#batman fluff

Bruce stumbles into the cave, exhausted and covered in grime. He heads straight to the showers, skin-tight suit and cowl off as though it offended him. It most probably did at some point during his patrol.

Once he got out of the showers, finally comfortable in his own skin again, he steps out and wraps a towel around his waist. He thought of wearing whatever was in his locker—but then he remembered something.

He has the manor to himself.

The kids hadn't been back since last week—Tim was with the YJL, Dick is in Blüdhaven, Jason has his own place but can't visit at the moment because of his own itinerary, Cass is on a mission with Steph and Duke, Damian is having a sleepover with Jon and won't be back until Sunday afternoon, and Alfred took a rare day-off.

Bruce took a slow, deep breath. It was the first time he was truly alone in the manor. Slowly, a smile forms in his lips and his steps have become just a little lighter. He forgoes his clothes in the locker and instead walks up to the manor in only his towel.

He makes his way to his room to find the comfiest pair of underwear that he owns and a deep-red silk robe. He glances at his bed for a minute before realising that yes, he's exhausted, but not the kind of exhaustion where he's seeking a bed. Instead, it's the kind where he's seeking peace. Breathing space.

Don't get him wrong, he loves his family to death. He would die and live for them a thousand times over—but he always used to wonder what it would be like to have the manor to himself. Just for a bit. His joints felt stiff, locked in place. As if he hasn't truly moved in the last couple of decades.

Bruce makes his way to the kitchen, a bunch of ingredients catching his attention. He remembers he didn't actually get to spend Valentine's Day—not like he had anyone to spend it with, but usually he'd spend it with one of his kids who was willing to the day with him. Usually it was Cass. But he's seen a couple of videos on the internet where single people treat themselves for Valentine's and Bruce thought he could give it a try.

He took the ingredients from the pantry and just as he was about to begin mixing, he realized how silent the manor actually was. With only his own footsteps and the scapes of bowls and clangs of a whisk making all the noises.

He pulls out his phone and looks through his playlist of songs before settling on one that he believes fits the occasion and has it play on loop in full volume. "I love you... But I don't really show you."

It takes him a moment, a beat, before his body is moving along to the song, humming and tapping his foot, nodding along to the lyrics. Then, there's a pep in his step when he goes back to the pantry to grab the mixer because he can't be bothered to mix the cream, butter, and sugar.

By this point his hips are moving and he's mumbling the lyrics—whispering to the air the melodies as though it was a secret message for someone. Maybe it is, maybe it isn't. Bruce isn't too bothered by it right now. He's enjoying himself and the rare moment of having his time for himself.

Washing away the worries and putting them all for tomorrow. Just for today. It's the last day of February—it'll be his little treat for himself since he also didn't get to celebrate his birthday because too many things have happened.

"Look at the stars go a little bit faster. ooh-ooh" Bruce is singing once the chorus hits, shoulders grooving along and he's sliding across the waxed floors. He's alone, he can sing as bad as he wants (which of course doesn't happen because apparently he has the voice of an angel), as loud as he wants, and he can mess up the lyrics or parody the whole song if he wants to.

The song ends, but it loops back to the beginning and Bruce isn't even tired of it yet. After mixing the dry and wet ingredients, he carefully pours them into the pan before shoving it into his pre-heated oven to bake. While baking, he starts cleaning up the kitchen—washing the dishes, wiping down the counter and cleaning the sink.

"Oh don't you let it sto-o-op!" His giddy at making that riff and grabs his newly-washed whisk and uses it as a microphone. "Oh, I won't let it ha-ppen-baby!" His smile is bright and wide, pearly whites perfect in every way—but it somehow seemed even better because he's genuinely having so much fun.

By the fourth loop of the song, Bruce pulls out the cake from the oven, washing the pan as he lets it cool down.

Then, he's piping the red velvet with vanilla icing, it's a little clumsy, especially when he tries to do those swirls, but what the heck. He's allowed to be imperfect. It's his cake. No one'll eat it but himself.

Proud, he brings the cake to the living room, puts up a corny romcom before rushing back to the pantry to grab a bottle of wine—strong enough to make him tipsy and relaxed, but not so much that he's shit-faced by the time he reaches the bottom of the bottle.

Grabbing himself a wine glass and a tub of ice-cream from the fridge, he moves to the living room with his phone tucked into the pocket of his robe.

bruce wayne loved to see you wear the things he bought you, always shoving his card into your pocket or sliding it into your purse when you weren’t looking. he had tim set up his card as your apple pay and you didn’t realize until your bank account didn’t budge since your last paycheck. he didn’t quite enjoy the fact that you paid for your own things. even if he wouldn’t tell you to quit your job, he wanted you to save it up for something else, something he wouldn’t be around for.

now you’re in a boutique in paris with him.

he’s brought you for a business deal, but slipped away during lunch to take you sight seeing. bruce was the one to bring you to this store, even if he didn’t like to admit how much he loved to take you shopping and watch you twirl around in the pretty skirts while he pretended not to have a raging hard on.

Synopsis: After Y/N receives a late night call from Bruce, she’s expecting more than just whiskey

TW: drinking, child neglect mentioned, make out for our fav slow burn couple<3

A/N: this one is so soft:(

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The rain had stopped by the time Y/N had arrived at Wayne Manor. The ground was slick and shiny with rain that glimmered under the lights that lit up the house. Her heels clicked against the ground and up the stairs where she rang the doorbell.

It didn’t take long for it to open with Alfred. “Mrs L/N, Master Bruce said you’d be by tonight.”

Y/N softly smiled. “I’m sure he did. Though I don’t know why he invited me over.” She said, stepping into the manor as she passed her wet jacket to him. “He was…rather cryptic over the phone.”

Alfred gave her a knowing look as he took her jacket, the corner of his mouth twitching just slightly. “Master Bruce can be reserved with his invitations. I believe you’ll find him in the study.”

“Reserved? That’s a polite way of saying he has the social skills of a brick.” Y/N laughed, who only hummed in response, already turning toward the coat rack.

Her heels echoed across the floor as she made her way down the familiar hall. She had been here more than once, enough that the manor no longer overwhelmed her, but it still managed to impress her each time.

When she pushed open the study door, she found Bruce by the fireplace, glass in hand, sleeves rolled up. The fire cutting sharp shadows against his jawline.

“You know,” Y/N began, “when a man calls me cryptically late at night and tells me to come over, I’m usually expecting sex.” She stepped inside and shut the door back behind her, “I would have worn my best lingerie…but you’re never looking for anything despite being a man who could have women on their knees within seconds.”

Bruce turned to face her. “I was aiming for simplicity tonight.”

Y/N sauntered over, her perfume trailing through the room as she approached him. “Simplicity? Bruce, you’re a billionaire who invited a Playboy model to your mansion for…what? Whiskey? There’s nothing simple about this.”

“Point taken,” he said evenly, pouring her a drink without asking.

Y/N accepted the glass, brushing her fingers against his deliberately. “Thank you.” She sank into the chair across from him, crossing one leg over the other. She caught the way his gaze flickered, even if only for a moment.

“So, just drinks?” She asked, “you invited me over for nothing else?”

“Is that so hard to believe?” Bruce asked, joining her on the opposite chair.

“Most men expect sex from me.”

“Well you made it clear when we met that you ‘weren’t in the market.’” Bruce smirked, “besides, maybe I just want to drink with a friend.”

“A friend, huh?” She asked, bringing the glass of whiskey to her lips. “You sure there’s nothing else? Come on, Bruce…there’s no way you haven’t dreamt of me before. I read online that I’m the number one male fantasy.”

“I’ve seen your magazines, but that doesn’t mean I act on them.”

“So you don’t get off on me?” Y/N teased, “that’s some self control.” She gently nudged her glass, almost in a cheering manner. “Props to you.”

“Self control is a useful skill. Especially when dealing with someone like you.”

Y/N tilted her head, letting a strand of hair fall over her shoulder as she leaned back in her chair. “Someone like me? Is that a good thing or bad thing, Mr Wayne?”

Bruce’s smirked, bringing his glass to his lips. “You tell me.”

“How am I supposed to know?” Y/N asked, “you’re not exactly easy to read.”

“Then tell me what you think.”

“What I think?” She laughed, “well, I think you like me, but you’re too prideful to admit it. Although, in what way you like me…I’m not too sure.” Y/N said, “you could like me romantically and I’d never know.”

“You’re very sure of yourself.”

Y/N leaned forward in her chair, resting her elbow on the armrest and her chin in her palm. “I’m not sure,” she said softly, her playful tone dipping just enough to sound almost vulnerable. “I just notice things. And I’ve noticed you’re different with me. You let me tease you, and most men don’t usually stay calm when I do that. Trust me…any other man would have invited me over and I’d already be fucked on the floor. But you?”

She brought the glass back up to her lips. “Every time I flirt with and tease you, you never reciprocate. What? Did your mommy and daddy teach you how to treat a lady?”

“My parents taught me a lot of things. But how to treat a lady? I figured that out on my own.”

“At least your parents taught you something.” Y/N said, a slight frown tugging at her lips. “Mine never did. Hell, I can barely remember them.”

“Are they…?” Bruce trailed off, almost like he was hesitant to ask.

“Dead? Probably not.” Y/N said, “I was just another kid who was born into a shitty family with shittier parents.”

Bruce’s expression softened slightly at her words. The hard edges of his usual composure eased just enough for her to notice. He took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the warmth spread before speaking.

“I see,” he said quietly. “That…must have been hard.”

Y/N shrugged, though the faintest shadow of something almost sad flickered across her eyes. “I guess,” she murmured, swirling the glass in her hands. “Makes you tougher, I suppose. Or at least better at faking it.”

It was obvious that the whiskey had given way to exteriors, chipping away at them with ease and making it easier to simply exist. Y/N’s words became softer, more real, like they weren’t covered in pink glitter. She was still flirting with him, of course, but it was almost like she meant every word she said now as opposed to flirting for a reaction.

As for Bruce, he was always a light weight, but that didn’t mean he opened up as easily. His walls were built too high, and the defense that he wore like armor were too thick to be penetrated. But with every sip came a soft chuckle, as if the man behind it all was trying to break the chains and come loose.

“You’ve got a record player,” Y/N pointed out. Her glass had been emptied and left abandoned on the side table as she got up, heels off and resting on the floor as she padded over toward one of the walls. “You have a massive selection…I didn’t know you collected.”

“Most of it belonged to my parents.” Bruce said, his drink half empty with his third glass.

Y/N hummed, fingers brushing over the vinyl’s as she read each one. “How about this one?” She said to herself before spinning to show Bruce.

“Why that one?” He curiously asked.

“The cover’s pretty,” she replied before slipping it out of the sleeve and placing it down on the record player and gently setting the needle on top.

As the music played through the speakers, she swayed and moved around the floor gracefully. She didn’t mind Bruce watching—actually, she was too drunk to care or even notice. The music took her around the room before she stopped in front of Bruce, a hand stretched out as she said: “care for a dance?”

“A dance?” Bruce asked, his voice low and calm, but there was something sharp in it, an edge of curiosity and amusement.

Y/N nodded, her smile soft and teasing at the same time. “Yes, a dance. Don’t tell me you’ve never wanted to slow dance in your study with a model?”

“I can’t say I’ve ever been asked,” Bruce said, taking her hand as Y/N pulled him up.

His fingers were firm and surprisingly calloused. But he held her hand carefully, as if afraid one wrong move would shatter the fragile intimacy forming between them.

The music was soft and warm, and Y/N let him guide her close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from him without crossing the line. Her free hand rested lightly on his shoulder, and she could feel his arm tense momentarily under her touch before relaxing ever so slightly.

“If I was wearing one of my designer gowns, I’d probably feel like a princess.” Y/N giggled, “but I guess most princesses are more graceful than this.”

“You’re graceful than most girls.”

Her giggles turned into laughter, “yeah right. I’m hardly graceful right now…but thanks.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered down to hers, a dark glimmer beneath the shadowy lighting, and for the first time that night, the careful control he maintained wavered—the whiskey, the closeness, the warmth of her hand against his…it made his restraint slip every so slightly.

Y/N laughed again, twirling in his arms, the motion unsteady and her hair brushed against him. “See? I told you I wasn’t exactly the graceful type.”

“You’re distracting,” he muttered as if the words had slipped out before he could stop them.

Y/N’s smile softened. “Distracting?” She asked, leaning closer.

“A little,” Bruce admitted. He tried to pull back to regain control, but Y/N’s hand lingered on his chest.

Her laugh turned into a soft gasp as she stumbled forward, catching herself by pressing her body closer to his.

Bruce’s lips twitched, caught between amusement and a rush of something more.

His free hand hovered near her waist, almost against his will, before resting lightly on her hip to steady her. And in that moment, their eyes met and the air thickened around them.

“Y/N,” Bruce murmured, a warning and a plea wrapped into one.

Y/N’s grin faded into something softer and she leaned in just slightly, closing the remaining distance, drawn in by the warmth and the intoxicating tension. “Bruce…”

Then, without either of them thinking, their lips collided.

At first it was tentative, almost accidental, fueled by the whiskey and the closeness of the dance. But then it deepened, slow and exploratory, both of them finally letting their walls slip just enough to taste what they’d been denying themselves.

Bruce’s hand tightened slightly around her waist, his other hand brushing a strand of hair behind her ear as if grounding himself. Y/N melted into the kiss, her fingers threading into his hair, holding him just as tightly as he held her.

Bruce’s hands traced the curve of her waist as if he was testing the waters. But Y/N’s soft gasp against his mouth was enough to urge him forward. Her arms slid around his neck, pulling him closer, anchoring him in place. The movement was instinctual, fluid, as if they’d been moving like this their whole lives.

She tilted her head up, letting her lips press harder against his, and Bruce responded in kind, his restraint melting away.

Y/N’s hands roamed along his shoulders, feeling the tension and strength beneath the fabric of his shirt. She smiled against his lips, muffled by the kiss, and it only made him lean into her more, pressing his forehead to hers when they paused for a breath.

“You taste like whiskey.”

“And you taste like strawberries and whiskey.”

“It’s my lipgloss, but if you want another taste…who am I to deny you?”

“I think I’d like that.”

Synopsis: Glitter, champagne and…bath time?

TW: mentions of drugs

A/N: Okay, this was originally going to be smut but uh whoops?

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The grand doors of Wayne Manor swung open with a creak, and Y/N stumbled through with a mischievous grin plastered across her face. The faint scent of champagne lingered on her, mixing with the glitter that clung stubbornly to every curve of her body.

Her heels clicked unevenly on the marble floors, echoing through the hallways, but she didn’t care.

It had been another photoshoot in California, arriving by private jet with nothing more than her purse and a change of clothes. The shoot had gone well, but now she was tipsy from the small get together she had with her Playmate friends and covered head to toe in pink glitter from the shoot.

She stumbled through the halls, loudly singing and giggling at the sound of her voice echoing off the walls as she strode down the hall.

“Bruce~!” She sang, “I’m back from Cali~!”

Bruce appeared in the hallway after hearing his wife’s loud singing throughout the manor. “You’re back early.” He announced, “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

Y/N giggled, practically throwing herself onto him. “Shoot finished earlier.” She said, “and I’m all covered in glitter just for you~!” She placed her head onto her chest, hand gently grasping his hand.

“You look like a disaster.” Bruce commented, eyes trailing over her glitter infested body. “How much glitter did they have to use, hm?”

“I don’t know,” Y/N lightly slurred. “Enough, I guess. Why don’t you explore where all the glitter is, hm~?” She then pulled away, “I need a shower.”

“Do you think you’re stable enough to walk to the bathroom?” He asked, “or do I need to help you?”

“You can help me.” She said, “carry me, baby?”

Bruce stared down at her, eyes narrowed. “Your legs aren’t broke. If you walked in here, you can find your way to the bathroom.”

“But don’t you wanna be covered in glitter like me?” Y/N asked, a smile on her face. “You already kinda are.” She said, gesturing the stray glitter on her husband’s shirt.

Bruce exhaled watching his wife enjoy herself as much as she was, all while tipsy and covered in glitter. “As much as I adore the sparkles, you need to shower.”

She gasped, “they let me have the lingerie I wore for the shoot. How about I put it on and put on a show for you?” She offered, grabbing both his hands. “I could be all sparkly, pink and enticing.”

“Sweetheart, you’re drunk—.”

“So?” She asked, “maybe I just want my husband to touch me while I’m covered head to toe in glitter. Would that be so bad?”

Bruce exhaled slowly through his nose, forcing himself to keep his voice calm. He lifted one hand from hers to brush a stray glittered curl away from her cheek. “It wouldn’t be bad. But it would be me taking advantage of you when you’re not sober. And I’m not going to do that.”

She blinked up at him, her pout softening into something more genuine. “You’re no fun,” she murmured, but her voice cracked just a little at the edges.

“I’m your fun,” he corrected softly. “The one who makes sure you don’t fall over in those shoes, the one who gets you upstairs safely, the one who runs you a shower so you don’t wake up sticky, glittery and hungover.” His thumb brushed gently against her knuckles. “Then, when you’re clear headed, you can put on whatever you want. Pink glitter. Lace. Anything. I’ll still be here.”

Y/N swayed a little, a small pout on her lips. “You always ruin my dramatic moments,” she mumbled, but she was smiling now, leaning into his touch.

Bruce’s lips twitched into the faintest hint of a smirk. “I’ll carry you to the bathroom but only so you don’t break an ankle.”

She gasped softly, eyes widening in surprise. “So you do want to carry me!”

“Don’t push your luck,” he muttered, but before she could reply, he bent and scooped her up easily, one arm under her knees, the other braced against her glitter coated back. She squealed, laughing as her arms looped around his neck, pink flecks of sparkle raining onto his dark shirt.

“You’re so bossy,” she teased, nestling her head into the crook of his neck as he started walking toward the bathroom. “And handsome. And strong. And sparkly now too.” She giggled.

Bruce shook his head but held her a little closer, adjusting his stride to keep her steady. “Sparkly isn’t exactly my look,” he said dryly. “But for you, I’ll make an exception.”

“You’re a good man, Bruce Wayne,” she whispered tipsily against his shoulder. “A very sparkly man.”

When they reached the bathroom, he set her carefully on the edge of the tub. “Sit,” he instructed. “Let me turn the water on first. Then you can get all this off before Alfred sees the state you’re in.”

Y/N giggled, kicking her glitter coated heels lightly. “Fine. But only because you’re cute when you’re bossy.”

Bruce smirked faintly as he turned on the faucet as warm water began to fill the tub. “That’s what husbands are for,” he murmured. “To be cute. And to keep their wives from turning into glitter casualties.”

“So you admit you’re cute?” She asked, watching her husband fill the tub with her favorite bubble bath scent.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, though the corner of his mouth twitched with the faintest hint of a smile. “I admit nothing,” he said dryly, turning back to check the water.

Steam began curling up from the bath as he adjusted the temperature. “Just making sure the water’s comfortable. You’ll need it after your glitter escapade.”

Y/N giggled, leaning back on the edge of the tub, one heel dangling precariously over the side. “You’re so serious…” She murmured, letting a finger trail through the rising bubbles. “All bossy and protective. I like it, really.”

Bruce kept a steady hand on her back, just enough to keep her from wobbling. “I’m serious,” he said. “You nearly turned the hallway into a pink glitter crime scene. Alfred would have a heart attack if he saw this.”

She pouted, then laughed, letting the glitter on her arms catch the steam and sparkle in the soft bathroom light. “But I’m so pretty, though.” She teased. “I mean look at me. Head to toe in glitter, smelling like champagne and bubbles…you don’t mind, do you?”

He shook his head, suppressing a smirk. “I mind the mess, not the…glitter queen herself.”

“Help me strip?” Y/N asked, giving her best puppy dog eyes up at her husband. “I want your hands on me.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened slightly, his eyes softening even as he fought to keep his composure. She was irresistible like this—playful, glimmering under the bathroom lights like she’d been dipped in stardust—but she was also tipsy, and swaying slightly on the edge of the tub.

He crouched down in front of her so their eyes were level, one large hand braced on the porcelain beside her hip to steady her. “Sweetheart,” his voice was low but firm, the kind of tone that always seemed to cut through her chaos. “I’m going to help you. But I’m not touching you like that. Not when you’ve been drinking.”

Y/N’s lip trembled into a mock pout. “But it’s just skin,” she whispered, tipping her head to the side, pink glitter raining down from her hair and onto his sleeve. “You’re so careful with me.”

“I’m supposed to be careful with you,” he said simply. “That’s the deal.” His thumb brushed over her knee, just enough of a touch to ground her. “Lean on me. I’ll get you out of these without either of us making a mess of it, alright?”

She shifted closer allowing him to steady her as she reached for the zipper on the back of her dress. Her fingers fumbled twice and without a word, Bruce caught her hand gently and moved it aside.

“Easy,” he murmured, sliding the zipper down slowly, careful not to tug or startle her. “I’ve got it.”

Y/N tilted her head back, closing her eyes as his knuckles grazed the skin of her back while he worked. It was the fainted brush, but she still shivered, and her smile softening into something sleepier. “You’re so gentle with me,” she murmured.

“I’m always gentle with you,” he reminded her, pulling the glitter slick fabric from her shoulders so it pooled harmlessly around her waist. “Now step out of it. Slowly.”

She did, wobbly but with one hand on his shoulder, she found balance. He guided her out of the dress, setting it on a towel on the counter so it wouldn’t ruin the tile. Then, without looking at her more than necessary, he reached for the silk robe hanging on the back of the door.

“Here,” he said softly, wrapping it around her shoulders. “This will keep you warm until you’re in the water.”

Y/N blinked down at the robe, then up at him, a faint pink flush on her cheeks that wasn’t just the champagne. “You really are no fun,” she teased weakly, but her fingers curled into the robe like she was grateful for the softness.

Bruce allowed himself the smallest smile as he tied the sash for her. “I’m plenty of fun,” he countered quietly. “I just save it for when you’re sober enough to enjoy it.”

That earned him a sleepy giggle. “Fair,” she murmured, leaning forward to press her forehead to his. “You’re good to me.”

“I try to be,” he said, brushing a stray strand of glittered hair from her face before guiding her to the bath. “Now, in you go. Bubbles are perfect. It’ll take off the glitter.”

She dipped one foot in, then the other, sighing as the warmth enveloped her. “This is nice,” she whispered, sliding down until the bubbles lapped at her collarbone.

Bruce crouched beside the tub again, one arm draped over his knee, watching her with that same steady, unreadable expression. “Better?”

She cracked one eye open at him, a lazy, sparkly grin spreading over her face. “Much. But only ‘cause you’re here. You should get in here with me…there’s plenty of room.”

“Not tonight,” he said quietly, reaching over to nudge the towel a little closer to the tub. “You need to relax, wash off, and get some sleep. I’ll sit here with you until you’re done.”

She rested her head against the side of the tub. “Batman fighting off glitter instead of criminals. How fun.”

“Somebody has to protect Gotham from the glitter queen,” he said dryly.

Her laugh came out softer this time, eyes drooping from the warmth of the water and the champagne’s slow fade. “You’d look so good covered in pink sparkles,” she teased weakly. “All stoic…but shiny.”

“I’ll leave the shining to you,” he murmured, reaching out to brush a stray bit of foam off her shoulder. The gesture was tender, almost instinctive. “You’re already a lot to look at.”

She let out a hum at the touch, her eyes closing again as she sank further into the bubbles. “You spoil me,” she whispered.

Bruce didn’t answer right away. He watched her instead, the way her glitter dusted lashes fluttered, and the way her smile had softened into something sleepy and unguarded. “That’s the point.”

“What?” She raised her head a little. “To treat me like a princess?”

Bruce softly smirked, “not like a princess…but like my wife.” He corrected, “someone who deserves to come home and be looked after. Someone who spends all day being dressed up and photographed from every angle…and deserves to feel safe when she walks through her own front door.”

“Safe.” She softly smiled, “I like that word.”

“You should,” he said simply. He reached over to twist the faucet, letting the bath fill just a little more with warm water. “It’s what I want you to feel here. Not judged. Not handled. Just…safe.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft rush of water and the pop of the bubbles. Y/N trailed a lazy hand across the surface, catching the foam and letting it slide between her fingers like snow.

“You’re too good to me,” she whispered, voice a little cracked from champagne and the sudden weight of the moment. “I come home looking like a disco ball and you still…” she waved her hand vaguely, “do all this.”

He shrugged a single shoulder. “It’s not hard to take care of someone you love.”

“You make it sound so simple,” she softly said with a frown on her lips. “Why did you even marry me knowing everything I’ve done in my life?” She asked, “the drugs, the sex…how could you look past the Playboy face?”

Bruce stilled at her question, his gaze fixed on her as if he were scanning for the truth hidden beneath the champagne haze. She looked so small with glitter drifting across her collarbones, eyes shining with uncertainty.

“I didn’t marry the model,” he said finally, voice quiet but firm. “I married the woman behind it. The one who laughs too loud. The one who throws herself into my arms after being away from me because she can’t wait another second. The one who drives me insane with her confidence and her glitter, but still manages to make me…happy.”

“Bruce.” She said, “it’s not about that…it’s about my past…everything. I don’t know if…if I’d marry me.”

“I could say the same thing.” Bruce said, “I didn’t ever imagine myself getting married, and yet here we are.”

“Bruce, every woman would have lined up at your door for a chance with you.” Y/N said, “and you—.”

“They weren’t you.”

Her laugh was quiet, almost disbelieving, rippling through the steam. “I’m a mess, Bruce.”

He shifted closer, resting his hand on the porcelain just beside her arm, close enough to touch if she needed him to. “You’ve made mistakes, but so have I. We both had lives before this one. But it doesn’t change what we’ve built together.”

Her fingers swirled the bubbles absentmindedly, watching the suds cling and pop as she whispered, “You really believe that?”

“I don’t believe it,” Bruce corrected softly. “I know it.” He paused, letting the sound of water fill the silence for a moment. “You walk into this house, glitter in your hair, champagne on your breath, and still—,” his eyes softened, the faintest curve touching his lips, “it feels like home. You’re what makes it home.”

Her chest tightened at the words. “You’re going to make me cry,” she whispered, her voice breaking even as a small smile tugged at her lips. “And then I’ll be puffy and sparkly. Not a good look.”

Bruce leaned in just slightly, brushing his knuckles along her damp temple, careful not to get soap on his hand. “You’d still be beautiful. Now, let’s get you washed up, okay?”

Synopsis: When a stalker shows up, it’s only right to get help from the Batman—I mean, Bruce Wayne

TW: stalking

A/N: I actually proofread this one🤯🤯

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There were a thousand ways to describe Y/N L/N: “a whore.” “An attention seeker.” “A homewrecker.” “The ‘it girl.’”

She was a Playboy model after all, of course all eyes were on her! She could stop traffic with just a glance, having those cliché movie tropes where the guys slow their cars down and rip off their sunglasses for a better look. She wore designer clothes when she was out, almost like the brands were made for her. Then in magazine’s she’d wear next to nothing, and parade around in silk, lingerie or nothing at all.

Ever since she had moved to Gotham City, her media coverage increased ten fold. The tabloids adored her while the paparazzi harassed her, and the men of Gotham? They worshiped her like a goddess. Well, most men did—the exclusive Playboy billionaire known as Bruce Wayne did not.

He saw her as what she was—a model with an addicting sex life. Every time Y/N would flirt or even try and make a move on him, Bruce would always politely smile, turn her down and change conversation.

But all the attention wasn’t her fault. She was always thrown into less than favorable situations by the media, people causing drama just for the hell of it. While her life was all glittering and pink, it came with a darker side like most celebrities.

At first, it was amusing.

She’s receive messages online that were nothing more than cheap compliments from older men. Then came the ‘poems’ from men with usernames like: Batfcker69 and Daddy4U.

Y/N would laugh off the messages and fan mail that her security team would drop off. She’d mock the grammar, point out spelling mistakes, and cringe at the things these men wanted to do with her.

•••

The Gotham spring air was warm enough to warrant sunglasses but not hot enough to ruin a suit jacket, which meant that Bruce opted for his usual crisp, pressed attire. The café was discreet—one of those tucked-away spots where no one would think twice about Gotham’s residential playboy meeting Gotham’s favorite scandal.

Y/N sat across from him in a pink silk blouse, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, love notes from fans in her hands with her usual mixture of boredom and amusement.

She looked like she belonged in the glossy pages of a fashion magazine even when she was just idly stabbing at a salad she had no intention of finishing.

Bruce, however, was sipping his coffee in silence, content to let her ramble about the fan mail she had been delivered.

“I swear Bruce, you’d think these men would have a life!” She exclaimed, “I get it…I’m the face of Playboy and all that, but don’t you guys have a life? A wife and kids?” She asked, eating her salad.

“If they have time to ‘read’ your magazines and write you love letters, I would assume they don’t,” Bruce admits.

“Listen to this one,” Y/N began, setting down her fork as it clinked against the dish ware. “Your skin is like the moonlight glow, your lips are where I long to go, I’d kiss them once, I’d kiss them twice, even if I had to pay the price. Your body calls me in my dreams, your moans would be my symphonies, I’d worship you, my perfect queen, together, we’d make the perfect scene.’ Like, can you believe that?!”

“At least it rhymes.” Bruce says, “though I’m surprised they know how to.”

Y/N snorted, “was that a roast? And don’t encourage them!” Bruce only picked up his coffee, silently drinking it as Y/N continued. “And the whole ‘symphonies’ part, seriously? Do I look like the type to moan musically?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Bruce replied smoothly, his voice calm but edged with a dry undertone that made her pause.

Y/N paused, looking at Bruce who sat calmly across the table. She blinked, cheeks flushing with embarrassment but she quickly laughed to cover it up. “I bet you’ve never written a love poem a day in your life, have you?”

“I surely wouldn’t include the word ‘moan.’”

Y/N leaned back in her chair, setting the paper onto the table with a dramatic sigh. “See, that’s my problem with men. No imagination. It’s all ‘moans this, moans that.’” She wagged her fork at Bruce. “If you’re going to write me poetry, at least make it clever.”

“Clever?”

She nodded, “yeah. Men are always so upfront with what they want. ‘I want you to do this,’ ‘I want to do that to you.’ Which, don’t get me wrong, is fine if you’re in a relationship with them. But come on, no average girl wants to read 16 pages about all the different sex positions you’d have them in. Hell, most girls don’t even wanna know.”

“So you’re saying that your standards are impossibly high,” Bruce trails off.

Y/N shook her head. “Not impossible. Just high. Is it so much to ask for a real gentleman?” She asks. “Besides, if a man really wanted to impress me, he wouldn’t use poetry.”

“What would he use then?” Bruce asked, a brow raised.

“Diamonds are a girls best friend.” Y/N mused, using her fork to stab a cucumber from off her salad before popping it into her mouth.

Bruce’s mouth twitched, the smallest hint of amusement flickering across his face. “So words mean nothing if they aren’t accompanied by a necklace?”

“Sometimes.” Y/N says, “all I want to end up with is a gentleman…someone who treats me right, doesn’t asks for more than they know I can handle or even comfortable with.”

Bruce studied her over the rim of his coffee cup, his expression giving almost nothing away. Still, there was a sharpness in his gaze, the kind that made Y/N shift in her seat despite the confidence she wore like perfume.

“You want a gentleman,” he repeated, as though testing the weight of her words.

“Is that so crazy?” She asked, “don’t get me wrong…the lavish lifestyle is 100% for me, but if I don’t have a man who opens doors and listens to me when I talk, what’s the point? I want someone who…sees me as more than just some Playboy model, as more than the lingerie.”

“You make it sound simple,” Bruce said.

“Maybe it is,” she countered, flashing him a smile that was equal parts mischief and defense. “The problem is most men can’t pull it off.”

Bruce set his cup down, leaning back in his chair with an air of quiet authority. “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong places.”

Y/N tilted her head, sunglasses sliding slightly down her nose as she peered at him over the top. “Like where? Something tells me Gotham isn’t exactly brimming with eligible gentlemen.”

“You’d be surprised,” Bruce said, his tone so flat that for a second she wasn’t sure if he was serious.

Then came the twitch of his mouth again, the smallest curve that might have been a smile. It made her laugh—loud, rich, and unapologetic enough to turn a few heads from the other tables.

“You’re impossible,” she said, leaning forward to stab at her salad again. “If you ever decide to write me a poem or buy me a diamond necklace though, I’ll reconsider.”

“Noted.”

Y/N smirked, but there was something about the way he said it that left her wondering if he meant it more than she realized.

And while those lunch dates were filled with laughter, playful banter, and maybe some underlying flirting…nothing could compare to the storm that was brewing off in the distance.

An obsession.

Every celebrity was going to have its fair share of crazed fans, some crazier than the next. But when letters began to randomly show up on Y/N’s doorstep, hours before her security guards came by with the daily mail, she knew something was wrong.

The letters were always short. They weren’t poems, usually one sentence about how lovely Y/N looked the day before. It creeped her out, but it didn’t raise any red flags…nothing at the time.

“I loved your newest issue.”

“I think you should wear white tomorrow.”

“You don’t need makeup when you’re naturally gorgeous.”

And then, about a month later, came the pictures. Some were blurry, taken around street corners or even far away with the lens zoomed all the way in. Some were close up, personal, like her in bed asleep or even her taking a bath.

It wasn’t funny. Not anymore.

The pictures showed up almost like a warning that she was being watched. She told her security about it, and they doubled their efforts, but then the pictures came with notes. Hand written in pink.

“Why did you buff up security knowing you can’t stop me?”

“I wrote in pink. I know it’s your favorite color.”

“I saw you at the mall today. I took a picture of you. You were wearing that new Gucci perfume…smelled like raspberries and heaven.”

The final straw was the package. It came in with the mail, and looked like a regular package. Of course Y/N wasn’t going to think twice about it, she had recently ordered something and was waiting for it to arrive.

But when she opened it, expecting it to be something else…it was a bouquet of flowers, another hand written letter and a piece of red lingerie.

She couldn’t do this, not anymore.

So, she reached out to the only person in Gotham who she felt truly safe with—Bruce.

“I’m sorry for asking you to do this for me,” Y/N apologized, standing at his door. “But my place isn’t safe anymore, and I didn’t know where else to go. Your place is secluded, a good ways from the rest of the city and you said you just put in a new security system and—.”

“Y/N, you’re rambling.” Bruce pointed out, “and I don’t mind you staying here. Your life is in danger…don’t ever apologize for something like this.”

“I just don’t wanna be a burden,” she murmured, setting her sunglasses on top of her head. Her eyes—usually sharp, teasing, calculating—were tired. “I know this isn’t what you signed up for. Babysitting a Playboy model because she’s too stupid to keep her stalker under control.”

Bruce’s gaze softened—barely, but it was there. “You’re not stupid. You’re being hunted. That’s not something you can control.”

“Still…I’ve been called every name in the book, Bruce. I can handle rumors. I can handle people hating on me for breathing. But this?” She gestured vaguely, her voice cracking before she forced it back into a lighter tone. “This feels like the first time someone’s seeing me for more than lingerie. And it’s not flattering.”

Bruce took the suitcase from her hand, his touch brushing hers briefly before he set it aside. “You’re staying here. Until I say otherwise.”

“You make it sound like a prison sentence,” she tried to joke, though her voice was thin.

“Then consider me the warden,” Bruce said, calm and firm. “And this stalker? He doesn’t get to breathe your air again.”

For a moment, silence stretched between them. Y/N looked up at him and for once didn’t see the billionaire playboy the media painted him as. She saw the man who, despite everything, hadn’t once mocked her, hadn’t once treated her like she was a scandal waiting to happen.

“You always do that,” she whispered.

“Do what?”

“Make me feel like I’m not some tabloid’s punchline. Like I’m…” She hesitated, “like I’m worth protecting.”

Bruce’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s because you are.”

The simplicity of it nearly broke her.

So she laughed instead, soft and shaky. “Careful, Bruce. You say things like that and I might start thinking you’re the gentleman I’ve been waiting for.”

“Maybe I am,” he finally said.

The words were quiet, almost too casual but they landed like a storm. Y/N stared at him, caught between laughter and disbelief.

For a second, she wanted to call his bluff, tease him like she always did. But his expression stopped her. His eyes didn’t waver, didn’t soften, but there was something there. A truth he wasn’t supposed to let slip.

The air stretched taut between them.

Then Bruce cleared his throat, stepping back slightly as though reestablishing a line neither of them were supposed to cross.

“Come on,” he said, his voice returning to its usual calm. “You’ll take the east guest room. It’s closer to my office—better for security.”

Y/N exhaled, half laughing and half shaken. “You really know how to kill a mood, you know that?”

“I’m not here to create moods,” Bruce replied simply, already moving to pick up her suitcase.

“Clearly.” She followed him through the Manor’s vast halls, the sound of her heels echoing against the floor. “Do you ever loosen up? Like…at all? I bet if I broke into your liquor cabinet, all I’d find is water.”

Bruce gave her the faintest look over his shoulder. “There’s whiskey. Expensive whiskey.”

“Oh thank god!” She sighed, though her voice was still shaky.

And while the shadows lingered, and the anxiety about what was waiting for her outside these walls…her mind drifted back to what Bruce said earlier.

“Maybe I am.”