The manor was quiet in the way it only ever was right before trouble.

You stood in the middle of the sitting room with your arms crossed, trying very hard to look like a united parental front while the small, stubborn hurricane you both loved very much sat on the edge of the couch, chin tilted up in defiance.

Across from him stood your husband, the formidable, terrifying, brooding legend of Bruce Wayne.

At the moment, however, he looked less like Gotham’s Dark Knight, and more like a man who had just been given news about his son at school and didn't know what the hell to do with it.

“Do you want to explain,” you began calmly, “why your teacher called to inform us that you refused to participate in group work because — and I quote — ‘I work better alone’?”

The small boy crossed his arms. “Because it’s true.”

Bruce nodded at that, his arms crossed as he flicked his gaze from his son to you, as if waiting to see how you would respond to such a factual statement. Instead, you just slowly turned your head toward your husband.

He cleared his throat. “It is… sometimes true.”

Smack.

Your palm landed lightly against the back of his head.

Bruce blinked in stunned betrayal.

“Not helping,” you said sweetly through a tight lipped smile.

Damian’s eyes widened. “Mother, did you just hit Batman?”

You pointed at him, your eyes slowly leaving your husband's to meet your son's. “I hit your father. Don’t get ideas.”

Bruce straightened, rubbing the back of his head with a wounded expression that made Alfred close his eyes to compose himself. “I was simply suggesting that independence is an.. admirable trait.”

“Independence is admirable,” you agreed. “Being uncooperative and telling your teacher that ‘authority is a suggestion’ is not.”

There was a beat of silence, one that was only broken by Bruce's cough. You had been expecting some sort of back up from him, but you should've known better considering all of the behavioral issues Damian's teacher mentioned... were ones Bruce still exhibited.

Smack.

“I did not say that,” Bruce defended quickly, his eyes narrowing in a lighthearted way.

“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your DNA.”

Damian looked between you both, clearly weighing his options. “She said I had to apologize.”

“And?” you prompted, hoping to god he didn't say what the brooding man besides you always did.

“I don’t think I was wrong.”

God damnit. Bruce opened his mouth, but you didn't even have to look at him this time.

Smack.

“I didn’t say anything!” He defended, his hand coming to try and catch yours but you quickly turned it into a sharply pointed finger that was jutting in his direction.

“You were about to.”

He pressed his lips together to hold back a smile, eyes narrowing slightly, but he wisely chose to stay silent.

You crouched in front of your son so you were eye level. His little jaw was set in the exact same stubborn angle you saw every time Bruce argued with Lucius about safety protocols.

“Sweetheart,” you uttered gently, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead, “being right isn’t the only thing that matters. Sometimes we apologize because we were disrespectful, not because we were incorrect.”

He frowned. “But she was wrong.”

“Maybe,” you allowed. “But you still can’t roll your eyes and say you’ll ‘handle it yourself.’”

Bruce shifted behind you, taking a deep and audible breath through his nose. You knew what that meant. You shot your hand back without turning.

Smack.

“That one was preemptive,” you informed him.

He stared at you. “I'm being disciplined in my own home.”

“Yes,” you agreed calmly. “You are.”

Damian’s defiance started to crack, mostly because watching his father get smacked repeatedly was far more entertaining than the lecture.

“But Dad works alone,” he tried.

Bruce looked hopeful at that, because he did work alone. Surely you couldn't find a way to turn that into a lecture directed at him! But then, you stood up slowly, and he knew it was coming.

“Oh, I’m so glad you brought that up,” you said, smiling in a way that made both of them tense. “Tell me, my darling husband, how many times has working alone ended with you injured, unconscious, or brooding dramatically on a rooftop instead of asking for help?”

Bruce folded his arms. “That is not relevant.”

“It’s extremely relevant.”

You turned back to your son. “Your father is brilliant. Brave. Capable. And a man that is absolutely worth looking up to.”

Bruce’s chest puffed slightly with pride, this was a statement he could wholeheartedly agree with.

“But, he's also,” you continued, and Bruce's eyebrow shot up, “so stubborn he once tried to reset his own dislocated shoulder because he ‘had it handled.’”

The boy's eyes widened and shot to his father. He was conflicted, that sounded impressive, made him respect his father's resilience even more... but your tone suggested he shouldn't feel that way

Bruce looked offended. “It was handled.”

“You passed out.”

“That was momentary.”

You didn’t even need to look this time.

Smack.

Alfred’s faint, traitorous chuckle echoed from the hallway all the while your son tried very hard not to smile.

You softened your voice. “We don’t punish you because you’re strong-willed. We love that about you. We just want you to learn when to bend a little.”

He looked down at his shoes. “I don’t like when people tell me what to do.”

Bruce nodded very solemnly.

Smack.

“I was agreeing with you.”

“I know.” You shrugged, shooting him a wink over your shoulder.

You crouched to sit besides your son, pulling him gently into your side. After a moment of resistance, he melted into you, small arms wrapping around your waist.

Bruce’s expression softened immediately, no longer did he have a playful irritation creased into his brow, he now was simply admiring the gentle sight in front of him.

“Your dad,” you practically whispered, glancing at Bruce with fond exasperation, “has made a whole career out of not liking being told what to do.”

“That’s not entirely-...”

Kick.

He huffed.

“But,” you continued, stroking your son’s hair, “he also learned that he can’t do everything alone. He has people. Family. A team.”

Bruce looked at you then, something warm replacing the mock irritation.

“And that’s not weakness,” you shook your head, tilting Damian's round face so he would look at you. “It’s strength.”

Your son peeked up at Bruce. “So I still have to apologize?”

Bruce hesitated, his eyes flicking towards you briefly. All he needed to see was your raised eyebrow and he was nodding sternly.

“I think that apologizing would demonstrate maturity,” Your husband agreed all too quickly.

You smiled approvingly.

“No smacking?” he mumbled cautiously.

“Not if you keep that up.”

Damian groaned dramatically but nodded. “Fine. I will apologize.”

“Good,” you hummed, pressing a kiss to his temple. “And maybe next time, try saying ‘I disagree’ instead of ‘I’ll handle it.’”

He considered. “May I still handle it?”

“In your head? Absolutely.”

Bruce gave him a subtle thumbs-up behind your back, which you caught in the reflection of the window.

Smack.

“Unbelievable,” Bruce grumbled, rubbing the back of his head and his arm where he had been brutally assaulted by your flurry of smacks.

Your son let out a small laugh, finally dissolving the last of the tension.

You stood and offered him your hand. “Go wash up for dinner.”

He slid off the couch and ran toward the hall, calling, “I fear you are in trouble, father.”

“I am not in trouble,” Bruce called after him, yet, when you turned slowly once your son was our of earshot, he immediately straightened. “Hypothetically.”

You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “You realize he learned half of that from watching you.”

Bruce tilted his head. “He learned confidence.”

“He learned dramatic silence and brooding eye contact.”

“That's an intimidation strategy.”

“It is not useful in second grade.”

Bruce tried not to smile at that, which was too obvious to a well trained eye like yours.

You poked his chest. “You are supposed to back me up.”

“I was backing you up.”

“You were validating him.”

Bruce leaned down slightly, lowering his voice to that gravelly murmur that had once terrified criminals and now mostly annoyed you when he used it for comedic effect. “I happen to admire stubbornness.”

“I know,” you said. “You married it.”

There was a pause, then his lips pulled into a boyish smile. You tried to keep up the frustrated look, but at the sight of his grin you couldn't help but smile yourself.

He reached for your waist. “You hit me six times.”

“Eight, if we're counting the kick,” you corrected.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I face down supervillains regularly.”

“And yet,” you said sweetly, tapping his forehead lightly, “this is what keeps you in line.”

He caught your hand before you could pull it away, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You enjoy this.”

“Oh hell yeah I do.”

From the hallway came a small voice. “I can still hear you.”

Bruce cleared his throat, instantly shifting into overly serious father mode. “Wash your hands properly!”

“Yes, Father.”

You shook your head, smiling as you leaned into your husband’s side.

“He’s just like you,” you murmured.

Bruce wrapped an arm around you, resting his chin briefly against your hair. “He’s better.”

You looked up at him, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity. You knew Bruce wasn't the egotistical maniac that the public made him out to be, but you also knew he wasn't necessarily this humble.

“He has you,” Bruce added simply. That was all it took for your expression to completely soften, the teasing melting into something warmer.

“Don’t get sentimental,” you warned gently, your arms coming to wrap around him.

He smirked. “Would you hit me again?”

“Without hesitation.”

He laughed quietly, the sound low and rare and entirely yours.

Down the hall, little footsteps pounded again.

“Mother, Father... do I have to apologize tomorrow or can I email?”

You and Bruce answered at the same time. “Tomorrow.” The boy groaned and you both could hear his little footsteps fade off down the hallway.

Bruce glanced at you. “See? Unified.”

You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Keep talking.”

He held up his hands in surrender.

And somewhere in the manor, Alfred allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, because Gotham’s most stubborn vigilante had finally met the only force strong enough to keep him — and his equally stubborn children — in check.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

The morning light seeped gently through the tall windows, brushing against the sheets in a way that made the edges glow gold and soft. You let yourself sink further into the warmth, half lidded eyes tracing the strong, familiar line of your husband's jaw, the way his dark hair caught the sunlight and shimmered faintly at the edges.

Bruce shifted beside you, a low hum escaping his throat as he pressed closer, one hand sliding over your hip with lazy intent. His chest was warm against yours, the slow, steady rhythm of him grounding you in a way only he could.

“You’re warm,” he murmured, his voice husky with sleep, brushing his lips against your temple in the kind of kiss that lingered just long enough to send a shiver down your spine. “It's almost unfairly.”

You laughed softly, your fingers teasing at the edge of his shirt, tugging it just slightly, careful to let the moment stretch, letting your hand drift to the bare skin of his stomach as you murmured against him, “Maybe I like it when it’s unfair.”

Bruce chuckled, low and amused, the sound vibrating against your shoulder, his lips brushing your ear this time, trailing down the side of your neck in slow, tantalizing motion.

“Is that a challenge?” he asked, though the spark in his eyes made it clear he wasn’t serious, or maybe he was, but in the most indulgent way imaginable.

You nipped at his jawline in answer, teasing, playful, letting him feel the light touch of your teeth without any bite.

“Maybe,” you whispered, the word lingering between you, soft and intimate, carrying that sort of private meaning reserved for mornings when the rest of the world didn’t exist, and the house belonged only to the two of you.

Bruce groaned softly, tilting his head back against the pillow, letting his hand drift to your back, fingertips brushing down in slow circles that made your pulse skip, your body leaning into his touch.

“We’re going to regret being awake before the girls wake up,” he muttered, his tone teasing but heavy with the promise of something more, and your laugh filled the small space between the sheets.

“Oh, I highly doubt that,” you hummed, brushing your lips across the corner of his mouth, just enough to make him shiver. “I plan on savoring it while I can.”

He swallowed, eyes darkening just slightly in the morning light, a glimmer of amusement and something sharper threading through the corner of his gaze.

“I might need some assistance with that,” he murmured, letting the words hang there, heavy with suggestion, his hand sliding lower along your waist. “Wouldn’t want it the moment to get away from me.”

You rolled your eyes, feigning exasperation, though your pulse betrayed your grin. “Oh, you're such a gentleman,” you murmured, letting your hand press just a little more insistently against his lower torso. “Always thinking of everyone else before yourself.”

Bruce’s lips quirked, a smirk tugging at the corner as his hand traced upward along your side, teasing the curve of your ribs. “Especially you,” he grumbled softly, voice dropping, low enough that it brushed against your skin like a little promise.

The sheets rustled as you both shifted closer, the world shrinking to the warmth between you, to the soft hum of breathing and the touch of skin on skin. This was the kind of slow, deliberate intimacy that felt like owning time itself, even if just for a fleeting morning.

You traced the stubbled line of his jaw again, letting your lips brush just barely against him. Your kisses lingering against his skin as you pressed your lips to his adam's apple which bobbed in response. His body leaning into yours with that quiet, confident ease that always made your pulse race, even after years of mornings like this.

“I could get used to this,” you murmured, your lips brushing the shell of his ear as your hand traveled down, fingers pressing lightly, teasing, “just the two of us, before the chaos hits.”

Bruce let out a low, approving groan, the kind that promised he agreed entirely and had been hoping you’d say that.

“Mmm, so could I,” he breathed, tilting his head toward you just slightly, lips brushing yours in a slow, soft, intimate kiss that lingered far longer than it should have. His hand threading through your hair, pulling you closer as if the world beyond the sheets might vanish completely if you just stayed like this.

And for a moment, it was just the two of you, and it was soft, and it was slow, and it was everything you wanted before the small, tiny footsteps and the giggles of the two little girls would pull you from your sanctuary of sheets and whispered promises. You loved them dearly, but they had a tendency of interrupting and leaving only the warmth between you and Bruce. The warmth, and the memory of a morning that had started with nothing but love, laughter, and a few well-placed innuendos that would linger far longer than either of you would admit aloud.

The sheets shifted just enough that Bruce leaned against you fully now, his hand sliding lazily and dangerously low. The hum of the morning soft and slow, until a tiny, familiar sound cut through the warmth like a playful warning.

Knock. Knock.

It was a deliberate pattern, and something only you and Bruce knew meant business with it's tiny, confident rhythm that demanded attention.

“Who’s there?” you called, voice sweet and teasing, though your pulse jumped slightly at the reminder that your little ones had already started their day.

“Two princesses!” came the chirped response through the door, high-pitched and brimming with authority, followed by a second, “Open! It's morning!” that carried just enough urgency to make you laugh.

Bruce groaned softly against your shoulder, lips brushing the top of your head. “They’re efficient,” he murmured, voice rough with amusement. “Always on time, never subtle.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” you whispered back, pressing a soft kiss to his jaw and shooting him a playful wink.

“I think it’s genetic,” he said, smirking, voice low, almost suggestive, the glimmer in his eyes promising he had already decided there would be some more little ones down the line who carried on his drama.

Another set of tiny knocks rapped sharply on the doorframe, accompanied by more high-pitched declarations. “Open! It’s urgent!”

“You hear that?” you asked, rolling onto your side to face him properly, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Urgent. I think we better comply, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce shifted just slightly, a quiet chuckle escaping him, one hand tracing a slow line from your hip to your waist.

“I suppose the fate of the world — or at least ours — depends on it,” he teased, lowering his voice to just above a whisper. “Shall we answer together?”

You laughed softly, brushing your lips across his in a lazy, teasing kiss. “After you,” you murmured, letting your gaze linger in a way that made him smirk knowingly.

He leaned in anyway, brushing a slow kiss over your mouth, teasing, soft, a whisper of intimacy in the quiet morning, before pulling back just enough to let you hear the tiny voices again.

“Alright... let’s see what all the commotion is about,” he said, tone low though that didn't mask the grin that was spreading across his face.

You both rolled out of the sheets just enough to rise, Bruce’s hand never leaving yours as you moved toward the door. The two of you shared a look that was a quiet acknowledgment.. and acceptance.. of your the fate on the other side of the heavy wooden door.

As soon as the door swung open, your 5 year old barreled in first, arms spread wide as if to tackle both of you in a single move. “Good morninggggg! You two need'ta see what I found!” she shouted gleefully, eyes sparkling with mischief and pride.

Right behind her, the toddler followed with tiny, wobbly determined steps, hands waving wildly as she added, “Daddy! Up! Up!” in a voice that carried the perfect mix of urgency and excitement. She climbed onto Bruce’s leg almost immediately, wrapping her arms around him with all the weight her little chubby body could manage, and he caught her effortlessly, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest.

“And here I thought our quiet morning would last,” Bruce murmured, voice still husky from sleep, brushing a hand through the toddler’s hair, eyes flicking to the older daughter with a mock glare. “You’re conspiring against us, aren’t you?”

“Maybe,” your daughter said with the same cheeky grin Bruce sometimes had, “but it’s very important!” She leaned closer, lowering her voice dramatically. “We found treasure.”

Bruce tilted his head, pretending to consider the gravity of this announcement. “Treasure, huh?” His hand reached to press a gentle, lingering kiss to your temple as he shifted the toddler so she rested comfortably against him. “And I suppose this treasure is too valuable for me to see first?”

The toddler let out a tiny squeal in protest at being adjusted, squirming happily in Bruce’s arms as if insisting on being part of the conversation. You laughed softly, brushing a hand down her back.

“I think the adults get to see it together,” you said, voice teasing but full of warmth, leaning into Bruce as he held your youngest securely.

The older daughter sighed dramatically but clearly delighted, hopping in place as she led you both toward the living room, her hands gesturing wildly like a conductor guiding the orchestra. “Follow me! It’s really amazing! You’ll want to see it before anyone else!”

Bruce let out a soft groan, playful and indulgent, pressing a quick kiss to your temple before murmuring, “I don’t know how I survived before I had you girls to ruin my mornings.”

“‘Ruin’ is one word,” you whispered, brushing your lips against his jaw, letting the tip of your nose nudge his cheek. “Brighten is another.” You punctuated your words with a gentle kiss to your toddler's cheek.

He caught your gaze and held it, a slow, private smile tugging at his lips, his hand lingering at your hip just a fraction longer, the warmth between you undeniable even amidst the whirlwind of little stomps and excited chatter, a momentary bubble of intimacy that belonged just to the two of you before the house fully came alive.

“Alright,” Bruce said finally, voice low, rich, and teasing as he shifted the toddler in his arms. “Lead the way, Miss Treasure Hunter. But be warned, if this treasure is anything less than spectacular, there will be consequences.”

The girls erupted in laughter, the sound filling the hallway like sunlight, and you pressed close to Bruce, letting him feel your warmth, your hand finding his, your lips brushing his cheek as you whispered, “You’re going to spoil them too much, y;know.”

He smirked, brushing a kiss to the top of your head. “Not a chance. Someone has to keep them properly… motivated.”

And with that, the four of you moved toward the living room, a soft, chaotic, and absolutely perfect morning unfolding around the two of you.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

It was past two in the morning when you finally stopped pretending you weren’t waiting.

The bedroom at Wayne Manor was dark except for the faint spill of the far off city light through the curtains, and warming the edge of the bed and the empty space beside you. You had long since changed out of the silk dress you’d worn to dinner alone and the candles downstairs had burned out hours ago.

You had told yourself you wouldn’t do this again.

Wouldn’t lie awake listening for the distant sound of the cave opening. Wouldn’t check your phone for a message that never came. Wouldn’t let your thoughts twist into something sharp and humiliating.

The door opened quietly.

Bruce moved through the room like a shadow, already shrugging out of his remaining gear, movements controlled despite the exhaustion that lined his shoulders. There was a faint bruise darkening his jaw and a shallow cut near his collarbone. Normally, you'd go over to him with antiseptic and pajamas, you'd clean his wounds while kneeling between his knees.

But, normally you didn't let headlines get to you head, and you normally didn't let the asshole press that seemed to follow you everywhere get beneath your skin.

He didn’t look surprised to see you awake.

“You should be asleep,” his voice came softly in a way that tugged at you, and made you feel guilty for his lack of communication.

You pushed yourself up against the headboard. “You didn’t call.”

A pause.

“I was busy.”

“I know what you were doing, Bruce. I don't expect you to be able to speak to me at every minute of the day.” you replied, voice steady in a way that surprised even you. “I just don’t understand why it means I don’t exist until sunrise.”

Bruce stilled at that, his eyes fixated ahead while his shoulders rose with one deep breath, then he set his keyson the dresser with deliberate care.

“That’s not what this is.”

“Then what is it?” You swung your legs over the side of the bed, standing now, the thin fabric of your nightgown barely skimming your thighs. “Because I can’t keep doing nights where you disappear and I hear nothing. Not a text. Not a single word. I sit here refreshing the news in case it says 'Batman Found Dead'. I'm here wondering if you’re bleeding somewhere and I’m supposed to just… what? Smile at breakfast?”

His jaw tightened slightly. “You know the risks.”

“Yes,” you snapped, stepping closer. “I do. I have for years. I accepted that part. What I didn’t accept was being shut out of everything else.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened, not with anger.. but with focus.

“You are not shut out.”

“Then why does it feel like I am?” Your voice cracked, but you didn’t look away. “Why does it feel like I’m married to a fucking ghost half the time?”

Silence stretched between you, heavy and electric.

Bruce took a step forward.

“You think I don’t think about you?” he asked quietly.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, and that honesty was worse than shouting. “Sometimes I don’t know what you feel at all.”

His expression shifted, something sharper emerging beneath the calm.

“Careful,” he murmured under his breath, his jaw jutting a bit.

You shook your head, years of swallowed questions rising all at once. “No, because I have sat here for hours tonight, Bruce, just running through all the damn questions I could think of.”

He didn’t move. He let you spill out as your arms crossed tightly, your hands bunching the fabric of your pajamas in hopes of finding some comfort.

“Do you even want me?” The words left before you could soften them. “Or was this just... convenient? Y'know, the image, the stability, the family man picture. You get to bring a dolled up wife to the galas you don't give a shit about, so no one gets suspicious while you live the life you actually care about.”

Bruce went very still, and the air changed.

“Say that again,” he said quietly.

You swallowed, heart hammering but unable to retreat now as your eyes began to sting. “Sometimes I feel like I’m just… ornamental. Something that looks good on your arm. I don’t even know if you’re attracted to me anymore, Bruce. I don’t know if you ever were, or if I just fit the narrative. You didn't even show up tonight...”

You expected distance, the typical Wayne coldness that he had when things got too emotional. That same instinct that was so strong in him, that it became instilled in his kids, as well.

Instead, he crossed the space between you in two strides.

His hands bracketed your hips, firm and unyielding, backing you against the edge of the bed. Not rough or careless, but firm and decisive.

“Ornamental?” he repeated, voice low.

Your breath caught.

His gaze dragged over you slowly, deliberately, not hiding the hunger there. “You think I married you to keep up appearances?”

“I-..”

He leaned down slightly, one hand sliding up your waist, thumb pressing into the curve of your side as if testing the reality of you.

“Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how much control it takes not to cancel half my meetings for the day when I hear your damn heels in the hall?”

Your pulse stumbled.

“You don’t show it,” you whispered, your throat thick as you swallowed hard.

“Because if I did,” he said, voice roughening, “we would never leave this room.”

The tension snapped tight.

His hand moved from your waist to your jaw, tilting your face up so you had to look at him.

“I don’t speak during patrol because distraction gets people killed,” he said, intensity burning through every word. “And you," he paused, his eyes dark and lit with an intensity that you were nearly buckling under, "are the single greatest distraction I have ever known.”

Heat flooded your chest, your hands braced on his forearms to keep yourself stable as your chest rose with each heavy breath.

“You think I don’t notice,” he continued, “the way that dress clings to you at events? The way men look at you? You think I don’t see it?”

His thumb brushed your lower lip.

“You are mine,” his possessiveness wasn't the type that was cruel, or the type that made you fear him. It was just certain, like he knew he had you, and he knew that he was all yours. “Not because I need an image, I could do anything and still have people watch me. You're mine because I chose you.”

Your breath came shallow now.

“Then why does it feel like I’m begging for scraps of attention?” you asked, softer this time. Your tongue darting out to wet your lips, as you blinked away the tears that had threatened to spill earlier.

Bruce’s forehead rested briefly against yours, a rare crack in the armor.

“Because I'm not good at this part,” he admitted quietly. “The reassurances, I never have been. But don’t mistake silence for indifference.”

His hand slid down your side again, slower this time, deliberate, mapping you like he was proving a point.

“I have wanted you,” his voice was low now, intimate and dangerous, “from the moment you challenged me at that first board meeting. I have wanted you every time you argue with me. Every time you stand your ground. Every time you walk into a room and own it.”

His lips brushed just beneath your ear, not quite a kiss.

“And every night I come back alive,” he murmured, “it’s because I intend to come back to you.”

The words sent a shiver down your spine.

Your hands found his shirt without thinking, fisting into the fabric.

“I don’t need grand gestures,” you whispered. “I just need to know I matter more than the mission.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you fully.

“You're the reason there's a mission,” he said firmly. “You. This. A future that includes you safe in it.”

Then his lips met yours, he wasn't soft and he sure as hell didn't hesitate. This was the type of kiss that answered every doubt you had dared to voice. Controlled heat giving way to something deeper as his hands tightened at your waist, pulling you flush against him.

There was nothing ornamental about the way he touched you. Nothing distant about the way his breath hitched when your fingers slid to the back of his neck.

He broke the kiss only long enough to murmur against your mouth, “Do not ever question whether I want you.”

His hand slid to your thigh, fingers flexing there, grounding, possessive, loving all at once.

“You are my wife,” he said, voice thick with certainty. “Not a prop.”

Your insecurity didn’t vanish, because let's be honest insecurities never do. But it melted into something else, something electric and undeniably real.

You rose slightly on your toes, meeting him again, this time with no hesitation. And Bruce responded like a man who had been holding back far too long.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

You were usually sunshine in human form, aka your husband's opposite. Bright voice, quick laughter, a running commentary on everything from elevator music to bad coffee.. you had the kind of presence that made rooms feel lighter just by existing in them. People at Wayne Enterprises joked that if morale had a face, it would be yours, always smiling, always kind, always willing to smooth things over.

That was why Bruce noticed immediately when you walked into his office without knocking and didn’t smile at all.

You shut the door behind you with way more force than necessary, heels clicking sharply against the floor as you crossed the room, dropped your folder on the side table, and exhaled like you’d been holding your breath for an hour straight.

Bruce didn’t look up right away, fingers moving steadily over the keyboard, posture relaxed but attentive in that way of his that suggested he was aware of everything even when he seemed buried in work.

“They were awful,” you huffed finally, arms crossing over your chest as you leaned against the edge of his desk. Your voice wasn’t loud, but it was tight, the usual warmth dulled by something sharper underneath. “Just… genuinely awful.”

“Mhm,” Bruce murmured, eyes still on the screen, typing uninterrupted.

And that was all the encouragement you needed to keep going. That was the good thing about being with him for so long, you knew exactly noises men "I need to finish this up, it's do or die." and what noises meant, "I'm listening even if I'm not looking."

“I mean, I know it was a ‘boys’ club’ type of meeting going in, but, like, wow,” you continued, pacing now, your words tumbling out faster as the frustration found somewhere to land. “They talked over me, Bruce. Like, fully talked over me. I’d start a sentence and suddenly it was like I wasn’t even there. And when I did finish a thought, one of them would repeat it five minutes later like he’d invented it.” You scoffed, shaking your head. “And the looks. Ugh! The damn looks they kept giving me! The smiles. That condescending little nod like I was a kid playing dress-up in corporate strategy.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened almost invisibly, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“And I know I’m good at this,” you went on, gesturing vaguely toward the folder you’d dropped. “I mean, you had no obligation to loop me in just because we got married, so I know I am smart enough to work. I know I handled it professionally. I smiled, I redirected, I stayed polite. I always do. But it’s exhausting, y'know? Being the nicest person in the room just so they don’t decide you’re ‘difficult or bitchy. You remember last time I actually voiced an opinion that was somewhat different! Those investors started whispering the second I stepped away to answer the phone.” You laughed once, humorlessly. “One of them actually called me ‘sweetheart.’ In a boardroom. Like, what the fuck?”

That did it. Bruce’s fingers paused for half a second before resuming their steady rhythm.

You sighed, the anger ebbing into something closer to self consciousness as the silence stretched. You glanced at him, noticed how focused he looked, and suddenly felt a twinge of guilt. “Sorry,” you added quickly, already stepping back. “You’re working. I’m just… I'm just rambling. I’ll let you get back to it-...”

His hand shot out, firm but gentle, catching your wrist before you could take another step.

“No,” Bruce said firmly, low and calm, finally lifting his eyes to meet yours. “Come here.”

You barely had time to process the command before he tugged you closer, guiding you between his knees as he leaned back in his chair. Strong hands settled at your hips, lifting you effortlessly until you were sitting sideways on his lap, the sudden closeness knocking the air from your lungs in a startled little breath.

“Bruce,” you started, half laughing, half flustered, “what are you-..”

“Shh,” he murmured, one arm securing you against his chest as the other reached for the mouse. “You weren’t rambling.”

He turned the monitor slightly so you could see it.

Your eyes widened as you took in what was on the screen.

Multiple windows were open, neatly organized profiles, articles, and corporate filings. A highlighted list of names you recognized immediately, men from the meeting you’d just escaped. One of them had his LinkedIn pulled up, complete with a sidebar of connections. Another tab showed a recent HR complaint from a company he’d sat on the board of. Another showed an old interview, a quote circled in red where he’d dismissed women in leadership as “a trend.”

You stared, stunned.

“Babe,” you whispered, equal parts horrified and impressed, “is this… are you cyber stalking them?”

“I prefer ‘due diligence,’” he replied calmly with a shrug, tightening his arm around you just slightly, grounding, protective. “You came back upset, so that makes it my concern.”

Your throat tightened as you leaned back against him, the earlier frustration shifting into something warmer, steadier. “You didn’t even say anything,” you murmured. “I thought I was just venting into the void. Not that I mind... I mean, your whole thing is shadows and the void.”

“You were venting to me,” he corrected, eyes scanning another page as if this were the most natural thing in the world. “And they were unprofessional, dismissive, condescending, and frankly douchebags. That behavior tends to follow patterns.” His lips curved faintly. “Patterns are easy to track.”

You let out a soft, incredulous laugh, resting your head briefly against his shoulder. “You know I don’t need you to… dismantle them, right?”

His gaze softened as it dropped to you. “I know,” he said quietly. “But I want you to know that when someone disrespects you, I notice, and that isn't taken lightly.”

You swallowed, emotions tangling in your chest, and nodded once. “Okay,” you murmured, then added, teasing despite the lump in your throat, “but if any of them mysteriously lose their careers, I’m pretending I don’t know you.”

Bruce’s mouth twitched. “That would be smart.”

You smiled then, finally, curling a little closer on his lap, the weight of the meeting easing as you realized that even when you thought you were just talking into the air, he had been doing so much more than listening all along.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.

IN A CITY OF POWER, MRS. WAYNE LEADS WITH GRACE

Gotham is not a city known for softness. Its public figures tend to harden quickly, shaped by scandal cycles, sharp headlines and a social scene that rewards spectacle over sincerity. That is perhaps why the emergence of Mrs. Wayne as a public figure has been met with something rare in Gotham: genuine affection.

Since her quiet marriage to billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne earlier this year, Mrs. Wayne has become an unexpectedly reassuring presence in a city more accustomed to guarded smiles and calculated charm. Without fanfare or formal announcement, she has taken on a visible role alongside her husband, and in doing so, has shifted the tone of Gotham’s most powerful rooms.

Mrs. Wayne’s appearances are notable not for extravagance but for attentiveness. At charity events and foundation functions, she is often seen speaking at length with volunteers, custodial staff and community organizers long after the more prominent guests have moved on. She remembers names. She follows up. Wayne Foundation representatives confirm that several outreach visits she attended were added to the calendar at her request, with no press notified in advance.

“She treats people like people,” said a longtime Wayne Foundation staff member, who spoke on the condition of anonymity because they were not authorized to speak publicly. “Not like donors. Not like photo opportunities. Some of these rich folks are just... shitty.”

The comparison that has surfaced repeatedly in public commentary — one Wayne Enterprises has declined to endorse — is that of a “people’s princess,” a figure defined less by status and more by approachability. The label may sound unbelievable in Gotham, but it reflects a growing sentiment among residents and leaders alike. They all feel Mrs. Wayne is accessible in a city that rarely allows its elite to be.

That warmth appears to extend inward as well.

Those who have observed the couple together describe a dynamic that is quietly affectionate and deeply supportive. Mrs. Wayne often positions herself as a buffer during crowded appearances, subtly redirecting attention when conversations grow overwhelming or events become tense. Bruce Wayne, long known for his polished detachment, appears noticeably more at ease in her presence, smiling more readily, listening more closely, and lingering longer in public spaces he once exited quickly.

At a recent Gotham Renewal Initiative fundraiser, Mrs. Wayne spent several minutes speaking with a group of neighborhood residents whose housing project had benefited from Wayne Foundation grants. When one attendee thanked Bruce Wayne for the funding, Mrs. Wayne gently redirected the praise toward the community organizers themselves, praising their persistence and leadership. Wayne stood beside her, visibly content to let her speak.

“She makes him better,” said a city official who attended the event. “And she makes the whole damn room better, too.”

In a city shaped by power, fear and resilience, kindness can feel radical. Mrs. Wayne’s influence has not come through speeches or statements, but through presence, through listening, through patience, through a consistent refusal to treat Gotham’s people as anything less than worthy of care.

For Gotham, accustomed to guarded figures at the top, that sincerity feels not only refreshing, but quietly transformative.

— Vicki Vale, Gotham Gazette

You read the article three times before you let yourself believe it was real.

The paper was in front of you, delicately folded on the kitchen counter, the Gotham skyline still faintly visible through the tall windows as morning light crept in. There it was, the paper about Mrs. Wayne. You. Not as an extension of Bruce. Not as an accessory. Not even as a curiosity. Just you, written about as if you were a person first and Bruce Wayne’s wife second.

That alone felt unreal.

You held your mug between both hands even though it had gone lukewarm, your shoulders hunched slightly as if the words themselves might notice you reading them too closely.

Each paragraph made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t know how to untangle, equal parts embarrassment and something dangerously close to pride, because Gotham was not kind, and it certainly wasn't kind when it came to its papers, and yet here it was, calling you gentle, calling you warm, calling you a presence that made rooms better.

You grimaced slightly and folded the paper again, pressing it flat like that might make the overwhelming emotions settle.

“They’re exaggerating,” you muttered to the empty kitchen, your voice quiet and earnest in a way that felt almost defensive, as if the journalist might hear you from wherever they were and revise the piece out of spite. “I just talk to people. I always do that.. no one called me a people's princess for it in high school.”

Behind you, a chair shifted.

Bruce hadn’t meant to eavesdrop on your solo conversation. He’d come down earlier than usual, hair still slightly damp from a rushed shower, tie undone and slung loosely over his shoulder, expecting a silent kitchen and a few minutes to himself before the day demanded him to be a public face. Instead, he found you standing there in one of his sweaters, newspaper folded like contraband, cheeks flushed in a way he recognized immediately.

“You read it,” he said mildly, already knowing the answer.

You turned too quickly, caught red-handed, the paper clutched to your chest like a diary. “I didn’t mean to!” you defended all too fast, even though that wasn’t at all true, and then you corrected yourself because you hated lying to him over things that didn’t matter.

“Okay, I did. But! Only because Alfred left it out. And because it’s… well..” You gestured helplessly with the folded paper, as if the words had personally offended you by being kind.

Bruce leaned against the counter across from you, arms folding loosely, his expression soft in a way the public never saw. He watched you for a moment, watched the way you tried to shrink around praise the same way Gotham’s elite expanded to meet it, and something warm settled low in his chest.

“They didn’t mention me much,” he quipped quietly, eyebrows raised in mild amusement.

You blinked. “I know,” you said, your voice small and startled, because that was the part you hadn’t expected him to notice, let alone care about. “That’s what makes it worse.”

His mouth curved, just barely. “Worse?”

You nodded, biting your cheek as you unfolded the paper again despite yourself, smoothing the crease where your fingers had worried it thin. “It’s always ‘Bruce Wayne and his wife,’ or ‘the Waynes,’ and don't get me wrong! I'm happy to be your wife, it was the best decision I've ever made!-.." You stopped, then admitted softly, “This is just the first time I feel like they saw me. It's just weird.”

The words surprised you as soon as you said them, hanging between you like something fragile. Bruce straightened without realizing it, his attention sharpening, because he understood that feeling too well, understood what it meant to exist as a silhouette beside something larger.

He crossed the space between you without rushing, resting his hand lightly over yours on the counter. “They saw you because you let them,” he said, his voice low and certain. “You don’t perform and you don’t posture. You just… show up.”

You laughed under your breath, embarrassed again, warmth creeping up your neck. “That makes it sound like I’m doing something brave, you're the one who's literally Batman.”

“In Gotham?” he raised an eyebrow, his words coming gently. “Kindness is brave.”

You looked at him then, at the way his gaze softened when it rested on you, at how at ease he seemed in your shared quiet, and the headline echoed in your mind in a way that felt surreal. People’s princess, they’d said. Gotham’s rare softness. You weren’t sure you deserved any of it, but you understood, suddenly, why it mattered.

Bruce lifted your hand, pressing a soft kiss to your knuckles, the gesture intimate in its simplicity. “You don’t have to be comfortable with it,” he added. “But you should know they’re right.”

Your throat tightened, and you squeezed his hand back, surrounding yourself in the warmth of him, in the normalcy of the kitchen and the cooling coffee and the newspaper that would be recycled by afternoon.

“Well,” you sighed, voice steady despite the blush and smile you couldn’t hide, “I hope they don’t make a habit of it.”

Bruce smiled, softer than any headline could capture.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

You had learned, over time, how to wear professionalism like armor.

It was something you slipped on the way you slipped on your blazer, something that settled into your spine the moment you stepped onto marble floors and beneath chandeliers, something that taught your face how to remain pleasant even when your feet ached or your patience wore thin or the room felt just a little too full of people who had never had to worry about the cost of things. You smiled, you nodded, you moved with purpose, and you did not let the weight of the event settle too deeply into your chest.

Tonight was no different. At least, it wasn’t supposed to be.

The gala had been in planning for months. It was a charity auction, Gotham elite, donors with last names that occupied entire wings of museums, and you had been on the team from the beginning. Coordinating vendors, managing schedules, triple-checking seating arrangements, fielding last-minute requests with the calm efficiency of someone who understood that panicking never made anything better. You were good at this. You had to be.

So when you stepped into the ballroom, clipboard tucked neatly under your arm, headset snug against your ear, you did not falter. The room glittered with money and intention, crystal glasses catching light, the low hum of conversation rising and falling like a tide. Everything was exactly where it needed to be.

You exhaled softly through your nose, scanning the space.

That was when your coworker leaned in too close and said, far too casually, “Hey, just a heads up, Wayne’s here.”

You nearly dropped your clipboard.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t subtle. It was a full-body jolt, the kind that shot straight down your spine and made your brain briefly, catastrophically empty. You froze mid-step, eyes fixed on nothing, heart slamming so hard you could feel it in your throat.

“…Wayne,” you repeated, because sometimes your mind refused to cooperate without confirmation.

Your coworker grinned, unhelpful and entirely too amused. “Bruce Wayne. Yes. That Wayne.”

Your stomach dropped.

You had known, in theory, that this was a possibility. His name had been on the donor list, tucked neatly among others just as wealthy, just as influential. You had skimmed past it during planning meetings with the detached professionalism of someone who understood that names on paper were not the same as people in rooms.

This was different.

This was the sudden, horrifying awareness that Bruce Wayne — billionaire, philanthropist, perennial headline — was somewhere in the same space as you, breathing the same air, capable of speaking to you if circumstances aligned poorly enough.

“Okay,” you mutteredfaintly, which was not the response of a woman in control of her faculties. “Okay.”

Your coworker laughed. “Relax. You’re fine. You won’t even interact with him.”

That sentence had barely finished echoing in your head when your headset crackled.

“Can I get an event lead to the east entrance?” came the voice of security, clipped and efficient. “Mr. Wayne has a question about the auction layout.”

You closed your eyes.

Just for a second. Just long enough to accept your fate.

“Copy,” you sighed, because muscle memory was cruel like that. “On my way to meet him now.”

You did not walk so much as you scurried, feet moving automatically while your thoughts spiraled. This was ridiculous. You had interacted with donors before, important people, people whose faces appeared on magazines you pretended not to read. This was no different.

Except it was.

Because Bruce Wayne was not just a donor. He was a presence, a name that carried weight even before you put a face to it. He existed in the collective consciousness of Gotham in a way that made him feel less like a person and more like an idea.. wealth, tragedy, charm, all wrapped up in perfectly tailored suits and carefully curated public appearances.

You rounded the corner and saw him immediately.

He stood near the entrance, posture relaxed but unmistakably composed, dark hair neatly styled, suit cut to fit him like it had been designed with only his body in mind. He was taller than you expected, broader through the shoulders, and when he turned slightly to acknowledge someone speaking to him, the movement was smooth in a way that suggested he was always aware of how he occupied space.

Your brain short-circuited.

He looked up as you approached, gaze meeting yours with practiced ease, and for a horrifying moment you forgot how to walk. You recovered just in time, straightening your shoulders, fixing your expression into something that resembled calm competence.

“Mr. Wayne,” you said, stopping at a respectful distance and extending a hand because that was what you were supposed to do. “I’m-... I’m with event coordination. How can I help you?”

His handshake was warm, firm without being overpowering, and he held your gaze when he smiled.

And oh.

Oh.

You were not prepared for that.

“Thank you for coming over,” he said, voice smooth and low, carrying easily without being loud. “I was just trying to get a sense of how the auction items are organized. I don’t want to accidentally disrupt the flow.”

The words themselves were unremarkable. Polite... considerate, even.

It was the fact that Bruce Wayne was standing in front of you, asking you a question like you were the authority, that nearly did you in.

“Of course,” you managed, professional instincts finally kicking in. “If you’d like, I can walk you through the layout and timing. The higher value items are spaced out intentionally to keep bidding momentum steady.”

His eyebrows lifted slightly, interest genuine. “That’s thoughtful planning.”

You shrugged, trying not to let the praise settle too deeply into your chest. “We do our best.”

He nodded, glancing toward the ballroom. “Lead the way.”

You did, somehow. You spoke about auction flow, about pacing and placement, about donor engagement strategies you had helped develop over weeks of meetings and spreadsheets. You gestured, explained, answered his questions without stumbling over your words, and with every passing minute, your initial panic softened into something steadier.

Bruce listened. Truly listened.

He didn’t interrupt unnecessarily, didn’t look past you toward someone more important, didn’t treat the conversation like a formality to be endured. When you finished explaining, he smiled again, softer this time.

“You’re very good at this,” he said.

The compliment hit harder than you expected.

“Thank you,” you replied, heat creeping into your cheeks despite your best efforts. “That’s kind of you to say.”

“Not kind,” he corrected gently. “Accurate.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, a quiet, surprised sound that seemed to amuse him. He tilted his head, studying you in a way that felt curious rather than invasive.

“What made you choose this line of work?” he asked.

The question caught you off guard. You hesitated, then answered honestly.

“Um, well, I like making things work,” you shrugged. “And I like the environment, but I hate being in any sort of spotlight, so I wanted something behind the scenes.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “An undervalued role.”

You met his gaze, something unspoken passing between you, and for a moment the room seemed to fade around you. Then your headset crackled again, pulling you back to reality.

“I should-..” you began, professionalism reasserting itself. “I need to check on something backstage.”

“Of course,” Bruce said, stepping aside to give you room. “Thank you for your help. I hope the rest of the evening goes smoothly.”

“I hope so too,” you replied with a small smile, then hesitated before adding, “Enjoy the gala, Mr. Wayne.”

“Bruce,” he corrected easily. “And I will. Especially knowing it’s in capable hands.”

You walked away on autopilot, heart racing, cheeks warm, mind replaying the interaction on a loop.

You had not, despite all odds, shit a brick.

You had interacted with Bruce Wayne and lived.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of issues that were resolved, schedules maintained, crises averted, but every so often, you caught sight of him across the room. He seemed to notice you, too, offering a small nod or smile when your paths crossed.

By the time the gala wound down and the last guests filtered out, exhaustion settled into your bones. You leaned against a pillar, exhaling deeply, satisfaction mingling with fatigue.

“Well done,” came a familiar voice.

You looked up to find Bruce standing a few feet away, jacket slung over one arm, expression warm and genuine.

“Thank you,” you said softly. “For the compliment, and for coming.”

He smiled. “Perhaps we’ll cross paths again.”

You watched him leave, heart lighter than it had any right to be, professionalism slipping away as the doors closed behind him.

You had come dangerously close to losing your composure

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.