#talkative reader

You were talking... again.

Bruce noticed it the moment you walked into the Batcave, your voice echoing off the stone walls as you descended the stairs, already talking about something that happened at work. He didn't look up from the computer screen, his fingers still moving across the keyboard, but his shoulders relaxed in a way they hadn't all night.

"Then, then, Carol had the audacity to say that I was the one who mixed up the files, but Bruce, I swear, I triple checked everything before I submitted them. Triple checked! You know how I am about these things. Anyway, I told her-... are you listening?"

"Mm-hmm." His eyes remained fixed on the screen, scanning through surveillance footage.

You moved closer, peering over his shoulder at the monitors. "What are you working on?"

"Case."

"Right, obviously." You laughed, that bright sound that somehow made the cave feel less cold. "Silly question. Is it the warehouse thing from yesterday? Or something new? Actually, don't tell me if it's too dangerous. Or do tell me. I don't know which makes me worry less, knowing or not knowing. What do you think?"

"Knowing," he said simply.

"Really? You're not just saying that?"

"No."

You beamed, even though he still wasn't looking at you, and launched into another story about your day. Bruce's lips twitched into something that was not quite a smile, but close. He'd never tell you this, but the constant stream of your voice had become something he craved. In a life filled with silence and shadows, you were sunlight and sound, and he was helplessly drawn to both.

Your voice got him through the rest of his work. You had been pacing, then you moved to sit on the desk besides his keyboard, and eventually you ended up sitting on the floor with your cheek pressed against his leg as you spoke. He was grateful for you, and he was especially grateful once he got the soul crushing reminder about the gala he had to attend tomorrow... Granted, it was his gala, but he still didn't want to go.

And it turned out to be exactly as terrible as he predicted.

Bruce stood near the bar, champagne glass in hand, face carefully arranged in his playboy billionaire expression... aka charming but vacant. You were beside him, stunning in your evening gown, and you hadn't stopped talking for the past twenty minutes.

"—absolutely gorgeous, don't you think? I mean, I know it's supposed to be a Monet, but something about the brushwork seems off. Not that I'm an expert, but I did take that art history class in college, remember I told you about Professor Hendricks? The one with the bow ties? He would have had opinions about this piece. Oh, there's Margaret Chen! I should say hello. Do you mind? Actually, you probably want me to go so you can brood in peace for a minute-..."

Bruce's hand found the small of your back, gentle but firm. "Stay."

You blinked up at him, surprised, but the smile on your face only grew and your body leaned into his. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His words were short, but the way his hand slid from your back to your hip to tug you against him told you more than you needed to know.

"Okay." Your smile could have powered all of Gotham. "But I'm going to keep talking, I didn't even get to tell you about the sweetest little kids I saw today at the store."

"I know, you are." His eyes flicked down to you as he lifted his glass to his lips. The poor attempt to cover his smile did not go unseen by you, considering you nearly tackled him in a kiss when you saw it.

Though, the insecurity gnawed at you. You had been told enough that you were loud or needed to learn when to be quiet, so if anyone felt the same way... you figured it'd be the man who spends most of his days in silence. "Doesn't it drive you crazy?"

He looked at you then, really looked at you, and something soft flickered in his eyes. "Not at all."

Before you could respond, a business associate approached, and Bruce shifted seamlessly into his public persona. You fell into easy conversation with the man's wife, and Bruce listened to you charm her with the same endless enthusiasm you brought to everything. His hand never left your back.

Later, as the associate walked away, the wife whispered something to you that made you laugh. Bruce leaned down slightly.

"What did she say?"

"She said you look at me like I'm the only person in the room." You glanced up at him, cheeks slightly flushed. "I told her that's just your face."

He raised his brows in mild amusement and nodded with a hum. "Hm."

"Is it just your face?"

"No."

Your breath caught, and for once, you were speechless. Bruce allowed himself that corner smile again. It lasted approximately fifteen seconds before you launched into a story about the hors d'oeuvres.

Later that week, Alfred found you both in the library on a quiet afternoon. You were curled up in one of the oversized chairs, book in lap but ignored, telling Bruce about a documentary you'd watched about deep sea creatures that you hadn't even thought would be interesting, but your friend insisted so you obliged. Bruce sat across from you, seemingly reading a report, but Alfred noticed his eyes hadn't moved down the page in several minutes.

"—and the anglerfish, Bruce, the anglerfish. Do you know about their mating habits? It's absolutely wild. The male literally fuses to the female's body and becomes a parasitic appendage. Can you imagine? Just... permanently attached. I mean, I like you a lot, but I don't think I'd want you fused to my body. No offense."

"None taken." He breathed out a chuckle and thumbed at the corner of the file.

"Although, we do spend most of our time together anyway. Maybe we're not so different from anglerfish. Except, you know, less parasitic. More symbiotic? Is that the right word? I think that's the right word."

Alfred cleared his throat softly. "Pardon the interruption. Miss, that tea you requested.. the lavender chamomile blend from the shop on Fifth Street."

You looked up, absolutely delighted which was apparent by the way your arms flew out as if you could hug him just by will alone. "Alfred! You remembered!"

"Of course, Miss. I've taken the liberty of preparing a pot."

As Alfred left, you turned to Bruce, eyes wide. "I only mentioned that tea once, like two weeks ago."

Bruce finally looked up from his report. "You said it reminded you of your grandmother's garden. The one in Portland with the wind chimes."

You stared at him. "I... yes. That's exactly what I said. I didn't think you were listening. You were working on that thing for Lucius."

"I'm always listening."

Something warm bloomed in your chest. "Bruce Wayne, are you secretly a softie?"

"No."

"Liar." You got up and crossed to him, settling yourself on the arm of his chair. His arm automatically wrapped around your waist. "You're a big softie who pretends to be all stoic and mysterious."

"Hm."

"See, that right there. That 'hm.'" Your voice dropped a few octaves in an attempt to poorly mimc his tone. "That's your tell. You do that when you're trying not to smile."

This made his eyes meet yours again, amusement was present on his face, and his brows were shot up playfully."I don't smile, I also don't try not to."

"You absolutely do. It's tiny, and most people miss it, but it's there." You touched the corner of his mouth gently. "Right here."

Bruce caught your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. It was such an uncharacteristically open gesture that you fell silent again, just for a moment.

"Don't stop," he muttered against your skin quietly.

"Stop what? Poking you? Well if you insist-..." You trailed off and poked his nose then his chest, but then he caught your hands again. Enveloping them in his warmer ones, he shook his head with an amused breath

"I'd appreciate if you didn't poke, but I was referring to talking. Don't ever stop talking."

You laughed, the sound filling the library's quiet spaces. "Oh, don't worry. I couldn't stop if I tried. I was actually about to tell you about this podcast I started about unsolved mysteries. There's this one episode about a disappearance in the 1950s that I think might interest you, actually, because the circumstances are really strange and--..."

Bruce leaned back in his chair, his arm secure around you, and listened. He'd chase criminals through Gotham's streets tonight, face down nightmares and violence, but for now, there was this... your voice, your warmth, your endless stories.

In a life defined by silence, you were his favorite sound.

And if Alfred noticed the actual smile on Bruce's face as you talked — small but unmistakable — well, he was far too proper to mention it.

Though he did make a note to stock more of that lavender chamomile tea.

← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.

“And I’m not saying Courtney went feral during the improv challenge, but when she climbed onto the table, screamed ‘I’M YOUR NEW GOD NOW,’ and tried to baptize Damien with a Capri Sun? That’s not ‘yes and’—that’s ‘arrest her.’”

Spencer snorted softly, curled up beside you on the Smosh green room couch.

He didn’t say anything. Just leaned his cheek on his knuckles and watched you with that tiny half-smile that meant he was enjoying this, even if his mouth didn’t move much. But his eyes—his eyes were soft, full of the kind of quiet love that didn’t need words. Like there was nowhere else he’d rather be than next to you, listening.

“And THEN,” you continued, shifting to face him better, “Emily tried to de-escalate with the puppy voice, which just made it worse, and honestly? At that point, we all deserved chaos.”

“You always choose violence,” Spencer murmured.

“I choose accuracy.” You sipped your drink. “Anyway. I haven’t even told you what happened after filming. Do you wanna guess how many times Shayne dropped his mic?”

Spencer tilted his head. “Three?”

“Five. Five. One of them bounced into a plant. It’s in the blooper reel.”

He grinned. Still quiet. Still watching.

And you knew this rhythm by now.

You yapped. You rambled. You ping-ponged from story to insult to theory, sometimes circling back like a walking Google rabbit hole, like if Wikipedia got caffeine and a personality. And Spencer? Spencer sat with you in it. Always listening and always nodding at just the right moment. Always smirking when you hit a particularly unhinged punchline, like he’d been waiting for it the whole time. He never interrupted. Never rushed you. Just watched you like you were his favorite show, soaking in every wild tangent like it made perfect sense. Like your voice was the best background noise the world had to offer—and maybe the main event, too.

You paused for a beat. “I talk too much.”

Spencer blinked. “No, you don’t.”

You gave him a look.

“Okay, you talk a lot,” he amended, eyes warm. “But it’s never too much.”

Your stomach flipped.

You tried to hide it with sass. “You know, most people would say ‘shut up’ by now.”

“I’m not most people,” he said simply.

And that… made something in your chest tug.

You softened. “You ever get tired of listening to me?”

He shook his head. “Never.”

“Even when I rant about my neighbor’s emotional support chinchilla at 2 a.m.?”

“That was riveting.”

“Even when I psychoanalyze everyone’s childhood via their Starbucks orders?”

He smiled. “I still think about Shayne’s being a cry for help.”

You laughed, warm and caught off guard.

Spencer reached out—quietly, slowly—and brushed his fingers against yours on the couch. You blinked at him.

“I like your voice,” he said.

You stilled.

“It’s not just the stories or the jokes,” he went on, gaze focused, steady. “It’s you. You could read the back of a cereal box, and I’d still sit here like it was a movie.”

Your face heated. “...You’re literally in a room with trained comedians.”

“I’m aware.” He leaned in a little. “Still only listening to you.”

You bit your lip, heart stuttering.

“You gonna kiss me or just compliment me to death?”

His voice dropped, low and teasing. “You gonna let me?”

You didn’t answer. Just leaned in and kissed him like you’d been waiting through three seasons and two spin-offs.

His hand caught the side of your face halfway through, steady and careful, like he couldn’t believe this was real—but wasn’t about to let it go. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t clumsy. It was exactly right—warm and a little dizzying, like laughing too hard in the sun.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, eyes still half-lidded, Spencer just smiled.

That soft, crooked little smile like you’d just handed him the moon.

“You good?” you asked, voice low.

“Mm-hm,” he nodded, still looking at your mouth. “Gimme a sec. My brain's doing the Windows loading wheel thing.”

You laughed, giddy and flushed.

He tucked a hand behind your knee, squeezing gently. “Okay. Yeah. I'm fine. Great, actually. You kissed me. That's… illegal levels of cool.”

You grinned. “I’ll confess later.”

Spencer leaned in again, forehead pressed to yours. “No rush. I’m a patient man....You’re gonna have so much to say about this, huh?”

You grinned. “Oh, absolutely. Buckle up.”

He nodded.

“Cool,” he said softly. “I’m listening.”

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