#bruce wayne fluff

"It is, though. If I've made you feel like the thing I say to you is the same thing I say to a barista, that's on me." He sat down across from you, serious now in a way the easy charm usually covered up. "I'm not going to stop saying it. But I'm going to start showing you the difference, so you don't have to take my word for it."

He did. Not in one grand gesture — Dick wasn't built for grand gestures, not really, not the kind that looked good and meant nothing — but in the small relentless proof of someone who remembered what you'd said and decided to spend the next several months answering it.

He showed up to the things he said he'd show up to. He asked about your day and waited for the actual answer instead of the polite one. He stopped saying it so easily to everyone else, not because you'd asked him to, but because — he told you, somewhat embarrassed about it — he'd noticed how much weight he was supposed to be putting behind the words and didn't want to dilute it anymore.

"You don't have to perform it," you told him, months later, half-laughing, after he'd shown up at your door at midnight with soup because you'd mentioned feeling sick in passing, hours ago, to someone else entirely.

"I'm not performing anything. I just heard you weren't feeling good." He set the soup down like it was nothing. "I told you. Proof, not promises."

"You actually meant that."

"I actually meant that." He sat next to you, easy as always, but steadier now, in the way that mattered. "I know you don't trust this kind of thing easily. I'm not in a hurry. I just want you to know I'm not going anywhere, and I'm not going to get tired of proving it."

You let yourself believe him. Slowly. The way you let yourself believe anything now.

It turned out to be the right call.

Jason Todd

Jason had a temper, and you'd known that going in — it wasn't a secret, wasn't something he hid, it sat right there on the surface of him like a warning label. What you hadn't expected was the night it actually came out at you.

It wasn't even about anything that mattered. A canceled plan, a bad day stacked on a worse one, a comment you'd made that landed wrong on a man who was already carrying too much. He snapped. Said something sharp and unfair and immediately regrettable, the kind of thing said in the heat of a moment that had nothing to do with you and everything to do with whatever he hadn't dealt with that day.

You didn't yell back. You just went quiet, the specific quiet of someone recalibrating — okay, so this is who he actually is when it counts — and started gathering your things.

"Don't," Jason said, voice already different. "Don't do the thing where you leave and decide I'm just another guy who doesn't deserve the benefit of the doubt."

"I'm not deciding anything. I'm giving you space."

"You're leaving because I proved a theory you already had." His jaw was tight. "I know that's what this looks like. I know what it looks like when I lose it and someone decides that's the real me and the rest was an act."

"Is it?"

"No." He said it immediately, no hesitation, like the question physically hurt. "And I know I don't get to just say that and have it fix anything. I was out of line. What I said wasn't fair, and it wasn't about you, and I took something out on you that you didn't deserve."

You stopped at the door. Didn't turn around yet.

"People apologize like that all the time," you said. "Doesn't mean it sticks."

"I know." A pause. "So don't take my word for it. Watch what I do instead. I'm not asking you to forgive me right now. I'm asking you to let me show you I meant it."

You turned around. He hadn't moved closer, hadn't tried to close the distance — just stood there, looking like a man bracing for the consequence he thought he'd earned.

"That's the first time anyone's apologized to me like they actually understood what they did," you admitted. "Usually it's just sorry-you're-upset. Not sorry-I-did-it."

"I know the difference." His voice was rough. "I've been on the other end of the fake kind enough times to know exactly how it sounds. I'm not doing that to you."

He didn't fix it that night. He fixed it over the next several weeks — checking in before he let something boil over, telling you when he was having a bad day instead of letting it leak out sideways, actually sitting with the discomfort of being wrong instead of explaining his way out of it.

"You're allowed to still be careful with me," he told you, once, when he caught you watching him a little warily after a tense conversation that hadn't gone anywhere near as badly as it could have. "I earned the caution. I'd rather you trust the pattern than trust a feeling."

"That's a very mature thing to say for a man with as many guns as you own."

"I contain layers."

You believed the pattern, eventually. Not the words — never just the words, not with him, not with anyone. But the pattern didn't lie, and the pattern, slowly, kept saying the same thing: he meant it.

Tim Drake

Tim apologized like he was solving a problem, which made sense, because to Tim, most things were problems with solutions if you were thorough enough about finding them.

The first time he upset you, it was something small — he'd brushed off a concern you'd raised because he was deep in a case and hadn't fully registered you were talking, and you'd gone quiet in the specific way you went quiet when you'd decided not to bother saying it twice.

"You're upset," he said, twenty minutes later, looking up from his laptop like he'd just run the numbers on something and didn't like the result.

"I'm fine."

"You said something fifteen minutes ago and I gave you a one-word answer without looking up. That's not nothing." He closed the laptop, which you noted, because Tim closing the laptop for anything short of an emergency was its own kind of statement. "I wasn't listening. That's on me, not you, and I don't want you deciding it's easier to just stop bringing things to me because I was distracted."

"It's really not that big a deal, Tim."

"It is, though, because if I let it slide now, it becomes a habit, and then in a year you've stopped telling me things because you've learned I won't actually hear them." He said it plainly, no performance to it, just the clear-eyed logic of someone who'd clearly already thought this through before you'd finished being annoyed about it. "So. I'm sorry. Genuinely — not the kind where I say sorry to end the conversation. Tell me again. I'm listening this time."

You told him again. He listened — actually listened, the kind where he asked a follow-up question that proved he'd absorbed it instead of just waited his turn to talk.

"You're surprisingly good at that," you said, after.

"At apologizing?"

"At meaning it instead of just performing it. Most people apologize to get past the moment. You apologize like you're trying to actually fix the thing that caused it."

"That's the only kind of apology that's useful." He shrugged, like it was obvious. "Saying sorry without changing anything is just a more polite way of telling someone their feelings were an inconvenience you'd like to move past quickly. I'd rather actually fix it. Takes longer. Works better."

It became a pattern with him — not flashy, not dramatic, just quietly consistent. He noticed things. He adjusted. When he got something wrong, he didn't get defensive about it; he treated it like data, something to be corrected rather than argued with.

"You really don't get offended when I call you out," you said once, half-testing.

"Being offended doesn't fix anything. It just makes the next conversation harder." He looked at you, steady, a little soft around the edges in the way he only ever was with you. "I'd rather hear it from you than guess wrong and lose you slowly without knowing why."

You hadn't expected to find that kind of safety in someone so methodical about it. But it turned out method was its own kind of devotion, if you paid attention to what it was actually in service of.

Duke Thomas

Duke had a way of making mistakes look like learning opportunities, which should have been annoying and somehow wasn't, because he never used it as an excuse — just as a way of getting somewhere better than where he'd started.

He upset you over something he hadn't realized was sensitive — a joke that landed wrong, brushing past something you'd mentioned once, in passing, that turned out to matter more than he'd registered. You didn't make a thing of it. You'd learned, a long time ago, that making a thing of it rarely got you anywhere good, so you just got quieter, pulled back an inch, the way you always did when something stung more than you wanted to admit.

Duke noticed within the hour.

"I said something," he said. Not a question. "I don't know what, exactly, but I know the look. What'd I get wrong?"

"It's fine."

"It's not, or you wouldn't have that face on." He sat down properly, giving you his full attention in a way that made it hard to keep brushing it off. "I'd rather you just tell me. I can't fix something I didn't know I broke."

So you told him. He listened without interrupting, without getting defensive, without doing the thing some men did where they started building their case for why it wasn't actually that bad before you'd even finished talking.

"Okay," he said, when you were done. "That's on me. I didn't know that mattered to you, but now I do, and I should've been more careful with it regardless. I'm sorry — actually sorry, not sorry-you're-upset sorry."

"You say that like it's a meaningful distinction."

"It is, though. Half the apologies people give are just trying to make the discomfort stop. I want you to actually know I get why it landed wrong, not just that I want the awkward part to be over."

"That's surprisingly self-aware for someone who just stepped on a landmine an hour ago."

"I step on a lot of landmines. Comes with the job of caring about someone who doesn't volunteer information easily." He said it lightly, no judgment in it. "I'd rather learn the hard way than not learn at all. Just means I'll get there eventually. Promise."

He did get there. Not all at once — there were more landmines, more small missteps, the ordinary mess of two people learning each other properly — but every single time, he did the same thing: noticed, asked, listened, adjusted. Never defensive. Never making you do the work of managing his guilt on top of your own hurt.

"You don't flinch when I call you out," you told him, once, genuinely curious about it.

"Why would I? You're not attacking me. You're telling me something true so I can do better. That's a gift, not a problem." He bumped his shoulder against yours. "I know you don't hand out trust easy. I'm not trying to talk you into it. I'm just trying to keep being the kind of person it makes sense to trust, every single time you check."

You checked, often, in the beginning. Quietly, the way you checked everything.

“You tryna have a repeat of last night?” You ask, eyes closed and voice airy as Bruce hits all your sensitive spots. He smirks against your skin before responding.

“I always want a repeat of last night,” he states confidently. Before he could continue down your body, you push him onto his back. His initial surprise turns into gratitude as you climb on top of him, straddling his middle. His hands find your hips like magnets and he takes his time appreciating your body. Still naked from the events of last night, he follows the curve of your waist, your breasts, to your neck, and finally your gorgeous face. You flash him your million dollar smile and he swears he would give you whatever you wanted when you looked at him like that.

“Well, we might as well change it up a little. Keep it interesting, hm?” You ask, not waiting for a response as you reached for Bruce’s length, stroking it in your hand. He was already hard and ready for you, sleep doing nothing to quell his need for you. You line yourself up with Bruce’s cock before sliding down slowly. The air leaves both of you as he fills you to the hilt. Your hands are on his chest for leverage, and you whimper as Bruce stretches you for all you’re worth. Bruce’s hands squeeze at your hips, not wanting to rush you, but, also not being able to bear the way your walls are fluttering around him. Before he knows it, you are lifting yourself off of him and lowering down.

You are in heaven right now. Still half sleep while your husband’s cock hits all of your spots. Your moans are soft, your pace steady as your hips rise and fall in a rhythm. The longer you go, the more lost in pleasure you get, while Bruce worships you from below you. “So fucking beautiful. You’re all mine, ain’t that right? My beautiful girl taking my cock so well. So perfect aren’t you,” he praises. His hands come up to tweak your nipples which causes you to moan loudly for him. “Good girl. My fucking good girl,”

Bruce notices your pace beginning to falter before you do. The way you slow down, how your arms shake gently, and without you having to ask, he takes over. Sitting up to better position himself and pressing a hot kiss to your lips. “I got you. Just relax baby, I’m right here,” he whispers against your lips. You wrap your arms around his neck, and your eyes go wide as Bruce begins to thrust into you.

“Fuck Bruce. Feels so good,” you keen, pressing your lips to his again. He loves the feeling of you breaking up kisses in order to moan for him. You feel your walls flutter when he hits that spot near your cervix, “So big Brucie. So fucking big,” you moan, your words starting to slur as you drop your head to Bruce’s shoulder. He raises a hand from your hips, to the center of your back to keep you close.

“You are so warm baby, and taking me so well. You gonna cum for me? Be good and cum for pretty girl.” It isn’t a suggestion, but a request. He holds your hips down so your clit grinds against him with every thrust of his hips. You gasp, and begin to fall apart against Bruce. Your hands moving to grab his biceps for support, digging your nails into his warm skin.

“I’m coming. Bruce, god Bruce please. Please don’t stop baby, please,” you beg in rapid pleas.

“I’m right here. I got you baby. Go ahead, I got you,” he whispers in your ear, and that is all it takes for you to hit your peak. Your moans muffled by Bruce’s shoulder, but still beautiful to him. Bruce’s hips falter, your orgasm spurring his own. The way your walls squeeze and flutter around him has him groaning in your ear. You always loved it when Bruce lost control and let you hear all the sexy sounds he made when he came for you. After a few more thrusts, he is following you, releasing his warm load inside of you.

Bruce squeezes you tight as you both bask in the moment. Between last night and tonight, the room is beginning to smell of sex. Both your bodies sweaty and sticking together. You are the fist to break the silence, absentmindedly tracing Bruce’s biceps. “What time do you have to be in the office today?”

“No time soon. There’s some stuff I need to do, but I can do it from here. I told them I wanted to spend the day with my wife,” he says, and you look up at to find his blue eyes already looking at you. “Seriously. Just me and you… well Alfred too,” he states flatly, but you can’t help but laugh. The thought of spending the whole day with your husband brings a smile to your face, and you press a kiss to his shoulder.

“Well, I am in desperate need of a shower. Let me do that and then we can go eat,” you say and start to get off Bruce. He stops you and holds your body tighter against his. Instead, he stands up with you two still connected, causing you to gasp, and walks you two to the bathroom.

“When I said I wanted to spend the day with my wife, I meant it,” he says pressing a kiss to your lips.

After showering, with a lot of kissing and other things in between, you and Bruce get dressed for the day. Going downstairs, you find Alfred making breakfast. He greets both of you warmly as always, two cups of coffee waiting for you. Bruce’s black and yours prepared perfectly to your liking. You grab yours and walk over to Alfred, “Do you need any help?” You ask, and as always, he shoos you away causing you to laugh.

Bruce beckons you over, and you think it is just to see something in the paper. He pulls you into his lap and goes about his daily reading of the Gotham Gazette. You can feel the heat warming your face as you get comfortable against Bruce’s chest. It wasn’t that Bruce wasn’t physically affectionate to you, but you also knew it wasn’t the primary way he showed love. So, this big display, you sitting in his lap, surprised you. You turned your head to press a kiss to his cheek and read the paper with Bruce. When he flips the page you point at the crossword.

“Let’s do it. Bet ya I solve more clues than you,” you challenge Bruce with a smile. He was never one to turn down a competition, just as Alfred places breakfast in front of both of you, along with two pens. You smile and thank Alfred before saying,

“Alfred you wanna join? Bet I can beat you too.” Hoping to entice the butler, who fights the smile that tugs at the corner of his lips.

the drive home tonight is epically quiet. his voice a sound you wished you could hear but know you won’t because he needs a moment. peers using him as means to their own ends, seeing dollar signs where human emotion should be considered. bruce internalizes it. he pushes it all down until he snaps and it all falls on himself or his sons. you remind him of the fact when he scratches his chin too hard and the red mark remains. when you see the bags begin to form or the line between his brows. he lets you smooth it out with a gentle smile that melts your heart like ice.

now his hands find their way to you anyway, sitting warm as he grips your thigh. fingers idle on the bare skin, still as if in waiting. he catches your eye at the red light, watching as it illuminates your skin amid the dark gotham night. like a sterling path of light through his dark thoughts. you pretend not to notice him staring at the side of your face when you stare at the side mirror.

bruce doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s deep in thought. he doesn’t enjoy company that is uninvited. but with his wife, his beautiful loving wife, bruce has immense patience.

no one else can gauge his moods in the way you can. no one else sees how anger is truly concern or how his indifference is really acceptance.

he’s a man who has put all his faith into a broken system that has beat down his loved ones time and time again. bruce has to believe that it’s all for something. that he did this for a reason behind superficial tangibility. he admits to you in the quiet moments that it’s for you. for his family. for the child he hopes you’ll let him give you. admits that you ground him and keep him sane from the thoughts that whirl him into the dark.

for now, he keeps his palm on your knee, sliding up and down to your thigh like he’s soothing. though you know it’s more for him than for you. then he’s bringing your hand on your thigh up to his lips. he reminds you that even without words that he loves you bad, until it makes him devoid of anything else. delicate presses of his supple skin to the back of your hand before he nuzzles his nose against it. watching him completely turned now, you smile to yourself and graze his cheek with your freehand before he turns to kiss the palm of that one too.

existence was simply sufficient for him. your presence all he needed even when words failed to find him. though you’d also learned to love the silence and how his embrace was enough to warm your soul.