but dense. The light filling the bathroom brightened slightly; morning was advancing. Your eyes wandered around — the familiar marble, the old mirrors, the orderly shelves — and an unexpected warmth spread through your chest.

“I missed this place,” you said, as if mentioning something trivial. “The smell of Alfred’s coffee. The echo of footsteps in the corridors.”

Bruce’s hands stilled for a moment. He didn’t lift his head, but his shoulders tightened.

“This has always been your home,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you whispered. “But some things… look different once you step away. It feels like coming back to a place you once belonged to as a guest.”

This time he raised his eyes. His gaze met yours directly; there was something restrained inside it, the weight of years and unsaid sentences.

“There were times I thought I’d lost you,” he said with unexpected honesty. “Not physically. But…” he weighed the words. “What’s between us.”

Your breathing grew shallow. You tried to maintain your lightly teasing mask, but your voice softened. “I don’t get lost that easily.”

“I know,” he said. “But that… doesn’t erase the fear.”

The distance between you had narrowed without either of you noticing. His hand was still around your wrist; his thumb rested over your pulse. His eyes dropped to your lips, then returned to your gaze. The silence in the bathroom thickened; you seemed cut off from the outside world, hearing only each other’s breathing.

“Bruce…” you began, your voice barely a whisper.

The way you said his name changed the air. His face moved a few centimeters closer; his other hand slipped instinctively to your waist, as if steadying you, but the pressure of his fingers lingered longer than necessary. The space between your lips thinned, the tension becoming almost tangible.

At that exact moment, the vibration of your phone echoed sharply across the marble counter.

Both of you froze.

When you glanced at the screen, the name caught your eye: Jonathan Crane.

Bruce’s jaw hardened. His hand remained at your waist, but his fingers tightened slightly. His eyes flicked to the screen, then back to your face.

“Strange,” he said in a low voice, not taking his eyes off the phone. “He must’ve told him about last night.”

Bruce was thinking — fast, layered. “Crane’s reports,” he murmured to himself. “Whether he’s against Strange or working with him… this could be a way to find out.”

His gaze returned to you. “Answer it.”

You hesitated for a second.

That second didn’t escape Bruce’s notice, but he misread the reason — he saw it as danger, suspicion, operational tension.

He tilted his head slightly. “Put it on speaker,” he said.

You answered the call. Your fingers were faintly damp.

“Dr. Crane,” you said in a controlled voice.

The voice on the other end was soft, measured, wrapped in clinical politeness. “Y/N. I apologize for disturbing you this early. But after last night… it would be difficult not to feel some responsibility regarding what happened.”

Bruce was watching you. Your eyes, your expressions, your breathing — everything.

His gaze sharpened. The muscle in his jaw twitched.

“I’m fine,” you said shortly.

Crane was silent for a few seconds. Then his voice lowered. “Even so, I think we should speak face to face. I have… certain concerns about your safety.”

Bruce’s eyes locked onto yours. His lips moved — without sound.

Go.

He gave the faintest nod. Approval.

“What about?” you asked, not taking your eyes off Bruce.

“I’d rather not discuss it over the phone,” Crane said. “Today. Alone.”

Bruce’s gaze darkened further, but his lips shaped another silent word.

Accept.

“All right,” you said. “Time and place?”

Crane gave the details. His voice was calm as always, but beneath the lines something else flowed — a tone only you could recognize, carrying the tense shadow of your history.

“I’ll be there,” you said, and ended the call.

You set the phone down slowly on the counter. The bathroom’s silence returned, but it wasn’t the same; the intimate warmth from before had given way to an operational chill.

Bruce spoke first.

“This is an opportunity,” he said. “To understand his connection to Strange. What he knows. What he’s hiding…”

“And you’re going to use me as bait,” you said flatly.

His gaze didn’t soften, but it didn’t harden either. “I won’t leave you alone. You’ll have a comm in your ear. I’ll hear every second of that conversation. I’ll guide you.”

You couldn’t suppress the wave of discomfort rising inside you.

“Bruce…”

The unease in your voice made him pause.

He tilted his head slightly. “Is there a problem?”

There was.

In your mind, that moment flashed — Crane standing too close, the distance where his breath brushed your face, the tone of his voice dropping to a whisper, the unexpected warmth when his lips touched yours. Your body’s split-second response that had felt like betrayal. Then you pushing him away. Your harsh words. Your escape.

Your stomach tightened.

“No,” you said too quickly.

Bruce fell silent.

He looked at you — long, careful, intuitive. The look of someone who had read you for years. He saw your discomfort, but not its source. And he didn’t try to force it. Because he understood you were hiding something. And that if he pushed, you wouldn’t tell him the truth.

So he only nodded.

“We’ll make him talk,” he said in a calm but resolute tone. “Whatever he’s hiding will come out.”

Bruce stepped closer again. This time his touch wasn’t operational; he placed his hand lightly beneath your cheek, turning your face toward him.

“If anything goes wrong,” he said in a low voice, “I’ll get you out of there in seconds.”

You looked into his eyes. The protective determination in them collided with the lingering warmth of the moment you’d nearly kissed in the bathroom.

“I know,” you whispered.

But in the back of your mind, Crane’s voice was still echoing.

And both of you — for very different reasons — could feel that this meeting wouldn’t be just an operation.

---

The church was like a rusted nail driven into one of Gotham’s forgotten veins; it wasn’t completely ruined, yet it wasn’t standing strong enough to be called intact. The afternoon light filtered through the leaden clouds in the sky and slipped inside through the gaps of the shattered stained-glass windows, spreading across the layers of dust on the floor like a blood-stained reflection. The stone walls smelled of damp; the rotting wooden pews had warped, and the hollow where prayers once echoed now carried only the wind’s low moan. This was a place even abandonment had abandoned.

On the upper level, standing before the wide, fractured stained glass, was Jonathan Crane.

His silhouette appeared like a thin, dark line against the light; the colors filtering through the broken glass fell across his face, painting the shadows beneath his eyes violet and his cheekbones in tones of blood-red. One hand rested in his coat pocket, the other pressed lightly to the phone at his ear. He had already seen the silhouette walking up the road toward the church — you.

As you walked the narrow stone path leading to the chapel, your steps slowed; you couldn’t explain why, but even the ground here felt uneasy. You could feel the weight of an unseen gaze behind your shoulders, yet whenever you turned, no one was there. When you stopped before the church doors, the rhythm of your heartbeat shifted — like a pulse suspended between turning back and going inside. But Crane had already looked away from you, his gaze turned toward the city; he wasn’t impatient. He was calm, like a hunter who enjoyed waiting.

On the other end of the phone was Dr. Hugo Strange.

The corner of Crane’s mouth curved slowly. “You noticed,” he said into the phone, his voice low but carrying a sharp calm. “How long did it take?”

The voice on the other side — Hugo Strange’s — echoed with metallic composure. “Fast enough,” Strange said. “I saw my files being moved, my experimental records — including the ones involving you — erased, the financial traces… rewritten. Manipulation on this scale isn’t the work of one man.”

Crane’s lips curled into an almost invisible smirk. His eyes remained fixed on you as you crossed the church courtyard. “You underestimate me, Hugo,” he said softly.

“No,” Strange replied, his voice harder now. “I take you very seriously. Which is why I’m asking: who’s behind you?”

Crane didn’t answer. He tilted his head slightly; the light from the broken glass fractured in his pupils. “Because,” Strange continued, “this confidence… this sense of immunity… doesn’t belong to a scientist alone. It rests on power. And when I find that power… I’ll eliminate you, and them.”

The implication was clear. Behind his words lingered the cold shadow of the Court of Owls — ancient, aristocratic, invisible.

Crane tilted his head faintly; his gaze drifted down to you walking below. As you approached the doors, he watched you with a hunter’s patience.

“I know how solid you believe your structures are, Hugo,” he said slowly. “But sometimes… there’s another structure behind the structure.”

Strange fell silent.

Crane continued, never taking his eyes off you, his voice soft as velvet but carrying a hidden blade. “The Owls hunt at night… true. But there are shadows even an owl wouldn’t dare fly above.”

For the first time, real silence formed on the line — analytical, calculating silence. When Strange spoke again, his voice was still controlled, but sharpened with new caution.

“You don’t know who you’re playing with.”

Crane lifted his chin slightly. His gaze slid back to the path below — to you. He watched your hesitant steps as you neared the church, the tension in your shoulders, the instinctive unease in your posture. And inside his chest, a familiar dark warmth spread. Obsession rose from the deepest layer of his mind to the surface.

“On the contrary,” he said into the phone, his eyes still on you. “I know exactly who I’m playing with.”

Strange’s voice sharpened. “This is a war, Jonathan. And you—”

Crane cut him off. “No,” he said with calm certainty. “This is a hunt.”

His gaze tracked you as you reached the door.

“And the difference between prey and hunter… I understand far better than you think.”

When you pushed the door open, the sound of rotting wood groaned through the air. Crane’s pupils widened slightly; the strategic coldness in his gaze gave way to something else — more personal, deeper, more obsessively intense.

The phone was still at his ear, but his focus had shifted entirely to you.

“You won’t be able to protect her,” Strange said suddenly. “Y/N made a grave mistake touching my projects. And that… turns your weakness for her into my prey.”

The smile on Crane’s face froze — then sharpened into something more dangerous. “Don’t say her name,” he said, for the first time with open hardness.

Silence.

You had stepped further inside, approaching the staircase that led to the upper level. Your footsteps echoed through the hollow space.

Crane spoke one last time:

“If you want to know who stands behind the shadows… look up, Hugo. Because sometimes the hands holding the strings are far higher than you expect.”

A brief pause.

“And I… can feel their breath very close.”

Without waiting for a response, he ended the call.

Crane didn’t move for several seconds. He waited for you — with his entire mind. In the middle of that decaying church, where his childhood fears had once imprisoned him… the thought of seeing you now created a strange, dark fusion inside him: trauma, desire, possession.

All you could see was his back. He was still looking out through the glass.

The silence stretched.

At last, to draw his attention, you spoke:

“Dr. Crane.”

When your voice echoed through the church, Jonathan Crane slowly turned his head; the crimson light filtering through the shattered stained glass painted one half of his face while leaving the other in shadow, and that half-lit, half-dark state gave his gaze an almost supernatural depth. When he saw you, the faint smile forming at the corner of his lips was not merely a greeting — it was the quiet satisfaction of waiting, calculating, and… the desire to possess.

“You’re right on time,” he said, his voice echoing through the hollow church like velvet. “As always.”

The subtle, personal vibration in his tone was immediately noticeable; this was not just a therapist addressing his patient, but the impatient satisfaction of a man watching the woman he had been waiting for arrive.

You stopped a few steps in front of him, measuring your distance.

“For a conversation,” you said coldly, “you could have chosen somewhere less… symbolic. Why here?”

Crane’s gaze drifted briefly around — the broken pews, the darkened altar, the shadows along the ceiling — before returning to you.

“Because this place,” he said slowly, “is my turning point.”

There was a cold echo of the past in his voice; he chose his words as if walking carefully over stone.

“There are places in a person’s life,” he continued, “that shape you, break you… and rebuild you.” A brief pause. “Bringing a woman I value to such a place… felt meaningful.”

He took a step toward you. Your reflex was faster than thought; you stepped back. The movement was small but drew a sharp line between you. Crane noticed. Of course he noticed. For a brief instant, the ghost of that moment in his office flickered in his eyes — the moment he had cornered you, when his lips had touched yours. But he didn’t confront you with it. He only looked.

A few streets away, inside a parked car near the church, Bruce Wayne had heard all of this. He was listening to every syllable, every breath through the earpiece. Crane calling you “a woman I value”… that tone… that soft possessiveness.

At first, he couldn’t process what it meant. Nonsense. Psychological manipulation. A distraction tactic. But in truth, he had understood. He wasn’t stupid enough to miss the shift in Crane’s voice, the personal undertone beneath his words. His analytical mind was fully capable of decoding the psychology behind symbolic choices — but when it came to you, he chose to shut those pathways down in his subconscious.

He forced his focus back to the conversation.

You, meanwhile, kept your distance.

“You said this was about last night,” you said directly. “That’s what we should be talking about.”

Crane’s gaze sharpened, but he wasn’t offended; on the contrary, he seemed to take a strange pleasure in your continued caution and distance.

He tilted his head slightly; the dark focus in his eyes sharpened again.

“Of course,” he said. “Strange’s illegal experiments, the structure behind him… and my role in what I should do with the evidence I’ve gathered about him.”

Bruce’s voice came through your earpiece — short, sharp:

Ask why he’s doing it.

“Why?” you said. “I thought you were working together. Did you have a falling-out… or are you planning to sell him out?”

Crane’s smile deepened this time.

“Strange forgot who he was,” he said. “Arkham’s legacy. Amadeus Arkham’s ideals.” His gaze hardened. “Whoever takes over that institution must not betray that legacy.”

You tilted your head slightly.

“Is that successor you?” you asked.

Crane clearly enjoyed the question; a thin glint lit his eyes.

“I like hearing you say that,” he replied softly. “But the power behind Strange… is greater than you think. Working behind his back wasn’t sustainable for long.”

Bruce’s voice returned through the earpiece:

What changed his mind? Ask.

“And now?” you said. “Why aren’t you afraid anymore? Why move now to expose what you know?”

This time, Crane looked at you before answering — long, measured, intensely personal.

“Because it’s no longer just about Arkham,” he said in a low voice. “You’re involved.”

A thin tension stirred in your chest.

“Strange’s attention has shifted to you,” he continued. “And that… changes everything.”

He stepped closer. You didn’t retreat — but you froze.

“Protecting you,” he said, his voice darkening like velvet, “has taken priority over everything.” His eyes moved across your face — as if he wasn’t only looking, but touching.

Bruce’s breathing shifted in your ear; you felt it too.

“Even your shadow isn’t safe near him,” Crane whispered. “But with me… you are safe.”

The words echoed in your mind.

Shadow.

Safe.

He continued, his voice dropping further.

“I won’t allow anyone to touch you. And if someone is going to…” he went on, his tone velvet-soft but dangerously possessive, “…I know how it should be done.”

Touch.

The word struck somewhere deep in your subconscious — sending vibrations through buried memories, like echoes of past therapies and sedated recollections.

Then his hand lifted. His fingers moved toward your cheek.

You should have pulled back. But for a moment, your body hesitated — locked in surprise, in that strange conditioned calm from your subconscious.

The warmth of his fingers touched your skin.

At the same instant, inside the car, Bruce Wayne’s fingers slowly tightened around the leather of the steering wheel. His face showed nothing. But what rose inside his mind… was dark. Jealousy, in him, was something cold and silent; it didn’t explode, didn’t shout — it took root. He didn’t see it… but he heard it. Hearing Crane touch you, hearing the possessiveness in his words… awakened the most primal protective instinct in him. He didn’t want to kill him. But he now knew how Crane looked at you. And that knowledge moved through his veins like a slow, poisonous fire.

While the ghost of the warmth Jonathan Crane’s fingers had left on your cheek had not yet faded, Bruce’s voice came through the earpiece again. This time it was no longer just a whisper carrying the shadow of jealousy; he had regained control — the measured tone of a man retreating into strategy.

Invite him tonight.

You steadied your breathing, keeping your voice even while you felt Crane’s gaze resting on you.

“Tonight,” you said, “there will be a meeting at the old Wayne building. I’ll send you the location. Gordon will be there. Batman too.” You paused briefly, measuring his reaction. “To open an official investigation into Strange.”

Crane’s eyes sharpened, but he didn’t pull back; if anything, the proposal intrigued him more than you expected.

“I see,” he said slowly. “And Bruce Wayne?”

“He’s working to clear the Foundation’s name, so I’ll be there representing him,” you added.

Crane tilted his head slightly; a thin, calculating glint moved through his eyes.

“In that case,” he said, “Charlotte Rivers should attend as well.”

The name echoed against the church’s cold stone. An involuntary tension stirred inside you. Your brows tightened before you could stop it.

“Charlotte?” you asked, trying to keep your tone neutral. “Why?”

Crane’s lips curved slowly. “For the public dimension. For the possibility of a media leak. If we want to expose Strange… we’ll need a journalist.” A brief pause. “And Rivers is already close to the Wayne Foundation.”

In your earpiece, Bruce’s breathing went quiet for a second — then returned.

Accept.

Your jaw tightened. You suppressed the unease her name stirred in you, but this time Bruce’s voice came softer, more personal:

I approve.

Your heart tightened with a thin ache. That woman’s name was like a sharp blade, reminding you of her place in his life. But you didn’t let it show.

“All right,” you said to Crane. “Charlotte will be there.”

Crane watched you; he seemed to catch even the smallest tremor her name had caused. But he didn’t press it. Not yet. Silence fell between you like a heavy curtain. Then Crane didn’t step back. On the contrary… he moved closer. His step was slow, measured — as if he didn’t want to startle you, yet certain enough not to let you escape. The stained-glass light fell between you; red and violet shadows painted his face.

You should have stepped back. But your body froze, stunned.

Crane’s face drew closer to yours; you felt the warmth of his breath. His eyes dropped to your lips, then rose back to your gaze. There was desire in that look — but mixed with something darker, more possessive.

Bruce’s voice didn’t come through the earpiece. But you felt the weight of his silence.

Crane tilted his head slightly; his lips were only a breath away from yours.

You thought he would kiss you. Your heart quickened — with an unwanted tension, the shock of an unwanted closeness. But his lips never touched yours. Instead, he stopped near your cheek; his voice dropped low enough that only you could hear it.

“People think love is pure,” he whispered. “I don’t.” His breath brushed your skin. “What I feel for you… has already crossed the line between protecting you and possessing you.”

He paused.

“And if I can’t pull you out of the darkness…” his lips curved faintly, “…then I’ll keep you safe inside it.”

Then he pulled back. Without touching you. Without kissing you. But what he left behind… was heavier than a kiss.

He turned away, walking slowly toward the church exit; his coat brushed the stone floor as his silhouette passed through the stained-glass light and dissolved into shadow.

There was still silence in your earpiece. Bruce didn’t say a word. He only waited.

When you were alone in the church, you headed for the door and stepped outside; the evening light hit your eyes. Down the road, the black car was still parked.

As you approached, Bruce was at the wheel. His face was half in shadow.

When you closed the door of the black car, the cold that had seeped from the church’s stone walls still clung to you; the red light of the stained glass flickered behind your eyes, and Crane’s breath lingered in your mind along with the warm ghost it had left on your cheek. Bruce sat behind the wheel, his hands resting on the leather too calmly, too controlled; but beneath that control, you could see how tense his muscles were, how white his knuckles had become. The engine started, the car moved forward slowly, yet the silence inside was heavier than the hum of the road; his silence wasn’t an absence, it was a choice. Bruce Wayne sometimes said more by remaining quiet, and today that silence settled between you like a blade sharper than words.

As the city lights streamed past the window, you watched his profile; his jaw was set, his eyes fixed on the road, yet you could feel that his mind was elsewhere. He had heard Crane lean close to you in the church, had listened to his whispers, but he hadn’t said a word; now the echo of that moment lingered inside the car. Bruce’s jealousy didn’t explode like anger — it condensed inward like pressure; he was trying to think like a strategist, to analyze the emotion, to keep himself under control. But control did not always mean the absence of feeling; sometimes it was only its postponement.

“I told you to call him,” he said at last, his voice low and measured, as if he were discussing only the plan, not what had just happened. “He’s the only bridge we have to reach Strange.” His sentences were logical, perfectly placed; yet the tension beneath his tone pointed elsewhere. His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly, his eyes flicked toward you for a brief second before returning to the road. “He didn’t need to get that close to you,” he added, stepping outside the boundaries of strategy.

Your breath caught slightly; you hadn’t expected him to say it so directly. “He didn’t,” you replied carefully, choosing your words. “He only talked.” The sentence was true, but incomplete; what it lacked was the tension of that moment, his breath against your face, the way your body had frozen. Bruce’s brows knit faintly; he wasn’t accusing you, but he was trying to complete a picture in his mind. “I heard the way he looked at you,” he said, his voice more personal now, more exposed. “And I didn’t like it.”

The air inside the car grew heavier; Bruce Wayne usually analyzed what he disliked with cold composure, but this time analysis and emotion were intertwined. In that moment he wasn’t seeing Crane merely as a threat, nor you as a piece in an equation; he saw you as a woman, as a bond, as something that could be lost. “Since your internship began…” he said slowly, weighing the words, “is there something between you and him that you haven’t told me?” The question wasn’t accusatory, but it was wounded; it walked that thin line between wanting to know and fearing the answer.

Your heart tightened because there was something he didn’t know — though not in the way he imagined; you had no awareness of the words Crane had planted in your mind, but not every moment of the therapy had felt entirely innocent to you either. “It was only therapy,” you said, meeting his gaze. “About the puppets.” Bruce nodded faintly; he knew it was therapy, his mind accepted that, but another voice inside him remained uneasy. “You could have told me,” he said, this time softer. “You didn’t have to be alone with your fears.”

There was something heavier than jealousy in that sentence: a sense of being left out. Bruce was used to protecting you, to standing beside you in your weakest moments; but the fact that another man — Jonathan Crane of all people — had touched your fears unsettled him. That discomfort was less about possession and more about lateness; the quiet ache of not having been there in a certain moment. “Don’t let him get close to you,” he said finally, his voice controlled again, though a crack ran through it. “We can move against Strange together. We can plan. But Crane… he’s someone who doesn’t recognize boundaries.” He paused briefly, as if he knew he shouldn’t continue. “And I’m not leaving you inside that line.”

As the car approached the gates of the manor, the conversation wasn’t finished — it had only sunk deeper; Bruce’s jealousy was like a fire held under control, from the outside only warmth was visible, but inside the flames were rising silently. The possibility of losing you, Crane’s gaze, the small fragments of doubt that had gathered since the first day of your internship — they had all melted into the same crucible. And Bruce Wayne, carrying both Batman’s cold intelligence and a man’s fragile heart at once, without looking at you yet feeling your presence in every cell of his body, thought this: the war between protecting you and setting you free might be the hardest battle he had ever faced.

Location: Abandoned Mausoleum belonging to the Wayne Family

Time: Midnight

When the door of the Wayne family mausoleum opened, even the air that slipped inside felt aged — heavy with damp, stone, and forgotten grief. As you stepped in, the sound of your footsteps echoed beneath the domed ceiling, returning to you as though rising from between the tombs themselves. This wasn’t just a family burial site — it was the frozen heart of Bruce’s past.

Sarcophagi lined the walls; the old engravings of the Wayne name carved into their marble surfaces flickered under candlelight, the shadows making the letters seem alive. Stone statues — ancestors of the Wayne lineage — stood with heads slightly bowed, eyes fixed into emptiness, like silent witnesses observing the meeting. The long stone table at the center, usually meant for prayer offerings, had been transformed tonight into a war council.

And he stood at the center of this darkness.

Batman.

His tall black silhouette was motionless before the tombs; his cape touched the ground, candlelight carving sharp lines across his mask. When he turned his gaze toward you, there was more than operational composure in it — there was the inner tension of having brought you here.

James Gordon stood to the right side of the table; thick case files, photographs, and maps were spread open before him. The exhaustion etched into his face deepened under the light. Charlotte Rivers stood at the opposite end — her journalist’s instinct scanning not only the criminal implications of the room, but the emotional tension flowing through it.

When the door opened a third time, Jonathan Crane stepped inside.

He walked slowly, studying the space — the stone walls, the sarcophagi, the carved Wayne names. This place was a traumatic sanctuary for Bruce; Crane could feel it. Then his gaze found you. Not Gordon. Not Batman. You. His eyes lingered for only a second — but that second was deeply personal. Then he shifted his attention to the table as if nothing had happened, analytical composure settling over him again — though something more private lingered beneath it.

“Gathering in the midst of death…” he said slowly. “Strategic… as much as it is symbolic.”

Batman opened the discussion.

“Hugo Strange is at the center of the investigation,” he said. His voice echoed across the mausoleum’s stone walls, deep and authoritative. “Missing patients. Illegal experiments. Financial record manipulation.”

Crane inclined his head slightly, listening without interruption. Then he spoke.

“The purpose of the experiments isn’t treatment,” he said. “Not to erase fear… but to weaponize it.”

Gordon opened a file.

“The evidence we have so far is circumstantial,” he said. “Without the exact lab location, experiment records, financial chain… we can’t file charges.”

Crane was about to speak when Batman turned slightly toward you — you felt the masked gaze signal you.

You were meant to provide the information.

You steadied your breath.

“The primary facility where Strange’s experiments are conducted,” you said, “is beneath Gotham. In the old infrastructure tunnels connected to Arkham.”

Charlotte lifted her head.

“How far beneath?”

“In the convergence zone of the city’s abandoned metro and service lines,” you continued. “A network erased from maps.”

Batman added a single phrase:

“The Forgotten Tunnels.”

At the words, Gordon’s face hardened.

“Getting in there is nearly impossible,” he said. “Even the maps are incomplete.”

Charlotte spoke up. “If I publish this,” she said, glancing at her notebook, “the city will erupt. But the Wayne Foundation will burn with it.”

Batman turned to her. “I’m here to protect the Foundation.” His voice was clear. Cold. But you knew the man behind the mask — this wasn’t just institutional defense; it was a reflex to protect his family’s legacy.

Crane’s brow lifted slightly. “So you already knew the location,” he said, looking at Batman.

Batman answered without delay.

“I learned it from her — it was in the report she found in your lab.” He inclined his head slightly toward you.

The power balance in the room shifted.

You were the source of the intelligence. Crane looked at you for a long moment, impossible to read. What he was truly processing now was that your real target might be him. And that realization… fed the darker motivations already forming in his mind.

Charlotte stepped closer to the table. “If this is accurate… Strange’s experiments aren’t just a medical scandal. This is a city-scale criminal network.”

Crane reached into the inner pocket of his coat. He placed a small black USB drive onto the table. Candlelight flickered across its metal surface. “Your real task is to expose the information inside this device,” he said, then continued, “A journalist’s golden key — and it found you.”

Charlotte picked up the USB. “What is this?”

“Strange’s experimental budgets,” Crane said. “I traced the expenditures. Proof the funds never passed through the Wayne Foundation.”

Charlotte’s gaze sharpened. “Source?”

Crane smiled faintly.

“Encrypted email chains. Orders issued through false identities. Experiment directives. All routed through Strange’s own network.”

Gordon closed the file.

“This… opens an official investigation.”

Silence settled over the chamber.

Charlotte added:

“If I publish this, the city will erupt.”

Batman’s voice cut through — cold, precise:

“That’s exactly the point. To divide his attention.”

Crane spoke again, without taking his eyes off you:

“Strange’s interest is no longer limited to me.”

The sentence hung in the air.

Batman’s shoulders tensed almost imperceptibly.

Crane continued, still looking at you:

“There’s a new name on his target list.”

The candle flames in the mausoleum trembled. And you felt, in that moment, that this meeting was not just the planning of an operation…but the beginning of a war with you at its center.

As Crane’s words — “There’s a new name on the target list” — echoed beneath the stone dome of the mausoleum, the candle flames seemed to tremble under the weight of that sentence.

Gordon was the first to recover. “Who?” he asked sharply.

Crane didn’t answer. His eyes remained fixed only on you. The silence said more than any word could.

Charlotte noticed it. She looked at you first, then at Crane, and finally at the figure behind the mask — Batman. Her journalistic instinct had already begun reading the invisible currents moving through the room. “Is there something else that isn’t being said here?” she asked.

The question landed on the table like a blade. No one answered immediately.

Batman’s gaze locked onto Crane; his face was hidden behind the mask, but the tension in his shoulders showed even through the folds of his cape.

Crane smiled — a thin, provocative smile. “I can say that Strange has taken… a special interest in certain subjects,” he said. “Especially those with high mental resistance potential.”

Gordon cut in. “Let’s stay on topic.” He spread a map across the table — Gotham’s underground infrastructure plans, marked heavily in red.

“There are three entry points into the Forgotten Tunnels,” he said. “But all of them are either collapsed or being monitored.”

Batman spoke:

“We’re going in anyway.”

Charlotte lifted her head. “If the press finds out—”

“They won’t,” Batman said.

Gordon frowned. “This is a suicide mission.”

Silence followed.

When you spoke, your voice was calmer than you expected.

“I’m coming too.”

All three men turned to you at once.

Gordon objected immediately. “Absolutely not.”

Batman said nothing, but you felt his stare harden.

Crane, however… smiled faintly. “That would be interesting,” he said softly. “Observing her mental resistance in the field.”

Batman’s voice came out sharper this time:

“This isn’t observation. It’s an operation.”

Crane shrugged. “Same thing.”

Charlotte spoke again, but this time her voice sounded less like a journalist and more like a woman: “Do we have to put her at risk?”

With that sentence, Charlotte’s gaze locked directly onto you for the first time — measuring, weighing, comparing.

A brief silence fell.

Batman finally spoke: “No.”

It was a single word, but it cut the discussion in half.

Crane tilted his head slightly. “Even so… if Strange has already targeted her,” he said, his eyes returning to you, “keeping her out won’t protect her.”

That sentence changed the air.

Gordon closed the file. “The operation will be in two phases,” he said. “Recon first. Then intervention.”

Charlotte lifted the USB drive.

“I’ll analyze this data. Spending chains, forged emails, financial links… we can dismantle Strange in the court of public opinion.”

Batman gave a short nod. “Be fast.”

The meeting began to disperse.

Gordon gathered his files. Charlotte put on her coat. Both of them headed for the door.

But you didn’t leave.

Crane didn’t leave either.

Batman hadn’t moved from his place at all.

When the heavy door of the mausoleum closed behind Gordon and Charlotte, the silence that remained wasn’t merely environmental — it was the kind of silence where three different heartbeats, three different intentions, collided in the same darkness, where tension gained physical weight. Candle flames cast trembling shadows across the stone walls, and the sarcophagi of the Wayne family rose like silent witnesses to the scene.

The three of you were alone.

Crane spoke first.

He didn’t raise his voice; he lowered it — as though speaking loudly in this place would disturb the dead.

“You’re not taking her into the field,” he said to Batman.

But his eyes weren’t locked on the mask.

They were locked on you.

That gaze… wasn’t the gaze of someone who wanted to protect — it was the gaze of someone who wanted to possess.

Batman didn’t answer.

His cape shifted slightly; you saw the tension tighten across his shoulders, though his face remained buried in shadow.

Crane stepped forward. His footsteps echoed against the stone floor and up into the mausoleum’s dome. “You want to protect her,” he said softly. “But the darkness has already found her.”

This time Batman’s voice came — low, sharp, barely restrained. “Watch your distance, Crane. ”It was a warning. And a line drawn in stone.

Crane stopped. He smiled. “I didn’t even touch her.”

The sentence carried the ghost of that moment in the church into the mausoleum’s cold air. That second when you hadn’t stepped back… the closeness of his breath against your face… it all seemed to exist again.

Batman’s jaw hardened.

He said nothing — but you saw his gloved fingers slowly curl, the leather creaking loud enough to reach the stone walls.

The silence grew heavier. And standing between them, you felt it in your bones — this tension wasn’t only about Strange anymore… it was becoming a darker, more personal war growing between the two men.

You steadied your breath. You couldn’t stay silent. You felt you had to be the one to speak. “I’m joining the operation,” you said. Your words echoed through the mausoleum.

Batman didn’t turn immediately, but you felt the gaze behind the mask shift toward you. “No,” he said, short and final. That tone… the one you’d known for years — the one he used when he was trying to protect you. And this time, it made you angry.

You stepped slightly toward Crane’s side — a deliberate, measured, unmistakable move. “This is my war too,” you said. “Strange’s experiments, the patients in Arkham… I was at the center of all of it.”

Crane was watching you — attentively, with quiet satisfaction.

“This isn’t only about Strange for me,” you continued. “This is… the name of the Wayne Foundation. A legacy that belongs to Bruce’s family. And I—” You hesitated. But you didn’t step back. “I owe that name.”

The moment that word fell into the air, everything changed.

Owe.

Behind the mask, Bruce Wayne’s inner world fractured around that single word. Because to him, you were never: A responsibility that had to be protected. A burden that had to be repaid. Someone bound by a debt of gratitude. The only reason he kept you close, protected you, made space for you… was unconditional love. And now you were calling it a debt.

Batman said nothing. But his silence grew heavier. His shoulders tightened. His gloved fingers slowly curled around the edge of his cape. This wasn’t just anger — it was hurt.

You didn’t see it. But Crane did. Of course he did. He had been analyzing Batman with clinical precision ever since the Riddler claimed that Batman was Bruce Wayne. And because he was impatiently waiting for the day Riddler would be proven right, he never hesitated to slip into any crack he found.

“High sense of responsibility,” Crane said softly. “That… is a valuable trait.” He stepped closer to you — slower this time, more measured. “Keeping her away from the field won’t protect her,” he said, looking at Batman, though there was warmth in his tone directed at you. “Preparing her will.”

With that sentence, you felt yourself unintentionally positioned beside Crane.

Batman’s gaze hardened. The silence stretched. Candle flames trembled.

Finally Batman spoke — but not to you. Into the air. “This isn’t a mission.”

He stepped closer. Now the distance between you was dangerously thin. The shadow of his mask fell across your face. “This… is a line you don’t come back from.”

You felt the warmth of his breath. But you didn’t step back. “I already crossed that line,” you said. “The moment Strange learned I’d been secretly searching his lab.”

A brief silence followed.

Crane was watching the tension — like a scientist observing two different species of fear colliding.

At last Batman stepped back. But the movement wasn’t approval — it was restraint, an act to prevent losing control.

He stayed silent. And in that silence, you felt something shift: Even if he didn’t take you into the operation… He couldn’t stop you anymore.

As the candlelight of the mausoleum flickered, the gazes of the two men met on you again.

One wanted to keep you away from the darkness.

The other… wanted to claim you within it.

And you stood between them.

---

At four in the morning, the corridors of Wayne Manor felt less like the interior of a living residence and more like the inside of a monument holding its breath; the paintings on the walls were swallowed by darkness, and the crystal chandeliers no longer gave light, only the quiet awareness of their presence. When Bruce climbed the stairs with heavy steps, his footsteps didn’t echo across the marble floor — as if the manor itself refused to disturb his exhaustion, swallowing the sound. When he noticed your door slightly ajar, he paused; the faint draft from inside revealed the window was open. Without pushing the door further, he stepped in — and saw you, your back turned to the window, motionless like a night that refused to give way to dawn.

You hadn’t heard him arrive; your mind was occupied by another possibility, tying Bruce’s late return to Charlotte, imagining — unwillingly — that he might be with her. You had tried to suppress the thought, but jealousy sometimes overpowered reason; that was why your fingers gripping the window ledge were tense. Bruce watched you for a moment — not just looking, studying; he remembered your stance at the meeting, your resolve in the mausoleum, the dark spark in your eyes when Strange’s name had been spoken. He had wanted to keep you outside this world, but now he realized that was no longer possible — perhaps it never had been.

“You didn’t sleep.”

His voice came from behind you, and your shoulders flinched slightly; you turned slowly. He stood by the door, tie loosened, jacket still on; tired, yet his gaze was alive — not hardening when it landed on you, but deepening. He took a few steps forward, slow but deliberate, as if making one last calculation about whether to approach you or not.

“At the meeting…” he said, his eyes fixed on your face, “…you were very resolute.”

There was unhidden pride in his voice; this wasn’t praise directed at a colleague, but at someone he had raised. “You didn’t step back when Gordon spoke. You weighed Crane’s words. You didn’t avert your eyes when Strange’s name came up.” A brief pause. “You were brave.”

A faint shadow touched the corner of your lips. “You raised me,” you said quietly. “You shouldn’t be surprised.”

The sentence lingered in the room; Bruce’s gaze softened, but then drifted to the window — the same window. Both your minds were pulled to the same memory: the night you had said you would give up the Wayne surname. You had stood there, back turned to him, drawing a sharp line between you. That window had witnessed your first great fracture; now you stood at the edge of another turning point.

“I heard what you said tonight in the mausoleum,” he said at last, his voice lower. “Debt.”

When he repeated the single word, there was no harshness in his tone — only a fragile weight.

“I don’t want you to see yourself as indebted to me… or to this family.” He stepped closer; the distance between you narrowed. “The reason I keep you beside me isn’t gratitude.”

Your eyes turned to him. “But that’s how it feels,” you admitted honestly. “I lived under that name. I grew up in that house. When I said I might leave it one day… it felt like betrayal.” Your fingers slipped from the window ledge, replaced by a hesitation hanging in the air. “That’s why I want to be worthy. Of this life. Of this name. Of you.”

Bruce was silent for a long moment; the silence wasn’t anger, but the effort of placing emotion into the right words. He lifted his hand hesitantly, then brushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear. The touch was light, but he didn’t withdraw; his fingers lingered against your cheek for a moment too long — at the border between tenderness and something more restrained.

“You were never a debt,” he said. “And you never will be.”

The certainty in his voice was as deep as the night beyond the window.

He watched you for a while; his gaze moved over your face, carrying not only emotion but a protective analysis. “Tonight…” he began, then stopped before finishing the sentence. He didn’t say it directly, but the implication hung in the air — Crane standing close to you in the mausoleum, his gaze, the possessive tone in his voice.

“Some people,” he said at last, choosing his words carefully, “interpret boundaries differently.”

It was a sentence spoken without naming anyone, yet its meaning was unmistakable.

“Seeing you in the field… divides me in two,” he continued. “One part of me sees how strong you stand there. The other… doesn’t want to think of you on the same line as everyone else in that world.”

He stepped closer; the space between you shrank to a breath. When the warmth of his hand touched your arm, the contact wasn’t accidental; it wasn’t to pull you back, but to keep you near.

“I want to protect you,” he said quietly. “But not by underestimating you.” A brief pause; his gaze locked onto yours. “And I won’t allow anyone to measure you by the way they think they can get close to you.”

Jealousy didn’t shout in that sentence, but it ran deep; Bruce Wayne’s possessiveness was never loud — it was quiet and absolute. His fingers slid from your arm to your wrist, the touch still controlled, not crossing the line but making its presence known.

“Once you step into this world, there’s no going back,” he said. “I can’t hide that from you.” Then his voice softened, cracked but didn’t break. “But I’m afraid of losing you inside it.”

You stood before the window — the very place where you had once said you would walk away from him — now defending your choice to walk into the darkness beside him. In Bruce’s gaze, two men existed at once: the one who wanted to keep you away from this life, and the one who could no longer deny how strong you stood within it. And in that gaze, even unspoken, one truth pressed down with full weight:

He wanted to protect you. But he knew now… he could no longer stop you.

Candlelight struck the stone walls and returned in wavering echoes; the circular chamber beneath the city felt like a courtroom untouched for centuries. Perhaps night was beginning to loosen its grip above Gotham, but down here there was no passage of time — only decisions, only sealed fates. The figures seated around the long marble table were motionless, each of them having left behind identity, status, even humanity behind the mask of an owl. Authority filled the room before a single word was spoken; this chamber carried power long before it carried sound.

The newspaper placed upon the table landed like a gavel strike against stone.

The front page was opened.

“DARKNESS BENEATH ARKHAM.”

The headline trembled in the candlelight; when a pale shaft of light filtered down across the page, the ink looked less like print and more like blood. One of the masked figures drew the paper closer — not with fingertips, but with the slow deliberation of someone touching something that already belonged to them.

“It has surfaced,” a muffled voice said.

Another figure leaned forward; the darkness inside the eye sockets fell over the page.

“Earlier than expected.”

The silence that followed was brief but heavy. None of them panicked — Owls did not panic. They calculated, and then they countered.

A subheading was read aloud:

“Young intern…”

That word shifted the balance of the room.

One mask tilted slightly. “From inside.”

“Not an observer,” another corrected. “A witness.”

The paper was pushed back to the center of the table. The phrase Forgotten Tunnels, the insinuations toward elite families, the financial chains — each detail was examined without emotion. There was no outrage, no surprise. Only risk assessment.

Then the eldest among them spoke. His voice was calmer than the rest — because power did not need to raise itself.

“The laboratory will be cleared.”

Another added:

“The files will be relocated.”

A third:

“Connections will be severed.”

The decisions followed one after another, delivered with ceremonial gravity. Strange’s name was not spoken directly, but everyone knew what was required. This was not about saving a man — it was about preserving a system.

Silence settled again.

One of the masks reopened the newspaper. A finger stopped on a single line:

“…the intern’s safety is among the most critical concerns.”

For the first time, the air in the chamber shifted.

“Safety,” a low voice repeated. “So they are afraid.”

Another inclined his head slightly. “They should be.”

This silence lasted longer. The decision was not yet named, but its shape was forming. The Owls never rushed — they studied their prey, learned its habits, and struck in a single, decisive motion.

At last, the figure at the head of the table lifted his gaze.

“The witness…”

The word hung in the air.

“…will she continue to see?”

The question did not seek an answer; it initiated a procedure.

One of the masks dipped faintly — whether in approval or simple acknowledgment, it was impossible to tell.

The candle flames trembled in unison.

“Watch her,” the elder voice said.

A brief pause.

“Do not approach… not yet.”

That yet was the coldest thing in the room.

The newspaper was folded closed.

The headline showed one final time before sinking back into shadow.

The meeting did not adjourn — the Owls did not disperse. They simply receded into darkness.

And as dawn rose over Gotham, a decision had already been made beneath it.

It had not been named.

Bruce had been called many things in his life, too many awful and offensive things he had quickly learned not to pay attention to. Caring gave them meaning, he was told so early on, caring gave them significance. Now, he really couldn’t care less.

Throughout the course of his life, throughout all the tragedy and grief, Bruce had learned to ignore it all; the names, the judgments, the looks, the labels. His indifference had become second nature, an innate response to anybody trying to provoke him.

He didn’t really have a choice anyway. There were too many people praying on his downfall since his birth, too many people biting at the fruits of his labor to see if they were ripe enough for the taking. Selfish, greedy, money hungry men desperate for his demise.

Sharks lurking in untamed depths ready to snatch him up if he swam too far, hiding in the black shores with their sharp teeth bared and beady eyes hungry.

Despite what many people believed, Bruce didn’t have it so easy in the sense of work and spirit. When you were rich like he was, famous like he was, as powerful as he was, everyone believed you couldn’t possibly be burdened by anything.

That he was too spoiled by the grandness of life that it had gradually bled into a lack of work ethic, that it was his last name that gave him any status at all, that it was his reputation that gave him everything he had without him having to ask for it.

He had the money to fix any problem, the influence to hide any scandal, the face to get him out of any situation he needed to get out of.

He was CEO of Wayne Enterprises for gods sake, son to Thomas Wayne, a man that was great and beloved all in his own right. Yes, people had doubted Bruce’s ability to lead, to run a business after so long of being away from it, but then he came back and proved them all wrong as he usually did.

Being someone so honorably renowned in Gotham City, someone that carried the Wayne name at that, it came with its own barrel of familial obligation and responsibility outside of his own personal commitments. He couldn’t disappoint anyone, could never fathom disappointing his late father.

Working by day a normal man with a bullet on his back, a price on his head to any hungry buisness man willing to do whatever it took to get to the top. Then working by night as Batman with the bruises and scars to show for it. Someone every criminal and lowlife in Gotham City wanted dead.

Batman, not so much a label as he was a separate being entirely. It was Bruce, but he couldn’t find any similarities between the polite buisness man wearing a suit by day and the other man wearing a blood stained mask by night. One was forced to coerce with society in the manner of business and passive aggressive smiles, another undertaking the grueling task of removing the grime from it.

Bruce Wayne was all expensive cologne and hand shake deals, money hungry tabloids and self absorbed white collars. It was a life always on display, always the center of attention, always everyone else’s focus.

Batman was purely mystery and intrigue. Hidden from sight yet found in every shadow, heard in the trembled whisper of every breath. No one knew who he was yet he had somehow gotten all of their attention. Everyone eager to know who was behind the mask but no one ready to answer for why he existed in the first place.

The only similarities they shared were the cause for conspiracy. Whether it was Bruce or Batman they stole every headline — always someone trying to figure them out, bring their true identity to light and spread more moral quandary about whether they were right or wrong for every choice they made.

Pure opposite lives he juggled in the same two hands.

No, he did not have it easy. Always more enemies than friends and more snakes than family. Every hour, every minute, every second he spent left exposed there was always someone right behind him ready to push him if he faltered.

He had to be careful; always be passive and nice, diplomatic and respectful to those he knew wanted him gone, to the people who wanted his seat at the head of the table and the money in his bank. Bruce had to be the CEO his father wanted him to be, the one he was destined to be, the one etched into his history before he was even born.

He had a reputation to uphold, a legacy to live, a job to do.

But no, it was not always easy.

Being rich and handsome like he was did have its downsides, as meager as they may seem to less fortunate individuals. Many people hated Bruce Wayne just for those simple, superficial things alone. His looks, his status, his job he was so rightfully given. Apparently this made him an asshole, arrogant, narcissist.

It was looks of hatred and envy from men he’d never even met, women he’d abandoned after a steamy two hour hookup (not that he did those anymore but women loved to hold a grudge), businessmen who cursed him to hell and back for his amount of wealth and fame he had no control over.

He didn’t care about these people anyway. These rambunctious, single minded people who preyed on the weak and ate the hopeless. They were all self centered, arrogant, narcissistic. Self absorbed scum unwilling to put in the hard work necessary to be as successful as he was.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Bruce was often regarded as someone lonely, someone lost, someone desolate and pitiful. He was a coward, hiding in his soulless black mansion under thick piles of money ever since the fatal death of his parents. So sad, an orphan, just depressing.

That was hushed whispers behind his back and somber stares, awkward, harrowing smiles from coworkers and the front pages of newspapers. Bruce Wayne back from hiding after all this time… living on his father’s name… will he fail or carry on the legacy of the great Wayne fortune… yada yada yada.

Just more words. Pointless and purposeless, written to appease the swill of Gotham with no real substance behind them. Gossip, false news, attention grabbing headlines that were purely speculation.

However, as much as he hated labels — more so his — whatever names he got called behind his back, Bruce couldn’t find it in sensible reason to argue that they weren’t pieces of who he really was. Fabrics of his character torn out thread by thread and poked and needled at by societies curious hands.

They were just pieces, stretched and torn so far from the truth but yet the original strings were still there, hanging on in remembrance of what he truly was chaotically intertwined in the lies and deception of what people thought him to be. Too shredded to be properly understood but still thriving in the undercurrents of whatever he was now being labeled as and people were now foolishly believing him to be.

Yes, they were just labels. But labels that were not so far from factual truths.

However again, none of those words mattered to him as much as this did, as much as the one label that he truly cared about.

Husband.

Your husband.

The only title he held in the same esteem as Batman and Wayne Enterprises CEO, perhaps even higher. It was one of the only labels that carried a semblance of true meaning, one he didn’t shy from.

Husband. It was the only honorific that mattered to him, one of the only sentiments that made him feel actual pride in who he was. Husband was something real, concrete, not some anonymous opinion in a paper or a cruel murmur in a hallway.

It was the label that pierced him through and through especially in moments like this, moments when your hips were rolling deeply on top of his and he was buried balls deep inside your warmth.

He couldn’t think about anything in this moment. Nothing and everything at the same time as your finger nails, freshly manicured and glittering, gripped into his shoulder blades as you rolled your hips once again.

Bruce winced pleasantly, jaw clenching as his head leaned back into the softness of his black silken pillows. Brown hair frazzled and stringy, his smooth skin alight with a soft, lovesick glow.

You rolled your hips once more in a soft soothing motion, nothing too rough and nothing too fast; the evening had called for something more sensual in the delicacy of Bruce’s touch and the softness of his words just an hour prior.

“Oh Bruce…” You sighed dreamily, hands pressing into his bulky arms as he sighed out a trembled breath from his nose.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, his heavy hands squeezing your hips but not as to pressure you, only to keep you connected to him at the hilt so he was never too far out of you.

“That’s good, sweetheart, get it just like that… mmhmm.” Bruce swallowed heavily, voice low and raw as his eyebrows furrowed over darkened hazel eyes. Fingers thrumming on your skin as you pulsed around him, wetness seeping out of your full entrance and gliding down his length until it could leave a memorable darkened patch on the sheets.

You whined quietly, voice high pitched and greedy as the length of him filled you up and pressed into every soft wall surrounding him. He was always thick, always perfect, always felt so fucking good it made your muscles tense and spasm.

You rolled your body in that delectable way he liked once more, barely moving yet every part of him felt the sparks of pleasure thrum through his skin and make his thighs lock up.

Bruce groaned hotly at the action, eyes flickering down to the wet mess of where your pussy was sucking him in. It was messy, glistening, shared arousal in white strings of mutual attraction. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass from where it sat perched on his strong thighs.

“Mm, fuck, honey.” Bruce breathed out gruffly more to himself than you when the sight of your wetness smeared all over him made his heart spike.

You didn’t respond, chin down to your chest and eyes closed as you focused on the pleasure in your own lower regions, the fullness and heaviness that filled you up and refused to part.

“Ohhh, feels so good-“ You gasped as a heavy spurt of pure pleasure sparked up your tummy, hole clenching around him tightly as an obscene gush of wetness leaked down his cock and onto his thighs.

Bruce licked his dry lips, eyes staring up at you heatedly; at the tightness of your shut eyes, the sweet moans gasping out of parted lips — lips, lips that were glossy and plush from all the needy kisses you shared with him just a mere moments ago.

He was enraptured by you, by your naked physique all soft and sweaty on top of him but he didn’t care. You were just so beautiful, pussy so perfect wrapped around him, squeezing his cock so good it made his mind fog up with indescribable pleasure.

“Yes, sweetheart, god, yesss…” Bruce agreed huskily, his head resting back on his pillow once more as you bucked your hips. His thighs tensed, toes curled, a grunt sounding in his throat as his hips rose to further dig himself inside you.

He couldn’t help it; like a soul to a light he sought you out, your warmth and tightness so snug and comforting around him he didn’t ever want to be apart from you.

You whimpered at the intrusion, nails digging into his skin in a painful sting that Bruce was too fucked out to really notice.

He swallowed hazily below you, eyes closing then opening to look down at the way your pussy molded into one with his hard cock as you rocked gently against him. Deep inside you where he was meant to be, stomach and pelvis and thick thighs soaked with your gushing arousal.

Fire shooting down his legs and tummy with every soft bounce back down on him, illicit wet noises sounding in the room with every desperate grind.

He loved that sound, your wetness mashing with his thick base. But not nearly as much as your melodic sounds gasping out every so often because his cock made you feel that good.

His mouth was terribly dry from his own grunts and moans, handsome face and muscular chest flushed pink, the air so so hot he could feel his own dark hair sticking to the dew on his fevered head.

His hands, big and clammy, dug into the soft fat of your hips to help you dig into him in that way you both liked, the one that had you both gasping hotly into each others mouths as you leaned down to give him another sloppy kiss.

You couldn’t quite get it right though, too distracted by the feel of him so deep inside you that your lips stuttered on his. Moving messily against him as you whined into his mouth once more, the tip of his cock so high up inside you it almost hurt.

He was always so big, so round and tall that the stretch alone always seemed to ache pleasurably with every short thrust he made inside you.

“That’s good, sweetheart… that’s it… just how you know I like it…”

Bruce breathed heavily against your lips from where you were leaned on top of him, naked breasts mashed to his chiseled chest and hands gripping onto the headboard now.

You needed something sturdy, something unbreakable to tether you back to him when you felt the pleasure making you float too far.

His breath was hot against your sore lips, mingled with your low moans and spoken just above the subtle creaks of the bed; sounding every time you moved above him in a sensually quickened pace that had your toes curling and thighs tensing.

“So beautiful, sweetheart, so good…”

Bruce couldn’t help but compliment you even in the most nasty of times, voice clenched yet breathy, spoken through hot breaths and pressed teeth as your wetness dripped down his length once more.

You moaned sweetly at his doting words, his voice cracked and low in that gravelly salacious tone you loved so much.

You clenched around him in response, his fingers tightening on you as he let out a handsome groan from the feeling. You watched as his head sunk into the pillow beneath him, eyes clenched shut and a heavy grunt leaving his chest.

The sight was attractive, seeing him so wrecked from just a few simple back and forth motions you were carefully orchestrating.

You felt a wave of stinging pleasure spike up your thighs and down your legs, up your tummy and into your head until your whole body was tingling. Your eyes brimming with unshed tears as sweat prickled at your skin and your legs burned from sitting for so long.

You didn’t care about the pain, too drunk on the sensations of his thickness rubbing inside the most intimate part of you, your hips rolling in desperate circular motions so he was never completely apart from you. You liked keeping him inside as much as possible, to feel that fullness and that dull burn to remind you of just how big he was.

Bruce loved it too, resting inside your warmth, comfortable, letting you take him however you wanted in whatever way you needed. He was always a giver, always a good husband when you needed him to be.

“F-fuck, Bruce, you feel so good.” You gasped wantonly, voice quiet yet fragmented, needy and breathless as your nails dug into his skin.

“Yeah, honey? It feels good?” Bruce replied just as quietly, being sure to thrust up into you just a little bit harder so you’d gasp some more for him.

It was lewd, lovely, his dirty words spoken onto your quivering lips and his meaty hands gripping your thighs to help aid in your eager movements.

It felt so good, so right, being there with him in the darkness of his room with only the sound of your shared panting and moans filling the silence.

It was hot and perfect; his hands on your thighs gripping hard enough to show you he doesn’t want you to stop, your mouths ever so often pecking together in a sweet kiss you couldn’t continue, fond gazes in darkened irises.

“Feels so good, Bruce, I can’t—“ You whimpered out all cutely, sliding up from his chest until you were sitting straight up once more. You could feel him shift inside of you, hardness still prominent and throbbing. He pressed against your walls, invading every nerve point as your clit rubbed against his naval in the new position.

Bruce gripped the flesh of your ass between his hands, helping your soft rocking motions against him as he spoke, “Yes you can, pretty girl, you always do for me. You’re doing so good, sweetheart, you have no idea…”

The praise made you smile brokenly. Your skin so hot it felt burning yet every grind against your husbands hard cock made your legs go numb. You whined and bucked above him as a tightness started to stretch in your tummy.

“Always for you, baby…” You managed to mumble shakily, lovingly, hands sliding over the abs on his stomach as you sat back on his lap so not a single inch of him wasn’t inside you.

Bruce clenched his jaw at that, hands digging into your hips as he thrust his own up to meet your soft grinds. Sparks, electricity, all of the cliche metaphors for how good he was feeling shooting down his cock and into his legs as his knees tensed up.

He felt lightheaded yet completely grounded, here to his mattress. Floating in the skies yet simultaneously stuck on earth with you, his gorgeous wife who always made him feel sane and normal.

Your hair was tangled around your shoulders and falling over your flushed cheeks as you stared down at him with a fond glimmer in your eyes, bright and burning under the lust so boldly wanting.

The stretch of him inside you was so good, his gravelly moans so good, the way he was making you feel so so good.

You exhaled as you settled your weight down on his pelvis, pussy sore yet eager as you squeezed around him once more. Love struck eyes looking down at him passionately as the moon cascaded a light gray glow behind you.

Bruce felt the air escape his lungs, lips parted as he stared up at you in utter devotion; you were so beautiful, so sweet, felt so fucking good around him he couldn’t even think straight. Brain numb and thoughtless, only you and your perfect pussy, you, you, you.

You took a moment to stare back at him. Unspoken love was whispered in the shadows of your eyes bright and glittering as your movements picked up into polite, subtle bounces that had Bruce digging his hands into you, breathy sounds escaping his lips.

“Ah, Bruce…” You mumbled weakly, voice soft and needy as you tossed your head back and moved your hips up and down so his cock was hitting that sweet spot inside you he usually loved to tease.

“Such a good job, sweetheart, so beautiful like this…” Bruce spoke huskily, staring at your heaving breasts as they jiggled and beckoned him forth, beautiful and pure as you rode him to high heaven in your most organic form.

You hummed into a delicate moan, a smile quirked on your lips at his praise as you felt his hands slowly start crawling up the exposed expanse of your waist.

Warm and big and tender as they moved up, up, gentle fingers tracing over your ribcage as your flesh prickled at the touch. He was delicate, always intent on your pleasure over his as he admired your form above him, the feel of your skin under his textured hands that had hurt so many.

You trusted him, your husband, enough to see you like this. Trusted him enough to have you like this, to allow his bloodstained hands to wash over you like he himself was something pure and untainted, bestowing him your presence like a merciful deity to their promised worshipper.

You bit your lip as his palms enveloped the fat of your breasts into them, molded perfectly into his larger hands as he squeezed and admired them in a fashion so familiar for him; he always loved your breasts, enamored with the softness and weight of them in his greedy hands.

You stared down at him with a heated tenderness, the look of a wife irrevocably in love with their husband as he stared up at you with the same fervor.

When he was here, with you, there were no labels, no obligations and no judgments. With you he was just yours, another body made of flesh and blood and bone melded to yours in the conjunction of where his body ended and yours began.

He was no one but he was your everything, hands on skin and lips on collarbones, sweat amongst sweat and heady moans breathed in the gasps of kisses shared between two lovesick spouses.

In this space, in this moment, with you on top of him and his hands all over you any remnants of shame and Wayne inspired obligation was vacant. All he needed to do was sit and let you take him, sit there and be of use when you wanted to use him.

He was a good husband, the best husband to you, his perfect and lovely wife who never addressed him as anything more than yours. He wasn’t this, he wasn’t that, he was just everything and more in the confines of silken sheets under the safety of his mansion.

No cameras, no gossip, no press and no watchful eyes. Serene, tranquil, just you and him and the great love you shared that transcended any label or common sense humanity could fathom.

Yes, he was Bruce Wayne. Eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy. But those things did not define him, did not set his reality in stone so easily as your love did. He was all those things but he was so much more.

You never judged him, looked at him as anything more than the most important thing. You regarded him with love no matter his past, his present, and hopefully and most likely your shared future.

You didn’t care for labels or surface value lies like everyone else did. You ripped him at his seams, tore him apart to see what was inside and he was ever so grateful for it, for that loving animosity that bared his soul to yours. You were straightforward, heart to heart or nothing at all because then what was the point?

There was no purpose without pain, without pleasure, without love. You suffered, you loved, and you were most definitely bringing him pleasure. All blunt and raw emotions too passionate and loud to ever try and hide or make lies about. No secrets, no deception, no labels.

This night, every night just like this one — nights spent in your arms deep inside where he needed to be most, were nights where his mind was bare and he was just yours. Nights when he didn’t have to put up a face or make up a lie or tell a tall tale.

He was Bruce, he was yours, he was just this. And most importantly, he was just your husband. The only label that really mattered and the only one he ever really cared about. ₊˚⊹♡