𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘳𝘵𝘶𝘷𝘪𝘢𝘢𝘢

𖹭 Bruce keeps Alfred's moment of hesitation in mind as he cautiously opens the letter, unfolding the crisp edges and examining the script.

𖹭 Bruce, whose eyes widen when the letter addresses him not as Bruce, but Batman. Bruce, who reads on as the letter describes being a fan of his work, of empathizing with his story. Bruce, who sits in the bat-cave, stunned into silence as the letter paints a tale of the upcoming week.

𖹭 Bruce, who slowly sets the letter down onto the table, staring at the page and it's ink while his mind spins.

𖹭 He runs the page through just about every test possible; he dusts for fingerprints, holds up a magnifying glass to look for hair follicles, he searches for everything and anything that would betray who you were.

𖹭 He finds nothing.

𖹭 It's dangerous both for him and you if you knew his secret, and that's the issue at the forefront of his mind.

𖹭 He keeps that letter in it's own special space as he continues on with his week, occasionally sending it curious glances when reminded of it's presence.

𖹭 Bruce, who begins thinking of the letter more and more as the week continues and every described event happens without fail.

𖹭 Bruce, who pulls out that letter and stares at it on Saturday, utterly confused and utterly fascinated by your successful prediction.

𖹭 Bruce, who catalogues your handwriting to a personal file on the bat computer and giving it a special, encrypted section.

𖹭 When he receives the second letter on Monday, Bruce smiles to himself as he finds a singular, half fingerprint on the edge of the page. He reads while the print runs through a database.

𖹭 Bruce, who gets thirty-five matches. He sighs to himself as he tucks away the letter in the same special place he put the first.

𖹭 Bruce, who uses the letter to prepare for the upcoming week and follows your advice to the letter.

𖹭 Bruce, who has the easiest week since he started being Batman, with only you to thank.

𖹭 He starts setting up cameras near his mailbox, starts setting up security measures. They're not to keep you away, but to find out who you are.

𖹭 After three weeks, Bruce opens the Monday letter to read of you talking about things from his past that he made sure no-one knew.

𖹭 His travels around the world, his training, things that he kept from everyone but himself. He reads your little comments pondering what each area was like, if he found the lessons entertaining or boring.

𖹭 He frowns when he reads your ending paragraph. It's an attempt to both motivate and comfort him, describing about how the years ahead will be hard.

𖹭 Bruce, whose file on you grows and the thirty-five matches narrow day by day. He thinks of you more than he doesn't these days. He knows it's wrong, knows it's a bond formed from letters he can't respond to, but he can't help but feel attached.

𖹭 He sometimes traces his gloved thumb over the rare personal anecdotes you leave in your letters. Those get a special place in your file.

𖹭 Bruce, who one day stands in your apartment in the dark, revealed only when you flick the light on.

𖹭 Bruce, who wants to thank you personally for your assistance.

𖹭 Batman, who insists on you continuing your help.

𖹭 "We're good partners, don't you think?"

𖹭 Bruce, who stands a little closer to you than he should as he calls up the Batmobile. Batman's currently nothing but paranoid whispers in Gotham, so he's more than surprised as you gush about working with Batman and walk straight towards the car, rattling off features he had but never used.

𖹭 He's silent the entire drive, but his scowl is softened at the edges as you nervously ramble on about his gadgets, his connections that he didn't have now, but apparently would get. He elects on making a future file on the criminals and vigilantes you talk about as soon as he gets to the bat-cave. It's best to be prepared.

𖹭 When he pulls into the bat-cave, he can't help but smile softly as you grin and look around, amazement clear on your face.

𖹭 He calls Alfred to make you tea, and shares it with you as he carefully redirects the conversation to be less about how cool the batcave is, and more about how the 'rogue gallery' he gets in a few years works.

𖹭 Batman, who types away at a file as you chatter off everything you know about the criminals, ranging from The Joker, to Two-Face, and Bane.

𖹭 His brows furrow as you talk about Talia and Catwoman, unable to see himself interested in them, not when you were around.

𖹭 You, who slowly realize you're changing the future.

𖹭 You, who can't help but agree to answer any question Bruce asks, just because he was your favorite.

𖹭 Once he has a sizeable file on his future rogues and alliances filled with gigabytes of contingency plans, he begins asking questions about you.

𖹭 You, who is thrown off at his interest.

𖹭 Bruce, who watches with amusement as you fluster when he asks anything about you. Bruce, who adds anything and everything about you to your encrypted file as soon as you head to bed.

𖹭 The same file gets a special area for pictures of you, as well. Some of you sleeping, some of you smiling at a dry joke Bruce made or thanking Alfred for dinner with a grateful expression.

𖹭 Pictures that turn into ones of you showering, ones of you changing clothes.

𖹭 Bruce, who sits at the Batcomputer and fists his hardened cock when he sees your batman tattoo, dizzy with arousal.

𖹭 Bruce, who makes sure you get whatever you want whenever you want, as long as you stay by his side.

𖹭 Bruce, who ends up moving your things from your old apartment to a room in the manor, saying he had more than enough room.

𖹭 Bruce, who sometimes sneaks to your laundry before Alfred can get to it, and when he gets to the privacy of his room, holds your underwear to his nose and huffs your scent until his head spins.

𖹭 Bruce, who ends up confessing to Alfred that he doesn't know what he'd be like without you.

𖹭 Bruce who gets a little more touchy than usual when you're nearby, his hands resting on your shoulders, his chest pressing against your back to help you reach something in the kitchen.

𖹭 Bruce, who teaches you how to patch him up after missions, and refuses to allow Alfred to do it once you learn.

𖹭 When you kneel in front of him to patch up a wound on his stomach, all thoughts of pain leave his mind. That image of you with your head between his legs gets imprinted in his mind and refuses to leave.

𖹭 You choking on his cock becoming a regular, guilty fantasy.

𖹭 You, who respond to Bruce's affections positively, prompting him to get more confident. He's Batman, your favorite superhero, you've crushed on him for years. And now he's real, he's real and in front of you and he's flirting with you.

𖹭 Bruce, who abandons his playboy lifestyle in favor of a smitten boyfriend as soon as you two start dating.

𖹭 Bruce, who makes sure cameras catch you on dates, makes sure the Gotham news is filled with images and pages of you two together.

𖹭 Batman, who puts together no less than seven thousand words of contingency plans for every possibility of you trying to leave him. Eight thousand for if you find out about his file.

𖹭 The encrypted file becoming filled with notes about you, ranging from your favorite food to the fact you complained about lint on your shirt on a forgettable Tuesday.

𖹭 Bruce, who takes advantage of the fact that you're dating to bribe you for affection. You want something? Come sit in his lap, sweetheart, he needs a bit of convincing.

𖹭 Bruce, who insists you sleep in the same bed as him a little too early.

𖹭 You, who end up sleeping wound up so tight in Bruce's arms that you couldn't move.

𖹭 Bruce, who destresses after harsh nights as Batman by laying his head in your lap and squeezing your thighs.

𖹭 Bruce, who sometimes waits until you're asleep to drift his hands a little lower, grazing the insides of your thighs and the underneath of your sleep shirt.

𖹭 Bruce, who slips his hand beneath your underwear and has to hump the bed when you whine in your sleep.

𖹭 Bruce, who fucks you at least once a day as soon as you allow him to. He can't help but want you, your touch just lights him on fire. You make him feel things he can't control.

𖹭 Bruce who will press your head into the bed and push your legs over his shoulders, pressing his thick cock into you until you're gasping his name. Each gasp, each stuttered moan of his name makes his heart race and head spin. It only goads him to go harder.

𖹭 Bruce, who loves licking and sucking hickeys onto the batman tattoo as you whine.

𖹭 Bruce, who fucks you as hard as he can on his days off, or days he's benched just so you can't walk and have to spend the day cuddling him in bed.

𖹭 As his rogue gallery starts showing up, you take up a position similar to Oracle. You're Batman's first guy-in-the-chair, your voice cheering him on and guiding him through what to do and what might happen. You're unable to help with much else, but Bruce doesn't mind. Hearing your voice keeps him motivated to get home to you.

𖹭 The first time Batman laughs quietly in the field is to one of your half-hearted jokes.

You had the ability to fix it, at least for a few moments. You could wrap your hand around his, close your eyes, and all his pain would fade for as long as you held him. For as long as you could remember, you had that ability. You used to use it for your old dog, who groaned and limped when it got up from the couch. Who was so stiff he spent most of his time laying in the sun, warming its fur. One of your earliest memories was fisting your small hands into its pelt and watching as that eternal stiffness loosened and allowed him a few pleasant minutes of sleep.

You could do the opposite, too. You could focus a feeling of hatred and just brush by and whoever you touched would drop to the floor as if they were punched. You weren't really proud of it, but you used to use it at school when the boys would throw mulch at you at recess and call you weird. All you had to do was graze your hand by theirs, brush your shoulders with theirs, and then they'd drop to the floor crying.

When you graduated elementary, you were old enough to know you shouldn't do it anymore. Knew that your abilities, your mutations weren't something people liked. When you'd sit by the old TV in your living room, your mom would hastily change the channel whenever the news popped up. More often than not, it was about violence against people like you. You stopped using it by the time you reached highschool, but the knowledge of what you could do if you just allowed yourself to do it lingered in the back of your mind in every waking moment.

Frank was a friend of yours, you knew his biggest secret, but he didn't know yours. He didn't know that you could make it all go away just for a little while. You were scared that, should he find out you were different, he'd turn the same gun he used on the worst society had to offer and use it on you.

But he was hurting. It was a rainy day when Frank sat beside you on the couch, his face pinching when he sunk into the cushion, and slowly relaxing as he let up the weight on his muscles and joints. His face was a little pale, maybe today was a worse day than usual. Steeling your resolve, you inched your hand towards his. "Frank?"

"Yeah, princess?" He murmurs, voice a little rough. He looks away from the small TV playing the news on a grainy feed and meets your eyes. Immediately, he clocks your nervousness with the skill of someone who made people squirm for a living. He shifted his weight, turning towards you to give you his whole attention. "Can I.. try somethin?" You ask, hand inching a bit further towards his. Your hesitant approach stops when he looks down to your hand, then back up at you. He thinks for a moment, then nods, electing to trust you. "Just.. take my hand for a moment," you murmur, already resting your hand on top of his. Slowly, gently, his thick, rough fingers curl around yours, capturing it into his calloused palm.

You close your eyes, and focus. It's been so long since you've done this that you weren't even sure that you could - - Frank groans. It's a shuddering, fragile noise pulled from his chest as if yanked out before he even realized it was coming. When you open your eyes it's to see Frank melting into the couch, lips parted and eyes half lidded. You watch as his skin flushes and loses that clammy quality and sickly paleness. You watch as the pain leaves every inch of his body like hot steam vaporizing in the air.

𝘎𝘌𝘙𝘈𝘓𝘛 𝘖𝘍 𝘙𝘐𝘝𝘐𝘈 / 𝘞𝘏𝘐𝘛𝘌 𝘞𝘖𝘓𝘍 ── 𝖧𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖢𝖠𝖭𝖭𝖮𝖭𝖲 ⋆˙⟡ ↳ part of us. | ( 18+ dark! yandere geralt & yennefer. polyamorous ship. somno. baby trapping. custody battles (for you). magical trackers. ) summary: You've been a part of Geralt and Yen's hot and cold relationship for so long that, when they imagine the other, you're usually there, too.

── 𝖥𝖨𝖢𝖲 ♡

𝘠𝘌𝘕𝘕𝘌𝘍𝘌𝘙 𝘖𝘍 𝘝𝘌𝘕𝘎𝘌𝘙𝘉𝘌𝘙𝘎 ── 𝖧𝖤𝖠𝖣𝖢𝖠𝖭𝖭𝖮𝖭𝖲 ⋆˙⟡ ↳ part of us. | ( 18+ dark! yandere geralt & yennefer. polyamorous ship. somno. baby trapping. custody battles (for you). magical trackers. ) summary: You've been a part of Geralt and Yen's hot and cold relationship for so long that, when they imagine the other, you're usually there, too.

── 𝖥𝖨𝖢𝖲 ♡

𖹭 Yen likes to show up in whatever town you're in to make sure you're fed and cared for. She likes treating you to expensive meals you can't usually buy and insists on feeding you. When you don't let her, she critiques the 'barbaric methods' in which you eat until you give in and let her do it for you. Eventually it becomes so commonplace for her to feed you that you don't even try to feed yourself, something Yen is very satisfied with. 𖹭 Geralt is more of a distant participant in your care; he likes to kill every monster in a ten-mile radius of your present location to make sure you never go under threat. He gets to bring the monster heads back and at times gets paid for it if there was a contract out, but he makes sure you know it was for you when he comes back to the inn, covered in blood and stinking of sweat, horse, and monster bile. 𖹭 Geralt, who pouts until you bathe him in the inn to show your appreciation for keeping you safe. 𖹭 Yen, who always buys one bed for the three of you and insists that you have to share. 𖹭 You, who gets smushed between a witcher and a sorceress more often than is particularly pleasant. 𖹭 You, who often wake up to Geralt and Yennefer making out right beside you, uncaring of your presence as they caress one another and suck hickeys into each other's throats. 𖹭 You, who eventually get so used to it that you just roll over and go back to sleep. 𖹭 Geralt and Yennefer, who start to have sex right beside you, moaning loud and whispering declarations of love and dedication. 𖹭 You, who gets used to that, too. 𖹭 Geralt and Yennefer, who start realizing that when they think of their relationship, its not just them. It's them and you, too. 𖹭 Geralt and Yennefer, who start caressing your waist and your thighs when you sleep. 𖹭 You, who have to deal with their frequent fights and break-ups. When Geralt disappears out the window in the middle of the night with a note calling Yennefer his dear friend, Yen complains to you for three hours and expects you to agree with every comment and insult she has. 𖹭 When Yen starts bringing other men around, you end up in the woods with Geralt, who doesn't complain like Yennefer did but has an eternal look of a kicked puppy, which is just as bad. 𖹭 Geralt and Yennefer, who start fighting over who gets to keep you when they're separated. 𖹭 Geralt and Yennefer, who get back together a week later and it's like nothing ever happened. 𖹭 Geralt and Yennefer, who get Ciri and expect you to care for her, too. 𖹭 Geralt, who asks your opinion on what to do with Ciri. Geralt, who gets sad when you try to uninvolve yourself in their shared parenting. 𖹭 Yennefer, who tells you that you're just as much of a parent to Ciri as she and Geralt, and that you need to step up. 𖹭 Geralt and Yennefer, who use Ciri to keep you with them. 𖹭 You, who feel empty and lost when they disappear with the wild hunt. It's the first time in decades since you've been apart. You always had at least one of them by your side, and now with both of them gone, you don't know what to do.

⏾ After that, every time you got into trouble either Batman or Batwoman appeared within the minute to act as your savior. Sometimes, they appeared together, and each time the look they sent the other were particularly sour. ⏾ Your friends start calling you the bat-magnet. You're the only one who didn't think the joke was funny. ⏾ For the third time this week Batwoman emerges from the shadows to frighten away some suspicious folk, her clawed glove landing on your shoulder in a claiming grip. She says your name with a droplet of fondness in what was an otherwise stern voice. You never told her your name. ⏾ "Getting into trouble again?" ⏾ It was your first time speaking to one of them. You couldn't help but feel like she was smug because of it. Like she felt she had a hold over her male counterpart. ⏾ Uninvited, Batwoman walked through the streets at your side. ⏾ "Making sure you don't get into any trouble," she says when you ask. ⏾ By the time you reach your front door and unlock it, you turn back around to see her gone as if she was never there. ⏾ Around a week later, you start seeing things moved in your apartment. A TV remote shifted to the left instead of the right. A picture of you and your friends missing dust along the side. You wouldn't have even noticed it if it wasn't for the near eternal feeling of paranoia that had blossomed in your hindbrain. ⏾ They were inside. You knew only because they wanted you to know. Wanted you to know that they were watching you, guarding you. Both Batman and Batwoman were shadow incarnate, they could appear and disappear without a trace. They left these little hints on purpose. ⏾ It started with moved objects, then as days past they seemed to grow bolder. hungrier. Perhaps you were a heavy sleeper, or perhaps the water you drank before bed tasted a little too funny in a way that wasn't just heavily filtered Gotham tap-water. ⏾ In rare moments while you slept, you swore you felt clawed gloves trace along your cheek. If this was either Batman or Batwoman, you couldn't tell. ⏾ In even rarer moments you'd wake up to harsh whispers, hushed arguments. It was so quiet you'd never make out what they were saying before sleep took you again. ⏾ Only once did you wake up and look into the bathroom mirror to see red lipstick printed on your forehead; a claiming brand. ⏾ And only once, the night after, did you smell expensive cologne on your pajamas when you woke up. ⏾ They were challenging one another, putting a claim on you like you were a prize, something to be won, to be owned. Batman would leave a black bat-arang on your nightstand, and Batwoman would take it one step further and leave a red bat-arang on your pillow. When one did a simple act, the other pushed it further. ⏾ Clothes started showing up in your closet; a black cocktail dress, not your size nor your style. A black silk tie, made of fabric so expensive it'd likely be able to buy you a new apartment should you sell it. You didn't, you knew he wouldn't like it if you did. ⏾ Sometimes, when you made a passing comment to yourself in the safety of your home, either a complaint about a squeaky door, or a curse at your competitive stalkers, you'd get a ping on your phone from an unnamed number, replying to what you said. When you asked them to stop, to leave you alone, to lose your number, or even who the hell they were, they never replied. At times, who you thought was Batwoman would send a singular red heart.

⏾Your pantry and your fridge start being filled with expensive, organic foods you know you didn't buy. Your security system, formerly a non-Gotham brand, is replaced by top-of-the-line Wayne-Tech systems. ⏾ On Arkham breakouts, your front door and your windows locks and do not open until it's over. ⏾ Word starts going around, you get more attention from criminals who start calling you the same thing your friends called you, except far more seriously. ⏾ "Bat magnet." ⏾ Wherever you were, Batman and Batwoman were never too far behind. They circled you like vultures over carrion, eager for a bite. You were the perfect bait. You knew this, the bats knew this, and most importantly, the criminals of Gotham knew it, too.

⏾ It was only a matter of time before either of them made a move.

↪ Curiosity piqued, two days later Bruce finds the time to slip inside your apartment, his figure pure shadow as he looks around, clawed gloves prodding at items and keepsakes. He takes care to always leave them back exactly where they were, and to not disturb the dustier items. He could be in and out of a government building without so much as a trace, there was no way in the world that you would notice he was here. ↪ The next time he breaks in, this time to plant cameras, you're sleeping on the couch, the TV playing something on low volume. ↪ He prowls around the side of the couch to stand by the arm, casting a shadow over your sleeping form as he listened to your steady breathing. The sound both settled him and made something ugly in his chest twist. He wanted to touch, wanted to hold, wanted to sink his claws and teeth in until you were stuck so thoroughly against him that you'd never be apart. ↪ In. Out. In. Out. Then, it shifted, just barely. You were waking up. ↪ Bruce was out the window by the time you opened your eyes. He would plant the cameras later. Quietly, he cursed the loss of the opportunity. ↪ He didn't let that stop him. While you busied yourself with outside hobbies, groceries, and the like, Batman was slipping back into your home and setting up sleek black cameras in spots he assumed you didn't frequent. ↪ For three days you carried on with your usual tasks, and Bruce silently preened at the assumed victory. On the third day, you glanced at a camera and smiled. The interaction lasted half a second, but it caused Bruce's heart to beat out of his chest. ↪ So you knew. But again, why not do anything about it? He knew what he was doing was wrong, but he couldn't help himself. It was either clutch you against his chest and never let go or be chained up in Arkham right beside the Joker. He needed this, he couldn't lose this. Something about you settled a part of him that was all sharp edges and jagged lines. Something about you made him feel alive and made him think in ways he never did before. ↪ Two months passed of the most intriguing interactions Batman ever had before. Every move he made, you either knew about it and allowed it to happen or knew about it and made an attempt to prevent it, an attempt that usually succeeded. ↪ It was when Bruce stood at a dead end in an alley, looking at a tossed tracker that used to be in your shoe he decided to forgo the subterfuge. If he was right in assuming that you somehow, someway, knew what he was going to do before he did it, why try hiding it? ↪ He made a beeline for your apartment. The locked window he usually went through was cracked, letting in cool night air. Letting in the Bat. ↪ You were sleeping sweetly in bed, and right by the edge was a packed suitcase. ↪ Batman smiled and prepared the syringe. Both of you knew it was time for you to come home.

"Hey, sexy!" A man calls out from an alleyway, smelling of booze and drugs even at such a distance. "Get your cute little ass over here, how much for a night?"

You ignore him, walking a little faster in the hopes that the man would grow disinterested. Your jaw flexed and your teeth ground down onto one another, eyes flicking from him in the alley, to the near empty sidewalk that marked the path to the bookstore. You needed to walk by him in order to get there, so if you were fast enough you could - -

A tight, vice-like grip bruises your forearm. It's the man, yanking you into the alley and clamping a sweaty hand over your mouth, pinning you to the brick wall of a nearby building. He isn't alone, surrounded by a group of two more men who looked at you like they were starving dogs, and you, a steak.

"I said, sweetheart.." The man with his hand clamped over your mouth leaned forwards, smiling predatorily. "How much for a night?"

One of your hands press against his chest, the other wrapping around the wrist of the hand he used to cover your mouth, trying to push him away.

"Oh, no, sugar, none of that," Another man purred, leaning his shoulder to the wall and taking up your left side. His hands grabbed your wrists, lifting them above your head with ease.

The first man leaned forwards, mouth open to say something.

It was strange for lightning to strike and thunder to roll on a clear, sunny day, but there was little else your panicked mind could process the noise as. It was a loud, thundering bang that rang out in the streets, accompanied by a 'pop'.

The man's head exploded, spraying you and the two other men in a fountain of blood, bone, and brain matter. The man holding your arms immediately screamed, retched bile, and turned to run.

Thunder rolls. The man crumples to the ground, clutching his knee and wailing. He looks up to the mouth of the alley, eyes wild, only for his head to hit the ground as if knocked down by a mallet. The third man pulls out a knife from his pocket, flicking it open with a 'skt'. He runs towards the mouth of the alley, looking for a fight.

Lightning strikes first. Theres no accompanying scream, just a gurgle.

You look at your hands. At your shirt. Both are stained with blood. Blood is all you see, but inside that blood is chunks. Chunks of what used to be a man, now a headless body slumped against your feet. You're surrounded by corpses, by blood and brain matter and what was that thunder?!

You bend over and vomit. You retch, your dinner last night spilling from your mouth and onto the blood-soaked shirt of the body leaning against your feet. The whole alley smelled of pennies and acid - the smell was so overwhelming that as soon as you took in a shuddering inhale, the muscles of your stomach contracted and you were retching all over again.

At five in the morning - the birds of Gotham just starting to chirp - Bruce opened the door to your shared bedroom, the tension in his posture softening in such a minute way that it was hardly perceptible as soon as his eyes met the shape of your sleeping form in the dark. He stood there for longer than he should, his unharmed shoulder pressing into the doorframe as his eyes watched the subtle rise and fall of the shadowy shape you consisted of. The dim light of the hallway must have woken you, or perhaps the weight of his gaze, for your shape rustled the covers and soon he was blessed with the sound of your sleepy, slightly raspy voice. "Bruce?" His breath caught in his chest, just a temporary hitch in his lungs that was accompanied by a sharp pain in his ribs. He winced, just a faint twitch of his shoulders. But you were already pulling back the blankets with a "Rough night, baby?" and Bruce was pulled towards the bed almost if by a magnetic force. Like you were the sun, and he was merely a planet in your gravitational force. His knees hit the side of the mattress, and he was already moving under the blanket and across the bed until his nose pressed into your neck. Immediately, he sucked in a painful lungful of air, air that consisted of your scent; the manor's laundry detergent, your shampoo, your lotion, and the unique scent of your skin that was slightly mixed with the smell of his, formed due to the sheer amount of time he spent by your side. It hit like a drug. Bruce's rough palm trailed down from your shoulder to your chest, then to the bottom hem of your sleep shirt. His thumb swiped over the waistband of your underwear before his fingertips snuck under your shirt, resting atop your stomach. Slowly, his fingertips hooked into the pudgy flesh, sinking in until your soft skin spilled between the gaps of his fingers. A final part of him settled with an accompanying exhale. His heavy weight sunk fully into the mattress, which groaned quietly under the additional weight. Like a cat, Bruce kneaded your stomach, his fingers gripping and sinking into the squishy flesh only to flex his fingers outwards as far as they would go. He felt the warmth, the softness of your skin, then hooked his fingers into the fat and kneaded it anew. The rough stubble of his jaw and cheek rasped against your cheek and neck as he moved closer, unable to resist kissing that sensitive spot between your neck and your earlobe. You shivered, and Bruce allowed himself a shadow of a smile. "Are you alright, hon?" You croak, tilting your head to clumsily kiss just shy of his lips. Bruce hummed, adjusting his head so that your next kiss would land where he wanted it. "Two broken ribs, sprained shoulder, and some bruises I can't cover." Bruce reported, similarly to a soldier stating a status report. You hummed, free hand curling into his hair to scratch at his scalp. "So you're benched."