Chapter Text
Night falls over Gotham, the once bustling streets starting to empty already. The floor vibrates beneath you, each picture frame rattling slightly due to the above ground subway just outside your apartment window. The noise is loud but it passes, leaving you in silence once again.
Your book lays in your lap as you sit cross legged in your window nook that overlooks the empty and trashed street below you. Your eyes will eventually leave the page you're on to watch someone pass by, and only will your eyes return to your book when that someone is out of sight. It’s a habit you built after spending too much time with the man you’ve grown to mimic. His very actions and behavior became something for you to memorize, a never ending puzzle.
The Batman has left his mark on you—physically and emotionally—to the point where you don’t spend a day without thinking of him. You wonder where he is, how he is, if he’s alright. You worry about him constantly, and if making sure the stranger passing by your apartment complex is safe for one block can contribute to helping him during his most difficult hours, then you’re more than happy to do so.
Of course, keeping your eye on a stranger for less than a minute does absolutely nothing in terms of what he does, but it’s the only thing he’ll allow you to do. Bruce, upon revealing his identity to you, begged you to keep yourself safe at all times. That meant not leaving after dark, keeping your interactions with strangers to a minimum, keeping some form of weapon or pepper spray on you always, and in case of an emergency—to which he prays never happens—to call him, and only him, when you’re in some sort of danger.
Some may call it a bit overprotective, maybe even controlling, but it’s his way of showing his undying devotion and care for you. Bruce was never one for emotions and feelings, his overprotectiveness was an example of his love—if that’s what you call whatever you two have.
You close your book, a yawn escaping your lips before standing up and stretching. You walk over to your small and cluttered bookshelf to stick your book anywhere where there's space, making sure its position isn’t damaging any other books. You take a step towards your dresser and pull the top drawer open, rummaging through its contents to find one of Bruce’s t-shirts you love to wear to sleep. You find a plain one, black and worn from the many years of use from him, and bring it up to your face. You breathe in its musky scent, closing your eyes and imagining the shirt was Bruce instead. Placing it down momentarily, your eyes open and you bring your hands to your hips to peel your tank top off your body. You pull down your leggings as well, pants being too warm for Gotham’s heat and your apartment complex’s broken air system.
Left in only a bra and panties, you unhook your bra from the back and pull it from your body, leaving it somewhere on the floor along with your other items of clothing. Slipping on Bruce’s t-shirt, you close the drawer you left open and leave the room, shutting any and all lights left on in your cramped apartment.
Entering your room again, you see your window wide open, the smell of warm trash traveling through. Confused and disgusted by the smell, you quickly walk over to shut it, but not before sticking your head out and glancing around for anything or anyone. The window wasn’t opened before, and being on the fifth floor, it’s hard to imagine anyone else being able to do so. You try to question if you even opened the window yourself in the first place and just forgot, but the presence of somebody else in your room brought you out of your thoughts.
Turning around, you curse yourself for not thinking of the most obvious culprit—Bruce.
He stood by your bookshelf, clad in his signature Batman suit, the blackness of him mixing in with the dark. His hand was on the book you just put away, pushing it back into where you placed it. You almost didn’t see him at first, but you would know his presence anywhere. It was engraved in your mind, his very existence being the one thing you can feel safe around. Of course you’d know him.
“You didn’t call,” you say, relief in your voice as you take a seat in your window nook. “Or text. You could’ve told me you were coming.”
“Sorry,” Bruce says, his hoarse voice an instant comfort. He has a way of maintaining dominance of an entire room—as Bruce and as Batman—with the simple act of speaking. Of course, he doesn’t mean to dictate dominance over you, at least not intentionally, but it just happens.
He takes a step closer to you, removing his cowl in the process and finding a spot for it on your crowded desk. You never tire of seeing his face, it being like a reward after a long and tiresome day. His face showed no emotion—at least nothing you can read—as he walked towards you. “I apologize if I scared you… in any way, it wasn’t my intention.”
“Don’t be silly,” you say with a soft smile, “You didn’t scare me.”
You stand up and close the distance between you and him by pulling him into a hug, which he hesitantly returns. The hardness of his chest plate was more comfortable than any pillow or mattress—it was home to you. Bruce’s gloved hands rested in the small of your back, his cheek pressing against your hair.
“I missed you,” you breathed into his chest, your voice so quiet he could barely hear.
Pulling away from him slightly, you looked up into his dark eyes—the black eyeshadow smeared around them making it hard to see its true blue color. He stared down at you with his eyebrows slightly furrowed, leaving you to wonder where his mind was at.
“What is it?” you ask, concern now hard to conceal in your voice.
Bruce doesn’t answer, only brings his gloved hand to caress your cheek, his eyes examining your every feature. It was like he was studying you for the first time, as if he never got the chance to before. He was considering you, all of you, with a cloud of lust ghosting over his eyes. He shouldn’t be here, Gotham needs him tonight, but he couldn’t keep his eyes off of your half-naked body through the window.
He knows that he shouldn’t be violating your privacy like that, watching you through the window, but he couldn’t keep himself away tonight. He only did it to make sure you went to sleep alright, it was a common thing he’d do whenever he felt like seeing you without having to bother you. It was one of those nights where he wants nothing to do other than you, and nothing would stop him.
“Nothing,” Bruce says, his voice low and almost incoherent if it weren’t for your close proximity. “Just thinking.”
“About what?” you ask, leaning into his touch.
“You,” he answers almost instantly, using both hands to hold your face in place.
Bruce initiates a kiss, leaning your face upwards as he brings his mouth down to yours. You immediately return it, the warmth of his lips on yours an invitation you’d never give up. Your lips molded together without hesitation, like it was done so many times your lips acted on their own from memory.
You kissed him back, content with a hint of surprise. It’s uncommon that Bruce would initiate a romantic gesture, let alone a kiss. It just isn’t like him, at all. It’s happened a few times but never enough to be considered a norm. Bruce’s kisses were usually spontaneous and never expected from you. It happened whenever he wanted you so bad but couldn’t express it in words, so he’d give the one thing you loved receiving from him—a kiss.
His mouth coaxes yours open, and you’re left in slight shock as his tongue enters your mouth almost forcefully. You have to lean back to try and catch your breath, but Bruce’s body follows you, trapping you into his frame as he kisses you with fervor. Your tongues slide against each other as your lips continue to move in sync.
Bruce eventually loosens his hold on you, allowing you to lean back and breathe for a moment. Trying to catch your breath, you look up at Bruce with heavy-lidded eyes. “What was that for?”
“I missed you too,” he responds nonchalantly, taking a small step back to take in your full frame. He tugs softly at the hem of the t-shirt you’re wearing, which rests at your mid-thigh.
“This is mine,” Bruce states, not even attempting to ask since he already knows it’s his. With the many nights he’s shared with you in your cheap Gotham apartment, you’ve always managed to steal an item of clothing from him, and he’s never even attempted to take them back. He thinks it looks better on you anyway.
You look down at yourself, remembering how you just put it on a few moments ago before Bruce came. “Oh,” you say with a small smile, “Yeah. Sorry. It’s just… a way to keep you close when I know you can’t be with me.”
Bruce isn’t one for showing emotions often. He’s one for keeping them bottled up, until he eventually can’t take it anymore and is forced to confide in either you or Alfred. It’s very rare that he does, though, since he’s used to being alone for so long. But, the lack of emotions he shows makes it easier for you to tell when something bothers him, like the face he’s showing now.
Bruce’s eyebrows are knotted, giving him some sort of a scowl as he looks at you. He’s deep in thought, you can tell, his eyes boring into yours with some sort of sadness practically radiating from him. He cups your cheek again with his gloved hand, the leather feeling rubbery against your skin. “Don’t be sorry. I should be sorry.”
“You? Sorry? For what?” you ask him, your hand coming up to hold his in place on your cheek.
“That I can’t be with you all the time.”
You frown, this time cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to keep his eyes on yours. “You don’t have to be sorry for that, Bruce.”
Hearing his name come from your lips is something he always swoons over on the inside. He never thought he’d reveal his identity to you, but now that he has, he regrets not doing it sooner. Your acceptance is something he didn’t realize he needed so much, for someone to hold him and worry for him and love him. He was starving until he met you.
“I understand what you do every night,” you continue, your eyes gazing into his with a stern expression. “When you told me who you were—what you do—I accepted you, even knowing that we can’t exactly be together. I know it’s risky, and that you have responsibilities you can’t abandon, but I understand . I’m not… mad at you or anything for not being here. It’s admirable, really, how committed you are. It only makes our limited time together much more special.”
Bruce’s face is unreadable as you try to examine his face. It’s a difficult challenge to read him, you’ve come to realize. Your hands loosen around his face as you trace his jawline, making slow movements with your fingers only to stop at his lips. Your thumb leaves a feather-light touch on his thin yet slightly-swollen lips from your mini-makeout session a minute ago. His lips purse, pecking your thumb with a small kiss and surprising you. The corners of your mouth tug upwards as you stare at Bruce’s makeup-smeared eyes.
“I love what you do, so don’t be sorry,” you say with finality as you give Bruce a peck on his slender nose. You wrap your arms around his large frame to pull Bruce in for a hug. His arms rest at your sides, not really reciprocating the hug until a few seconds after, when he finally realizes how much he loves you.
Bruce pulls you to the bed only a few steps away and sits you down, holding the hug as long as possible. He hovers over you, his hands resting at both sides of your head as he pushes you gently to lay down. Your hands instantly remove themselves from his torso to tangle themselves in Bruce’s hair, pulling him down to connect your lips with his. There’s no easing into the kiss, it’s almost like you never stopped from before as your mouths move clumsily against each other, desperate to keep contact for as long as possible.
Bruce murmurs something incoherent to you against your lips, and you have to pull him away to remove his eager lips from yours. “What did you say?”
“I love you,” Bruce repeats himself instantly in his signature low tone, his eyes searching yours for any sign of reciprocation. He’s not sure if he can handle a rejection, especially from you. It would wreck him, he believes. He’s spent so long dreaming and wishing for you that the very thought of you leaving him frightened him deep to his core.
Is this love? He’s not so sure, having never really experienced it before in his reclusive life therefore having nothing to base it on. But with its grand definition, and having to hear about it from others, there’s no other way to explain whatever you two have other than love. It has to be love. And it’s better than he could ever imagine.
You have to take a minute to make sure you really did hear what he said. Love . If someone were to tell you that one day you’d fall in love with the Bruce Wayne—who coincidentally is also the very same Batman who’s the savior of your city—you’d never believe it. But here you are, under that very man who’s telling you the words you didn’t realize you’ve been dying to hear ever since you met him. Who would’ve thought? Certainly not you.
“I love you too,” you breathe, effortless and fluid, like the words were always on the tip of your tongue and couldn’t be released until now. Bruce doesn’t smile or laugh, only rests his face in the crook of your neck with a long and content sigh.
He rests his face there for a moment, breathing in the sweet and familiar scent of you that he adores so much. He can’t help the smile that threatens his face, he’s happy . He can’t remember the last time he’s felt so full and well. His only purpose before you was to exist for Gotham, to make this hell-hole of a city better in order to honor his family’s legacy. He’s had his fair share of doubtful moments, but ever since meeting you there has been no doubt. You are what wakes him up on the days he finds slumber, what allows him to fight with such determination, what brings him back to consciousness when he feels like giving up. You are his strength, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.
“I love you,” he murmurs into your hot skin, leaving a trail of kisses down to your clavicle. “I love you.”
Bruce’s hands leave the sides of your head to rest at your thighs, where his gloved hands reach under your shirt to caress your body. He sucks on your sensitive skin, the rubbery gloves giving you goosebumps along your body. His knee nudges its way between your thighs as you separate them to allow him more room.
Your hands find comfort in his hair, slightly tangled and unkept from the use of his mask, as you try to stifle any lewd noises. He moved to lift your shirt, and you instinctively arch your back and lift your head to make way for the shirt as it leaves your body. Exposed, you don’t shy away from Bruce’s lustful gaze as his hands grip your breasts.
You don’t stifle the moan you let out as Bruce fondles your full and shapely breasts, watching your face as it contorts into different expressions of pleasure. He moves one hand to hold your hip down as he latches his mouth on one of your nipples, rolling his tongue around to gather more noises from you.
Bruce’s lips move sloppily as he practically devours one of your tits, pinching and playing with the other in his hand. His hand on your hip holds you in place as you try to squirm under his touch.
As much as you’re embarrassed to admit it, you’ve never actually slept with Bruce. You’ve known him for so long, and knew of his identity for quite a while, but the thought of sex was never an option for a busy man like him. He was often trying to maintain his image of Bruce Wayne—under the influence of Alfred—while fighting crime as a masked vigilante simultaneously. The idea of romance was never discussed or planned, it just happened, and never went that far because of his obligations. But Bruce can’t exactly keep himself composed any longer. Watching you through the window before, he was overcome with perverted thoughts of you as you changed out of your clothing, unaware of his presence. Ignoring those thoughts is something he’s tried to do but failed many times. He’s spent countless occasions touching himself shamefully to the thought of you, and he can’t exactly handle it any longer.
Gotham can handle one night without Batman, right?
Satisfied with his work on your chest, he lifts himself to connect his lips with yours once again. Your hands rest on his armored shoulders, the rough texture uncomfortable against your palms. Bruce’s hands travel to wrap around your thighs, spreading them apart to allow his torso to rest snug against your pelvis. Pulling back from your lips, one of his hands came up to brush the strands of hair that covers your eyes as he admires your innate beauty. The soft golden glow of your bedside lamp casts a silhouette of your face against the bedsheets, your chest—marked with Bruce’s kisses—rising and falling as you struggle to catch your breath, your mouth parted slightly; Bruce can’t keep his eyes off of your plump lips. He doesn’t think he can recall a time where he thought of you more beautiful. He’s overcome with emotion, lust, a combination of both maybe. He wants to taste you.
Bruce gives you one last small kiss on your lips before pushing himself off of you, leaving your hands to drop at your sides. Standing in between your thighs as they hang off the edge of the mattress, he admired the way your breasts lay against your chest, the curve of your waist, the way your legs are spread for him, and the underwear concealing the very part of you he’s dying to touch.
His gloved fingers graze from your knee down to your thigh, finding their way to your underwear as they curve under the elastic band. You use your elbows to lean upwards and look at Bruce through your eyelashes, your ankles hooking themselves around each other and tugging Bruce closer, which earns a grunt from him. Hooking both his hands under the band of your underwear, you lift yourself briefly and unwrap your legs from around Bruce to let him pull your underwear off of you. Slow and deliberate, Bruce drags the fabric from around your ankles and feet and drops it onto the floor.
“Don’t you think this is a little unfair?” you question, a rosy tint rushing to your cheeks as you stare at fully clothed Bruce. “Shouldn’t some of your… suit come off also?”
To your surprise—which has been quite common lately—Bruce smirks. Or, it’s a smirk in terms of him, small but noticeable. Still it was out of the blue, but it put a smile on your face.
“No,” he says simply, which makes you raise an eyebrow. “Not yet, at least.”
Bruce, keeping a hand on your thigh, lays his other hand flat across your stomach. He slowly drags it down, stopping just above your sex, all the while keeping his gaze on your reaction.
“Not even the gloves?” you joke as you bite your lip in anticipation.
Bruce purses his lips and shakes his head softly with a coy smile. His face quickly returns back to its normal brooding expression as he leans down, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to your stomach, his hands wrapping around your thighs to hold them down against the mattress.
You didn’t think you’d be able to see Bruce tonight—let alone this week—and yet he’s here in your room. You have to squeeze your eyes shut as you feel his lips trail closer and closer to your core.
Bruce moves to kiss your thigh, murmuring something incoherent into the fleshy part. His dark eyes stare at you as he kneels on the floor, allowing perfect height for what he’s about to do.
Pulling you closer to the edge of the mattress, Bruce uses his gloved fingers to glide across your cunt vertically, earning a pleasurable gasp from you. His gloves are practically soaked from one touch, and he stares at your pussy with adoration. This is his, he truly believes. Considering your reaction, he moves his fingers around lazily, watching your face closely to see what else could earn a positive reaction. His fingers find the clitoris, playing with it gently as he can feel himself getting hard under his suit.
Can he really control himself for you? He’s not sure, but he’ll try.
“Tell me…” he hesitates, having to gulp to keep his voice composed. “Tell me if it becomes too much.”
You don’t have time to answer before you feel a finger insert inside of your vagina, which makes you lean back against the mattress with a heavy sigh. Watching your every move, Bruce easily moves his fore finger in and out, your wetness allowing easy access. He doesn’t waste time in inserting a second finger, his middle finger, which earns a low mewl from you. The leather is a weird feeling inside of you, but you quickly familiarize yourself with the sensation, keeping in mind that it’s Bruce’s fingers inside of you—something you never thought could feel so good.
Bruce has to let out a short breath, his cheeks flushing with warmth at your sounds. It’s not like he hasn’t done this before, but it’s definitely been a while, and never with someone who he’s felt this much for. It’s overstimulating for him, but nonetheless he’s enjoying being the cause of your pleasure.
With two of his fingers as deep inside of you as they can go—twisting and curling to gather more sounds—Bruce places his thumb on your clitoris, slowly circling around it. Your back arches and you push your hips up closer to him, gasping for more, but a strong hand holds you down. Lifting your head, Bruce is watching you with an intense stare, one hand on your cunt and the other holding your hip in place while also keeping your thigh flush against the mattress with his arm.
“Keep going,” you groan, your teeth clenched on your bottom lip. Bruce doesn’t waste time, rubbing your clit faster as he studies your face. You sigh blissfully, your hips desperately trying to buck up.
“Don’t move,” Bruce whispers—you hardly being able to hear him—as he gets an idea. He removes his thumb from your clit and inches closer. The idea of tasting you crossed his mind briefly before, but now it’s not leaving. All he really wants to do is pleasure you, and he’ll do practically anything to achieve that.
With his fingers still inside you, Bruce places his mouth over your clit, which makes you gasp louder than he’s heard all night. His eyes are fixated on your face as you lift your head to make sure what you’re feeling is actually happening before dropping back down on the bed. Your hand tangles itself in his hair, and Bruce has to take his fingers out of you in order to use both his hands to hold your thighs and hips in place.
He drags his tongue over your clit, circling and sucking to the point where you can’t hold anything back. You’re a moaning mess under his mouth, and Bruce is questioning why he didn’t do this sooner.
Your back arches and you shudder with the stimulation of your clit, the feeling almost too much to bear. You pull at his hair, which makes him grunt—the vibration creating a gasp from you.
“More,” you moan, low and throaty, and Bruce obliges. He puts his fingers back inside of you, pumping them back and forth making your back arch.
He wraps his other arm around your thigh and lays his hand flat against your stomach to keep you still as he devours your clit with determination, the very thought of you coming on his fingers making his cock twitch. Your toes curl and your free hand grips the bed sheet tight in your fist, a needy moan turning into a whine escaping your lips.
“Please,” you whisper, the feeling of an orgasm building faster and faster.
Soon enough, Bruce’s fingers and mouth bring you over the edge, and you hold his hair in a tight grip as you orgasm on his fingers—his mouth never leaving your cunt.
Bruce removes his fingers after your high, you trying to catch your breath as he puts his gloved fingers in his own mouth, his gaze on you. He goes back down again, putting the flat of his tongue on your pussy as he drags it upwards, your legs shaking from the orgasm. He cleans you up—slurping and sucking your sensitive cunt until you have to whine and push his head away to get him to stop.
He leans back and rests on his legs, his knees sore from its kneeling position in the uncomfortable armor. Bruce takes a moment to catch his breath, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean glove. His cheeks are hot, he honestly can’t believe he just did that.
Bruce stands, watching as you struggle to sit yourself up and stand, to which he helps pull you up. You, being supported with his strong and muscular arms, wrap your arms around his neck to kiss him, and he doesn’t hesitate to kiss you back.
You’re the first to pull back, your chest rising and falling as you breathe heavily, your eyes fixed on Bruce’s. He uses his clean hand to brush the tousled hair from your face.
“You alright?” he asks after clearing his throat.
“Mhm,” you reply, your eyes darting from his eyes to his lips.
Bruce doesn’t kiss you again, only holds your face in place. “I have to go.”
“What? Why?” you question, tightening your grip on his hair and neck.
Bruce’s face is unreadable again, his gaze stern and brows furrowed. “I have to.”
He sounds genuinely apologetic, as if he wants nothing more than to stay and spend the entire night exploring your body. But right now he can’t afford to leave the city alone for a night. Gotham’s crime rates have skyrocketed within the past few days—the main reason why you haven't seen him in almost a week.
Bruce sighs, his eyes clenched as he rests his forehead against yours. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, so low you can hardly hear it.
It’s like you told him before, you understood the commitment he has to this city—made way before he ever met you. As much as his selfish desires will him to stay, he simply can’t. There’s too much to do, so much crime to rid the city of.
You force a smile, kissing his nose gently. Your heart sinks at the idea of letting him go out into the city littered with crazy psychotic men who’ll try to kill him. But he’s handled his own so far.
All you can do is hope that he can make it back home—to you.