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brucie-bruce-waynee · 1 year

Text

,,,, russian bruce wayne

Russian Bruce Wayne

RUSSIAN BRUCE WAYNE -

Listen. Listen. Not fully compacted into something coherent, but I'll do my best, because this idea has been haunting me, -

SO he's russian on his mother's side!! Martha Wayne immigrated in America when she was a teenager, nothing to her name but hope in her chest and her mother's pearl necklace in her pocket

She always got ugly looks for speaking in her native language and her accent. Slowly, it melted into something perfectly English, but she still spoke Russian at home and especially to Bruce

Little Bruce loved Baba Yaga as a kid and dressed like her for Halloween every single year; Nobody really understood it, but a glare from Alfred was enough to fill a bag full of candy

Martha and Bruce would talk shit in front of Thomas' faux philanthropist friends, but they were on wildly different spectrums

Martha, whispering: You see that man, Brucie? He sold his soul to greed. He's a worm of a human and his morals are rotten. That's why his eyes are dead

Bruce: haha, he's balding at 25

Martha, Alfred, and Bruce cooking beef stroganoff, syriniki, borscht, and Bruce's absolute favorite- pirozhki.

Martha also played the piano and LOVED Swan Lake so, so much. It was the one song that calmed Bruce during night terrors.

When he reaches eight, it all stops.

He eventually reconnects with his Russian roots in his 20s, when he's in college and his literature teacher shares a DISRESPECTFULLY incorrect opinion about one of Dostoevsky's works.

His teacher scoffed, " Well. Didn't know we had a Russian citizen here. "

" Not a citizen, but I AM a Russian descendent. My mother was an immigrant. That's kind of how America was formed. It's a pretty significant thing that happened."

Imagine you're a Gotham criminal and Batman starts muttering things about you in Russian. Somehow that's even more intimidating than anything he does.

" I can't believe they're more afraid of someone who doesn't speak English than a guy who beats up people dressed as a bat."

Alfred hums, sloooowly pulling away the vodka cereal Bruce made. " I can't imagine why. You're the poster child for mental health, sir."

" Not funny, papachka"

" For you."

When Dick is brought into the nest, Bruce struggles a bit with showing his affections; He only has money to offer, but Dick is happily uninterested in that, and seeks Bruce out instead.

BRUCE ABSOLUTELY SPENDS AN ENTIRE NIGHT TRYING TO PERFECT HIS MOTHER'S BAKLAVA FOR DICK!!

yes he's supposed to be on patrol. No, he doesn't care, Jim. It's all worth it when Dick takes a single bite and he has stars in his eyes and vines his little but strong arms around him, " this is PERFECT! Thank you so much, dad"

Air freezes in his blood, " ... Of course, ptichka."

He absolutely uses russian proverbs all the time (mostly when his children need to be reprimanded and reminded that making jokes is illegal when they're on duty)

JASON AND BRUCE FIGHTING OVER TRANSLATIONS AND CONTEXT IN ENGLISH ADAPTATIONS OF SLAVIC LITERATURE!

" PAPI, THAT'S NOT WHAT THEY MEANT TO SAY!"

" MISKHA I'M SO GRATEFUL YOUR GRANDMA ISN'T HERE, BECAUSE SHE'D DIE AGAIN IF SHE HEARD YOU SAY THAT!"

Damian 100000% prides himself on knowing russian and communicating with Bruce the smoothest.

It becomes a competition soon enough. Bruce is SO tired but the way they butcher words is funny, so he just pretends they're right.

The League finds out when Bruce snaps and calls Hal Cyka in a low, angry mutter while stomping away from his stupidity. " ... Bless you? What did he call me?"

Diana, struggling so hard not to laugh. " He said you were a genius."

" Huh. Had no idea he was French."

Meanwhile Clark is losing HIS shit because wow, Bruce's russian might be the hottest thing he ever heard. Please, this dork would absolutely try to learn Russian and talk to Bruce more.

He's absolutely horrible with it but Bruce is just very excited. He definetly chuckles (which. Wow. Clark couldn't even make him GRIN 3 weeks ago) " You just asked me if I sleep with my dentist."

" ...Oh. I...Was trying to ask you for drinks. You can kill me right now. Please?"

" Maybe another time, solnyshko. Take me for a drink first."

Clark inhales. " oKaY thank yoU."

4K notes · View notes

brucie-bruce-waynee · 2 years

Text

,,,, russian bruce wayne

Russian Bruce Wayne

RUSSIAN BRUCE WAYNE -

Listen. Listen. Not fully compacted into something coherent, but I'll do my best, because this idea has been haunting me, -

SO he's russian on his mother's side!! Martha Wayne immigrated in America when she was a teenager, nothing to her name but hope in her chest and her mother's pearl necklace in her pocket

She always got ugly looks for speaking in her native language and her accent. Slowly, it melted into something perfectly English, but she still spoke Russian at home and especially to Bruce

Little Bruce loved Baba Yaga as a kid and dressed like her for Halloween every single year; Nobody really understood it, but a glare from Alfred was enough to fill a bag full of candy

Martha and Bruce would talk shit in front of Thomas' faux philanthropist friends, but they were on wildly different spectrums

Martha, whispering: You see that man, Brucie? He sold his soul to greed. He's a worm of a human and his morals are rotten. That's why his eyes are dead

Bruce: haha, he's balding at 25

Martha, Alfred, and Bruce cooking beef stroganoff, syriniki, borscht, and Bruce's absolute favorite- pirozhki.

Martha also played the piano and LOVED Swan Lake so, so much. It was the one song that calmed Bruce during night terrors.

When he reaches eight, it all stops.

He eventually reconnects with his Russian roots in his 20s, when he's in college and his literature teacher shares a DISRESPECTFULLY incorrect opinion about one of Dostoevsky's works.

His teacher scoffed, " Well. Didn't know we had a Russian citizen here. "

" Not a citizen, but I AM a Russian descendent. My mother was an immigrant. That's kind of how America was formed. It's a pretty significant thing that happened."

Imagine you're a Gotham criminal and Batman starts muttering things about you in Russian. Somehow that's even more intimidating than anything he does.

" I can't believe they're more afraid of someone who doesn't speak English than a guy who beats up people dressed as a bat."

Alfred hums, sloooowly pulling away the vodka cereal Bruce made. " I can't imagine why. You're the poster child for mental health, sir."

" Not funny, papachka"

" For you."

When Dick is brought into the nest, Bruce struggles a bit with showing his affections; He only has money to offer, but Dick is happily uninterested in that, and seeks Bruce out instead.

BRUCE ABSOLUTELY SPENDS AN ENTIRE NIGHT TRYING TO PERFECT HIS MOTHER'S BAKLAVA FOR DICK!!

Air freezes in his blood, " ... Of course, ptichka."

He absolutely uses russian proverbs all the time (mostly when his children need to be reprimanded and reminded that making jokes is illegal when they're on duty)

JASON AND BRUCE FIGHTING OVER TRANSLATIONS AND CONTEXT IN ENGLISH ADAPTATIONS OF SLAVIC LITERATURE!

" PAPI, THAT'S NOT WHAT THEY MEANT TO SAY!"

" MISKHA I'M SO GRATEFUL YOUR GRANDMA ISN'T HERE, BECAUSE SHE'D DIE AGAIN IF SHE HEARD YOU SAY THAT!"

Damian 100000% prides himself on knowing russian and communicating with Bruce the smoothest.

It becomes a competition soon enough. Bruce is SO tired but the way they butcher words is funny, so he just pretends they're right.

The League finds out when Bruce snaps and calls Hal Cyka in a low, angry mutter while stomping away from his stupidity. " ... Bless you? What did he call me?"

Diana, struggling so hard not to laugh. " He said you were a genius."

" Huh. Had no idea he was French."

Meanwhile Clark is losing HIS shit because wow, Bruce's russian might be the hottest thing he ever heard. Please, this dork would absolutely try to learn Russian and talk to Bruce more.

He's absolutely horrible with it but Bruce is just very excited. He definetly chuckles (which. Wow. Clark couldn't even make him GRIN 3 weeks ago) " You just asked me if I sleep with my dentist."

" ...Oh. I...Was trying to ask you for drinks. You can kill me right now. Please?"

" Maybe another time, solnyshko. Take me for a drink first."

Clark inhales. " oKaY thank yoU."

4K notes · View notes

brucie-bruce-waynee · 2 years

Text

The Actor and the Billionaire Part 5

(A/N: Here is the last part! Thank you all for coming on this ride with me :))

Word count: 3.3k

The marketing team didn’t seem horribly surprised that the two of you had turned your sort of scam into an actual relationship. Walking out of the conference room with Bruce’s hand in yours, you were all smiles.

“Would you like a ride home?”

“Nah, I think I’ll walk, actually.”

Bruce pressed his nose to your forehead. You kissed him on both cheeks, trying to reassure him.

“Remember what happened last time you went out alone?”

You would’ve told them to fuck off if anyone else had said it. That you didn’t accept being patronized. But from Bruce, you knew he was genuinely concerned. Batman didn’t show up during the day, and Bruce worried for you on the streets of Gotham.

“I’ll text you the entire way and send you a picture of Cinnamon when I get home.”

You noticed a van following you for three blocks. Even as much of a coincidence as it could be, your hackles were raised. Being vigilant would help you this time. You scrolled to Bruce’s contact and called him. When you were distracted, a figure popped out of the alley on your left, dragging you in. A gloved hand muffled a scream, and you were wrestled into solid arms.

Your phone had been dropped in the scuffle. The van pulled through the sidewalk driveway. You scream again, and the arms that hold you squeeze until your breath is gone. This is when you see Bruce pick up the phone on his side.

“Ah, good. You got them.”

You knew that voice. Fucking Anthony! You thought you’d gotten rid of him, but of course, he’d do some shit like this. Swearing at the man in front of you behind gloves wasn’t nearly as intimidating as you hoped. Anthony leaned down to pick up your phone, and you began fighting again. No! Don’t tell Bruce!

“Mr. Wayne? Yes, we have your plaything here.”

Growling, you kicked backward and landed home directly on the person’s crotch. They scrabbled back with a yell, and you surged forward.

“Bruce, no! Don’t do what they say! I’m so sorry!”

That was all you could say before you were grabbed, forced to the ground, and gagged.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Wayne. We’ll keep them safe while you give us what they want. Instructions will have been dropped by your apartment today. Fulfill them and maybe we’ll consider letting them go.”

As Anthony was talking, your captor bundled you into the back of the van, tying your hands. You hissed as your new bracelet cut into your wrist. Your companion was a woman with a pixie cut. Damn, she was strong. And you had kicked her in the crotch. No matter who it was, a kick there would hurt. She had a glittering satisfaction on her face. That was when it dawned on you.

You’d seen the faces of both these people. As the doors closed to leave you in darkness, a chill swept your body. They’d been so bold as to not cover their faces. They were never going to give you back. You’d die with them, wherever they were taking you.

The drive to their base took a while, and you figured it must be out of the city. They hadn’t blindfolded you, but it didn’t matter. There were no windows in the back, and a tarp had been stapled to the roof. You could barely hear your captors.

They hadn’t bound your feet, but you didn’t want to move. There was no telling how pissed these guys would get if they knew you were trying to escape. You don’t even know how to start. They probably had guns and other weapons. Your mind is filled with bloody tire irons and baseball bats filled with nails. These thoughts were your companion when you arrived and tumbled out of the back of the van onto hard concrete.

“Leave them there. We have the cameras to set up,” Anthony said harshly.

Jesus, this was awful. Of course, it was horrible; you were kidnapped for ransom in relation to Bruce Wayne. This was bullshit. If you had been less of an emotional person, you would just tell them you weren’t in a relationship with him and maybe set free. But you had fallen for Bruce Wayne hard and fast. You could still lie, but it wouldn’t accomplish anything.

You laid there, watching these two set up a black sheet on a far wall with a couple cameras and some of those light reflectors you remembered from school picture day. Clearly, these were professional kidnappers. Or they had a photography studio on the side.

It was an interesting thing to be on the side of the kidnapped. You heard Anthony, the leader, make the threatening phone call to the Gotham Channel Nine news station and demand to be let on the air, claiming a kidnapping. The woman stepped on your knee and made you scream as proof to the station.

The chair was metal, cold, and stiff as you sat in it. The woman had bound your ankles to the legs and ripped your gag out of your mouth. Anthony walked over to you and grabbed your hair in his fist, pulling your head back painfully. He smiles down at you in that same sick way that made you uneasy when he worked for you.

“Didn’t you already threaten Bruce with ransom demands? What’s this now,” you asked, strained.

“Gotham needs to see how fragile even the lives of elites are.”

You rolled your eyes when he turned his back. The woman caught you, looking at you blankly. You’d heard of kidnapping victims trying to turn the kidnappers against one another, but you could see she had no light in her eyes that you could appeal to.

“The news is live? Ok. Our feed is on, tell me when you’re switching.”

Both of them had strapped these boxes onto their mouths. When they spoke, their voices were pitched down. Smart. The two stood in front of the camera to hide you for a dramatic reveal. And you thought you were the actor.

“People of Gotham, you are all vulnerable and weak. Even the highest among you is easily taken and incapacitated.”

The two stepped back to reveal you. You clenched your jaw, determined not to look panicked. It was a shit job.

“Make your demands. Beg, plead for your boyfriend to come save you.”

You kept silent, glaring at Anthony behind the camera. The woman came forward and yanked on your hair, making you cry out in pain.

“He told you to speak.”

Grinding your teeth down, you looked to Anthony. He was clearly frustrated with your lack of compliance.

“You can’t make me say anything I don’t want to,” you finally said, voice wobbling.

“So, you don’t want your boyfriend to use his wealth and influence to find you? You don’t want to demand to be released because you’re rich?”

Confusion was evident across your face. Is this what Anthony wanted you for?

“You think I’d endanger him and his business for you?”

Anthony stepped in front of the camera, cutting you off.

“Your prize actor is weak in my hands. They don’t even want help. What will you do, Gotham? What will you do, Mr. Bruce Wayne?”

Anthony punched the off button on the camera.

“What the fuck, dude? You couldn’t even play along?”

What? What?? Was he blaming his botched ransom video on you? He was putting his own incompetence on you. What the fuck.

“Maybe if you had given me a script-“

He punched you across the jaw, sending the chair you were strapped to flying. You landed hard on your right side, jolting your shoulder.

“You’re a bitch, you know that? A weak bitch.”

God, this guy was pathetic.

“Is this all because I fired you?”

“You were supposed to be mine! We were supposed to be together,” Anthony roared, his voice echoing up to the rafters of this warehouse. Really? Truthfully, you were close to pissing yourself, but his reasoning was ridiculous.

“Anthony. Control yourself.”

This was the first time you’d heard the woman speak. She looked just as blank as usual, but her eyes had a distinct fire, and they were trained against you.

“Jen, you saw what they were doing.”

“Is this your guy’s first kidnapping,” you asked, still on the ground.

“Shut it! God, let’s leave them here. Come on,” Anthony spat out.

The two got back in their van and left you there. On the floor. In a warehouse. The sun was setting outside the high windows. You had no idea how you had kept it together for so long, but now you cried. It was a silent cry, with you gasping for breath and scrunching your face so hard the muscles in your cheeks ached.

After you’d cried everything out of your body, you were numb. It was a good cry session, but you were exhausted. Only the pain of your shoulder kept you alert. You’d been on your side for hours with your ankles and hands bound. Any shifting was challenging. Were they ever coming back, or would they just leave you here for days? Would they feed you or let you go to the bathroom?

“Bruce, I know I said not to come, but I need help. Send anyone,” you said to the concrete.

The sun had set now. Batman would surely be on the lookout for you. But he didn’t know where you were. How would he?

You heard the rumbling of a van and tensed as the garage opened once more. Anthony emerged and stormed off to some other room in the warehouse while Jen came towards you with a box in hand. She righted your chair and released your hands.

The raw skin from the rope made you wince, but you kept back your tears. This woman wouldn’t see you cry. Your bracelet was stuck to the dried blood on your wrists.

“Here.”

She opened the box, and the smells that greeted you were heavenly. It smelled like barbecue. A pulled pork sandwich with fries. However, you weren’t stupid. Certain events would prove otherwise, but you knew better than to accept food from your fucking kidnapper.

“Please. You’re more useful to Anthony alive than dead. He’s trying to lure out your boyfriend, and he needs you for it,” she said with no inflection.

Pursing your lips, you hesitantly took the box and held it to your face. Mmmm. You hadn’t had barbecue in a long time. As you smelled, your stomach growled something fierce.

“I’m supposed to sit here and tie you back up when you’re finished.”

“Understandable,” you replied without really hearing her. All you were focused on was the food. You dug in, not caring about getting sauce on your face.

“So, how do you know Anthony,” you asked, mouth full.

“Dude, really?”

Jen had settled on the floor, legs crossed, chin in hands.

“Well, making conversation is better than you watching me eat.”

Jen ruffled her hair, short spikes sticking up from her fingers. She seems to think about it for a bit. Maybe she was making up a story, or she would ignore you.

“We’ve been friends since we were kids. He’s like my baby brother. If he’s hurt, I’m there for him. He asked me for a favor and I was there to help. I didn’t exactly expect him to do this, but I was in it. He showed me the plans and I couldn’t back out,” she said in a rush.

“I mean, you could’ve gone to the police. Taken pictures of his plans or something,” you said after swallowing a piece of sandwich.

“We’re family. Not an option.”

Jen’s tone garnered no further discussion, so you finished your sandwich and fries. You didn’t have a fork for the little container of coleslaw, so you didn’t touch it. As Jen was tying your hands back up, you spoke again.

“I wasn’t trying to turn you two against each other. I know that never works. Sorry you’re in this situation though.”

Jen pulled your wrists closer and left with your garbage.

It was a couple hours later, and the sun had fully set. Cold seeped into the large, empty building. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, you were exhausted. You’d given up trying to count the rafters when they finally disappeared in the dark. You rolled your neck while blowing a raspberry. Surely they’d know what to do with you, right?

Did Anthony really not plan anything besides taking you? He seemed incredibly volatile, switching emotions at the drop of a hat. Was this even the original plan to keep you this long?

A crash from the other room startles you. Screams follow the sound of gunshots and both Anthony and Jen run out of the room they’d been holed up in for hours. Behind them, melting out of the shadows and dust is Batman. You huff a disbelieving breath.

“Oh my god!”

Anthony stumbles to the ground and cowers under the wrath of the bat. Jen hovers above him, shooting venom with her glare. Batman stands there menacingly. Then you hear sirens and spotlights come flashing through the high windows. Police officers come flooding in, apprehending the kidnappers. Batman comes over to you, cutting your bonds. Tears finally spring into your eyes behind the cover of Batman’s chest.

“You came,” you whispered. Batman looks at you, and though he’s better at hiding his emotions in the mask, you see that fear in his eyes. The panic in those deep blue pools makes your heart twist.

“Nothing could’ve stopped me.”

Batman lifts you, one arm behind your knees and the other behind your back. He’s careful not to squish you too close to his chest. The two of you make your way outside, where so many police officers and news vans are surrounding the area. The crowd parts the way, and Batman walks through without looking at the masses surrounding him.

You’re deposited on the hood of Batman’s car. A paramedic comes over with a shock blanket. She introduces herself as Amy and does all the preliminary checks; eyes, ears, mouth, lungs. Her hands skim over your wrists. Once she’s satisfied, she advises Batman to stay by your side while getting the supplies she needs for treating your injuries. You admire the all-business mode that allows her to order Batman around. It’s funny.

“How did you find me?”

Batman takes hold of your wrist delicately, turning over the band of your bracelet. There, near the clasp, is a blinking light.

“Tracker. Didn’t think it would be used so soon.”

You touched the light with a finger and gave Batman a raised brow.

“I’ll save the creep talk for later.”

Amy comes back and treats your ankles first. The rope burn isn’t as bad on them, but it’s not great. Batman takes your bracelet off your wrist to help the paramedic.

“If you need to talk to the police, Mr. Batman, I can handle this here. They’re in good hands with me,” Amy says without looking away from your injuries. Batman doesn’t move.

“He’s not hurting anybody, right? If he wants to stay, we can’t make him leave,” you said, wincing with a nasty sting. Amy sends you a sympathetic look and bandages your wrists.

“I suppose. But really, the police will want to speak with both of you for different reasons,” Amy muttered, getting back into her work zone.

“I’m not leaving their side.”

You’re safely back home the next day, Cinnamon cuddled into your lap as you recline in bed. Alfred is here, and while you weren’t expecting him in your own home, you’re glad to see him. He carries a tray of soup and tea on a tray.

“I simply cannot believe they didn’t let you leave that police station until Master Bruce threatened something nasty. You’ve been up for almost 48 hours now.”

Alfred putters around, fixing your blankets and pulling Cinnamon away so you can eat in peace. How times have changed. Cinnamon had never let people touch him, and now he was curled contently in Alfred’s arms.

“I mean really. They interrogated you almost as if you were the criminal and not the victim.”

“I mean, I can understand why. They need all the information they can get.”

“I won’t have you speaking so highly of the police when they kept a kidnapping victim up for over 36 hours. Especially in your condition,” Alfred snipped.

Alfred’s hand skimmed over your bruised jaw. He’d brought in a new ice pack with the food and pressed it into your hand.

“How’s he doing?”

Alfred needed no elaboration on the ‘he.’ Bruce had stowed away in his cave just like last week. Something about being constantly vigilant. All you wanted was to hold Bruce in your arms and watch a movie or something. Or even just sleeping!

“He thinks that he’ll be able to see something that he hasn’t before. He’s also vetting a team of security guards for you.”

You hummed, taking the first pull of soup. It was only a broth, but chicken noodle soup always made your chest tighten with the familiarity of childhood.

“I want to pull him out of there, but I wouldn’t know what to say,” you say to your soup.

“He would do anything you asked. If he’s in a less obstructed part down there, I’ll have no issue reaching him on the phone. When he picks up, I’ll let you speak to him.”

Alfred seems almost as done with Bruce’s behavior as you were. Of course, he’d had to live with the guy his entire life, so while he was infinitely more understanding of his mood swings, he was also more eager for Bruce to return to the light, so to speak.

It’s only a few moments when Alfred comes back into the room. He’d excused himself while you were gulping down soup. You almost don’t want to put the soup down, but you do and answer.

“They want to talk to you, Bruce Thomas Wayne, and so help me, you will.”

You cover your mouth to stop a laugh coming out of you. God, that was so like the two of them. Some shuffling occurs, and the breathing on the other end shifts.

“Bruce?”

“Yeah.”

He sounds weary, more so than usual. You just want to cuddle him.

“Come over to my place.”

“I can’t. I have-“

“I didn’t ask. I’m telling you. There’s no better way to ensure my safety than to be here with me,” you say, turning a bit for some privacy. “I miss you.”

Something crashes on the other side of the phone, and you laugh this time.

“I’ll be over soon.”

“Come over now. I know you can drive yourself. Alfred made soup and I know he made more than just for me.”

When Bruce arrives, he’s damp from riding on his motorcycle in the drizzle outside. He crawls up your bed, socked feet lying on top of yours, hidden beneath your blanket.

“What’s the soup,” Bruce asks, chin buried in a pillow beside you.

“That’s how your greet your significant other? It’s chicken noodle with just the broth,” you say, leaning in to kiss your boyfriend on the forehead.

With Bruce by your side, you feel you can finally sleep now. You settled comfortably on his chest after draining the soup and tea and watching Bruce eat his own meal.

“With how muscular you are, you’d think that your chest isn’t comfortable, but you’d be wrong.”

You slid one of your hands under Bruce’s t-shirt and felt as he tensed his stomach muscles for you. Stopping at his pec, you groped gently, whispering a soft ‘honk’ and laughing as Bruce squeezed you in a safe spot so as not to irritate your wounds.

“Good night, Bruce.”

“Good night.”

@lauftivy @shimmeringgrim

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #batman x reader #batman x you #battinson x reader #battinson fanfiction #the batman #the batman fanfic

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brucie-bruce-waynee · 2 years

Text

The Actor and the Billionaire Part 4

(A/N: Finals week has finished! Yesterday my entire life was packed into eight boxes and either shipped back to my parents house or into storage.)

Word count: 2.6k~

“I’m sorry, you want me to do what?”

The marketing team branch heads stood at the front of the conference room you found yourself in. It reminded you of when you had to sign your contract and NDA to start this little farce in the first place.

“We need to you to start staying over. Bruce has a couple rooms, and we’ve already cleared it with him. So, you just need to make a convincing appearance outside the building with a little suitcase or something.”

Jamie, sitting beside you, began asking questions at a rapid-fire pace. You felt a twinge behind your eyes and messaged your temples.

“Jamie, it’s fine. I can do it. This is what we agreed to.”

Jamie made a discontented noise in the back of their throat.

“This has been going on for three months now. Don’t you think this is enough?”

“The contract Mx. Grant signed gave us at least six months.”

Well, you must have missed that. An oversight entirely on the fault of yourself.

“No need to make a fuss, then. We’ll be sleeping in separate rooms. This will make us official in the eyes of the public,” you soothed.

Jamie looked at you, surprised. In your career, you’d never taken risks like this. Avoiding scandal was essential to you. Now you were putting up a falsehood to the entire world that would ruin your reputation if anyone found out.

You packed a bag and went through the routine. The press was suffocating for the five seconds you had to be outside. Alfred helped you carry in Cinnamon’s dog stuff.

Settling into the same room you’d prepared for the gala for all that time ago, you sighed. Cinnamon was sniffing every corner for dangers. Bruce hadn’t come out to see you once. He didn’t reply to any texts you sent him. Nothing was getting through to him. You didn’t want to force the issue as you weren’t his partner. Friday night and the entirety of Saturday were spent exploring the penthouse.

The architecture was bonkers. Pointed arches and ribbed vaults were everywhere. It made more sense now that you knew about his extracurriculars. You almost expected to see full-on flying buttresses, but this was still an apartment, and real ones would be a bitch to construct and find a place to put them.

Walking into the dining room, Cinnamon at your heels, you stroked the electric guitar strings on the stand by the staircase. Alfred was setting out food for himself and you. There wasn’t a third place setting, and your heart sank. Sitting down at your spot felt weird. Cinnamon curled onto your feet. Alfred gave you a smile and gestured for you to begin eating, telling you that Bruce wouldn’t show up to eat with you.

“Alfred, do you know about Bruce’s night activities?” You took a bite of the pasta. Alfred was a good butler, an incredible cook, and terrific company.

“Yes, I do. If I’m being fair, Mx. Grant, I expected you to decipher the clues,” Alfred replied with a slight grimace. “Master Bruce isn’t the best at hiding as much as he thinks he is.”

“Well, it was only after I literally kissed the mouth I’d been dreaming of for weeks,” you groaned, shoveling pasta into your mouth.

You felt embarrassment flash through you. Alfred’s jaw clenches, and you’re unsure where this anger came from. He’d never seemed overly bothered by anything. Maybe it came with the job, but he was terrible at hiding it now.

“He didn’t tell me that. All he told me was that he saved you from some thugs when you were running at four am,” Alfred said.

“Yeah, not my smartest move, I know.”

Alfred waved you off.

“After we finish, you’ll bring him his dinner. You deserve to know how he feels in return,” Alfred said, no room for argument in his voice.

With the way Alfred phrased it, you had hope. It’s just a tiny flicker, but it’s there, nonetheless. Armed with a plate of good food, you followed Alfred down through the building. As he guided you, he talked about how there was a tunnel beneath the building that led to the old Wayne Manor. This was a way to travel to and from work without going on public transport.

“I suppose this is one of the differences between old money and new money, right?”

Alfred nodded and gestured to a heavy-looking door down a set of stairs. The lights flickered, almost strobe-like. You make your way down slowly.

“Don’t knock, he won’t hear you. Just head on in. He’ll be at his desk.”

Steeling yourself, you head in.

The cave is dark, damp, and echoing. A literal flock of bats swirls in the air above you. Swallowing a distressed noise, you made your way through high-tech equipment and the coolest looking car you’ve ever seen. As you adjust to the dark, you see the desk Alfred mentioned.

At first, you don’t see Bruce. He just melts into the shadows so easily with his all-black wardrobe. Bruce shifts, and you cry out. He jumps and whips around to you. You’re not too close, but you’re close enough to see his eyes are bloodshot, lids covered in smeared black paint.

“Alfred sent me down with dinner. Can I sit with you?”

Bruce looked at you, and you could see his eyes weren’t all there. They were glassy. He must’ve been so immersed in his… whatever he was doing. You can’t even imagine how what he was doing on the streets was affecting him. He turned slowly and pulled a stool from under his desk with the toe of his boot.

You placed the plate on an empty spot on his desk and sat. He took the fork from you and played with his pasta.

“Most people start by twirling it around the fork,” you said quietly. Bruce hummed and started eating. It had no mushrooms, no ground meat. There were only noodles and sauce on the plate with a small sprinkling of parmesan cheese on top. He was like a kid. Somehow, this only endeared him to you more.

“I didn’t intend to, uh, tell you all those things. I’m sorry if it makes this arrangement awkward. I especially didn’t mean to figure out your identity. You should know, there’s no risk of me telling anyone. But I just want to apologize for invading your privacy and telling you information you may not have wanted to hear,” you said, fiddling with your right ring finger ring.

Bruce slurped his noodles, muttering a small apology. As you passed him a napkin, he held your wrist with his fingers. There was dirt and blood on his hands. What had he been doing all night? Right. Batman activities.

“I trust you won’t tell. You’re not that kind of person. Besides, there wouldn’t be anything to gain from it. Batman’s reputation is stained, ruined,” Bruce says quietly, looking at his half-eaten food.

“It’s getting better. You know that. The people believe in you. Both as Bruce and Batman. The work you’re doing for the city, helping to build it up,” you murmured.

Bruce looks at you, and you can perfectly imagine a little rain cloud above his head. He opens his mouth like he wants to speak, then returns to his food. Your hand makes its way to his, and you rest it there, comforting him. Bruce finishes his meal in silence. He hooks the rung of the stool you’re on with his foot and drags you closer. The motion makes you grip him tightly.

“I’m sorry I kissed you with the cowl on. It was… I took advantage of you. You had been attacked. It was the fear of losing you,” Bruce says, voice quivering.

“If I felt unsafe, I would have pulled away,” you said. “It wasn’t my smartest idea to accept a kiss from a man I didn’t know. Just like how it wasn’t smart to go out like that. If it’s any consolation, I was thinking about how pretty your eyes are.”

Bruce had seemed incapable of being any other color than deathly pale, but now he was bright red. The color traveled through his cheeks and down his neck to the hem of his sweatshirt.

“Sorry. I’ll stop flirting.”

Trying to retract your arm, you find that you can’t. Bruce covered your hand with his, looking at you pensively.

“Don’t.”

Now it’s your turn to be flustered. Bruce turns and cups your jaw in his hands. Bringing you closer to him, you can smell rain in his hair. He kisses you the same soft, tender way he had when he was Gotham’s protector. Then he moved away, and you wanted more.

“So,” you said, kicking your legs out. Bruce had returned to his pasta after you’d kissed a few more times. “Am I still under an NDA, or are we going official?”

Bruce sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, and you wanted to kiss it. You wanted to kiss him again and again.

“We’ll call the marketing team on Monday. For now, we can keep this to ourselves,” Bruce said.

“Deal. Oh, and Maggie wants a picture tonight.”

Bruce gave you his well-practiced, tortured look. You returned it with a grin. Somehow you were able to coax Bruce upstairs to watch a movie. His living room matched the rest of the decor he had going on, but the gigantic flat screen across from the couch threw it off. You kept your distance from Bruce at first, but he pulled the pocket of your sweatpants towards himself. Crossing the sofa, you curled up against Bruce, pressing your knees on top of his.

Alfred walked into the room, smiling as he dropped off popcorn. Cinnamon followed at his heels. Your dog popped onto the couch and wedged himself in the tiny space between you and Bruce. Bruce gave Cinnamon a soft look and several pets.

“Alfred, can you take a picture of us for Instagram? Maggie wants one,” you said, holding out your phone. To Bruce, you said, “You can post this one. I have another one in mind for later tonight.”

Your hand made its way across Bruce’s body in a side hug, and his chin pressed itself comfortably onto the top of your head. You both were looking at the camera. Cinnamon even popped his head out.

Alfred left the two of you alone, and the movie began. You didn’t move any closer; you were close enough. Bruce’s hand curled around yours as the film progressed, and when it ended, your head was on his chest.

“We should head to bed,” Bruce murmured.

“Yeah, but I have to take my picture first.”

You would get a crick in your neck with how hard you were straining to get the right angle by laying down. Holding hands with your boyfriend (yay!!!) while trying to get a picture for Instagram with a flattering angle was tricky; it should be considered evil.

“Is all of this really necessary?”

The picture was ready to be doctored now. You leaned away, releasing your hand from Bruce’s grip and sitting cross-legged on ‘your side’ of the bed. It was alright, but you thought it could be beneficial to brighten the image and amp up the contrast just a touch.

You reclined on the soft headboard as you edited the picture and brainstormed a caption. Your shorts rode up the slightest bit as you got comfortable, sitting with your legs crisscrossed. Bruce shifted beside you. The clacking of your keyboard was overshadowed by the click of another camera. Your eyes shot to Bruce, who had his phone almost sheepishly under his chin, camera pointed to you. A small smile made him turn away from you.

“Wait, did you post that picture of me?”

“No. I just took it for me. Is that okay?”

Afterward, you would feel silly for your voice’s harsh tone when you asked the question. You would feel mildly ashamed, remembering how the man beside you in bed shied away from you as if he’d done something wrong.

“Yeah, that’s fine,” you said with a smile, feeling your insides melt. You were unused to the sensation of your organs turning to mush, but you couldn’t stop even if you tried.

You muttered more as you typed out the caption. It had been a long time since you showed your screen to Bruce for approval, but tonight you decided to do so. The caption was simple, an acronym. ‘loml’ with a simple red heart emoji.

“What does that mean?”

“Love of my life,” you murmured. When you looked at Bruce, you saw his cheeks stained pink and his eyes trained to the ceiling.

Cute.

“Well, I suppose I should go back to my own room,” you say with a sigh.

You jump out of your skin when Bruce’s cold fingers wrap gently around your wrist. He’s like a ghost, or he’s trying his best to be.

“You can stay for a little bit. We can talk if you want. Or I could put something on the TV.”

It seemed he wanted you to stay. You would try not to look so pleased.

“Okay.”

Bruce tugged you close, and you curled up to his side. It wasn’t long until Bruce’s breathing slowed down to a steady rhythm. You wanted to savor this moment, but his peaceful rest lulled you to sleep.

You woke alone at nine am to Alfred bringing in breakfast. Cinnamon had curled himself into your arms like he did at home. The shower in the en suite bathroom was running.

“Good morning,” you said, holding Cinnamon down from begging for food.

“Good morning. I hope you slept well. Master Bruce went out around one in the morning and came back by seven.”

Speak of the devil, Bruce exited the bathroom, towel around his waist. He was damp but smelled good as he leaned in to kiss you. You took the hem of your sleep shirt and swiped it under his eye where he missed with soap.

“Good morning,” he said quietly.

You hummed as Alfred called for Cinnamon, and the two of them left. Bruce clambered onto the bed with the tray, mimicking your cross-legged pose. Eating breakfast in bed with Bruce was great. You fed him some blueberries from the bowl on the tray, and he fed you mouthfuls of pancakes. It was all horribly, terribly domestic.

“How did we get here, huh? You’re so mushy,” you asked, stroking his cheek with your pointer finger.

“I have something for you,” Bruce said, digging around in his bedside table. You tried getting a peek over his shoulder, but he was hunched so fully over whatever he would give to you.

“I bought it after our brunch date. Back then, there was just something about you I couldn’t get out of my mind.”

With each word, his voice had lowered until it was a whisper. He handed you a flat square box. It had clean edges and no defining brand or markings. The tissue paper inside was brittle, and underneath it was a gorgeous bracelet. It was a tennis bracelet that glittered with small, squared diamonds.

“Oh, Bruce,” you murmured. His hands came into view. You gave him a nod, and he wrapped the metal around your wrist. It sparkled in the lamplight.

“I wanted to give you something for all the care you’ve shown me.”

You gave Bruce a soft kiss and a smile. Bruce only hummed, dropping his head onto your shoulder. It was going to be a good day.

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #batman x reader #batman x you #battinson x reader #battinson fanfiction #the batman fanfic #the batman

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brucie-bruce-waynee · 2 years

Text

The Actor and the Billionaire Part 3

(A/N: Another Monday update. Sincere apologies! Finals week has just started and I am dragging my feet on this final essay! I have these posts already queued up on Ao3 so if you want true Sunday updates, I would heavily suggest going to my Ao3. Each post is updated in the masterlist pinned as the top post on my page!)

Word count: 3.5k~ words

A buzz from your phone made you stutter in your jog. Stopping your treadmill, you started reading.

‘Need an Instagram pic of you and Bruce getting ready for the gala tonight. You’re showing up together. A car will pick you up in an hour.’

The text was from Maggie, head of the social media branch of the marketing team for Wayne Enterprises. Her texts were always like this, straight to the point and with no sugar coating. It was refreshing. You opened your texts with Bruce, wiping sweat from your brow. He hadn’t responded to your gif of a cute cat. How rude.

‘Maggie said I need to be at yours in an hour. Alright if I bring Cinnamon?’

‘Yes.’

Well, alright then. You decided to shower and style your hair a bit before the car would grab you. Cinnamon was leashed up, and you were on your way to the Wayne penthouse.

You didn’t know why Bruce had abandoned Wayne manor, but you made a pretty good guess that it had to do with memories of his parents. Everyone in the city thought that. Too painful. That was something you would never understand; try as you might. Losing a parent was the most heartbreaking thing a child could go through.

Rolling up to Bruce’s building, you were greeted by a few paparazzi and reliable press members. They tried pushing their cameras in your face, but you continued into the building. Alfred was there in the lobby waiting for you to bring you up to Bruce’s floor.

The penthouse was a fucking Gothic castle. He was literally Dracula. There was no other explanation for it. The man of the hour emerged, looking so tired and wired. You placed Cinnamon on the floor but didn’t unleash him. Bruce came closer to you, so close you could smell the scent of rain on him.

“You’re not going to turn into a bat and suck my blood, right?”

Bruce turned somehow paler. He exchanged looks with Alfred, eyes wide with the whites bloodshot. You could fill the whole of the ocean with his blue eyes. They were your favorite feature. Maybe it was because you so rarely saw them stay still.

“No,” he responded haltingly.

“Cool. Maggie told me my outfit was already here for me. Is it alright if I unleash Cinnamon? He knows how to heel, so he’ll stick by me.”

Bruce nodded and began leading the way, the clunk of your shoes and Cinnamon’s nails clicking following him down the hallways. The three of you entered a lavish room with a plush carpet and the most oversized bed you’ve ever seen.

“I thought the largest bed was a king-size, but that’s definitely bigger than a king,” you said conversationally, pushing down the mattress.

“It’s an Alaskan king,” Bruce said, rummaging around in the closet there.

One quick Google later, and your jaw was on the floor. Cinnamon had already made himself at home by curling up directly in the middle of the vast bed.

“Holy shit, dude. Are all the mattresses in your place this big?”

“I only have five rooms here, so yes,” Bruce said, laying a dry cleaning bag on the bed.

“Is.. is this your room?”

“No, this is a guest room. Yours if you want it.”

He spoke so little. It intrigued you to know what he thought about when he wasn’t talking. With your limited experience as a young person, it was true that those who spoke the least had the most to say or were incredibly insightful. What kind of insight would you get tonight?

“I can have a room in your penthouse?”

You unzipped the bag to reveal a nice suit, no tie: just a black blazer, trousers, and a shirt with hidden buttons. Bruce hovered behind you; hands tucked firmly into his sweatpants.

“If you want. I assume we’ll need to pretend to stay the night at each other’s places sometimes,” Bruce said in an almost embarrassed whisper.

Oh. Right. You hadn’t thought of that. It had only been a week.

“Well, I appreciate it very much. Now, Maggie wants you to post a picture of me in the bathroom getting ready for the night, and then she wants me to post a picture of you getting ready in the mirror. An adjusting the tie in the mirror picture.”

As you talked, you pulled your makeup bag from your larger bag and dumped it on the counter in the en suite bathroom. It was gaudy, with black marble tiles on the walls, ceiling, and floor. God, it looked endless in here.

“Okay, so I’ll put on some basic makeup first and then you can take a picture of me in the middle of doing my eyeshadow,” you game planned out loud, shuffling your supplies around on the counter.

Bruce nodded and watched as you created your canvas for the night. You were dressed in the trousers, the old flannel you were wearing clashing horribly—the perfect Instagram post. You told Bruce you would give him a signal when you were ready. Cinnamon, ever the attention whore, decided to get in the frame. He was stretching up your leg, looking for pets when your hands weren’t free.

The click of the camera sound made you blink, but you continued to do your makeup until you finished. Your inspiration was Zendaya’s suit look at Vanity Fair. It was pretty good if you did say so yourself.

“How does the picture look?”

Bruce held his phone up for you to see. You looked good in the backdrop of this lavish bathroom.

“Hmm. Maybe I should get some black marble in my bathroom. You can go ahead and post that. Maggie said no captions necessary.”

Whoosh.

It was out on the internet now.

You finished up then, shucking on the blazer. Deciding to leave a couple of buttons on the shirt open made you feel super-hot. Bruce had been dressing behind a room divider and stepped out. You stood next to him in the mirror.

“Haha, we match! Too bad you have to wear a tie though.”

It was your time to hone your photography skills. Phone in hand, you called Cinnamon to Bruce, then stood back. Your baby stretched himself up Bruce’s leg, his paws reaching the top of the man’s thigh. You laughed and snapped a picture.

“Baby boy, you’re so thirsty for attention!”

Cinnamon galloped to you, butt wiggling out of control.

“Yes, you are! You just want everyone to pay attention to you. It’s all about me, isn’t it?”

Cinnamon stood on his hind legs, and you held his front paws in your hands and danced with him for a moment. You didn’t see Bruce angling his phone toward you again and taking a picture. That wouldn’t be something he’d share with you for a long time.

“Okay baby boy, we have to go,” you said to Cinnamon. Turning to Bruce, you continued. “I left some food with Alfred and a bowl too if he doesn’t mind feeding him.”

“He won’t. No one can resist the allure of Cinnamon,” Bruce said.

“Quite right, my good sir!”

You enjoyed galas; you did. The charities who put them on were always for great causes. But they were so time-consuming. The part you liked the most was the food and drinks, not necessarily the networking with industry big wigs.

“I heard about your last security guard. Poor guy. Whatever did he do to get himself fired?”

God, you wish people would stop asking you that. You gave a halfhearted answer about different paths to this politician and tried finding someone else to talk to. A hand clapped on your shoulder, and you were confronted with someone you remembered from your early acting days.

“So, you and Bruce Wayne! I must say I’m surprised. You two seem like total opposites,” said a nasally-sounding director from Hollywood. Martin Martin. Yes, that was his real name, and yes, his parents were actors. You wouldn’t be so terrible about names if you ever have kids. Martin was as sleazy as they came. Why he flew out here was unknown to you, but you smiled through gritted teeth.

You could feel the crowd around you leaning for a listen, and you felt a wave of deep anger. Of course, being an actor comes with this sort of invasiveness, but if you were in a real relationship with Bruce, you couldn’t imagine the kind of anger inside you with a statement like that. This guy talked to you like he knew both you and Bruce personally. Ugh.

“Well, everyone is multifaceted of course,” you replied, rolling the stem of your champagne flute between your fingers.

“I saw your Instagram posts. Very cute. Especially your little dog,” he said, tipping back the rest of his Old Fashioned.

“Thank you.”

You felt Bruce at your elbow and saw Martin startle. He wasn’t looking when Bruce somehow materialized.

“Hi, Bruce. How was the hors d'oeuvres table?”

“Mmmn,” was all he said, shooting a look at the director in front of you. Martin had the conscience to look guilty.

“Did you try the shrimp thing they had up there?”

Bruce finally looked at you now, and something in his eyes changed the energy of your interaction. It was, well, it was something that made your face hot. Bruce’s hand landed in the safe zone above your hip but before your ribcage.

“I looked at it and thought you might enjoy it more. Let’s go,” Bruce said, punctuating his statement with a gentle tug on your waist.

“It was so nice talking to you,” you said to the director, keeping the sarcasm out of your voice. Turning to Bruce, you leaned up to kiss him on the cheek. “Thanks for that save.”

“You looked miserable,” Bruce replied, feigning a kiss on your temple.

“Martin Martin is awful. He’s had so many allegations against him. I worked as an extra for him in my very first film and was lucky to be plain enough to fly under his radar. But like you’re one to talk! I see that look on your face when the mayor talks to you,” you said, smoothing the lapels of Bruce’s suit jacket.

At the mention of the mayor, Bruce cringed, and you held in your laugh.

“She just wants good things for the city. And the people,” you soothed.

“She’s just so… persistent.”

Now you do laugh, and it catches the attention of everyone around you. What could Bruce Wayne have said that was so funny? You suppose the crowd would never know.

“What do you think about Batman?”

After the shrimp poppers, Bruce swept you away for the night, and now you were sitting in the back of his car. The seat was smaller in the back, so your thighs were fully pressed against Bruce’s. It was warm, almost hot. You had a lollipop in your mouth, courtesy of Alfred, who asked you your favorite flavor a while back.

“Batman?”

“Mmm.”

Tapping the hard candy against your teeth gently, you thought. This seemed important to him. Why would he ask if it wasn’t crucial?

“I think… that Batman used to be as feared as the criminals in Gotham because he kept himself apart from the people. The crime lords are above the common people, and he seemed to hover above them menacingly. I don’t think he intended it to be that way, especially with what he’s doing for the city now, but we didn’t know that back then. Now, though, he’s doing as well as he can to clean the streets. Which I think is admirable. I certainly couldn’t do it.”

You punctuated your sentence by popping your lollipop back in your mouth. Bruce looked deep in thought. Alfred was tapping his fingers on the steering wheel.

“What about you?”

No response. You leaned in and touched the back of Bruce’s hand where it rested on his thigh. He startled and looked at you. His gaze was intense. You’d never seen him look quite like this. It was attractive.

Wait.

Oh.

“I also think he’s trying his best, and that he’s not quite reaching his full potential,” Bruce said bitterly.

You pat his hand and bring it to your chest, holding it there for a moment. Bruce keeps his eyes solely on you. On reflex, your eyes go to his mouth, and you know he’s looking at yours.

Mild despair comes over you when you feel the familiar turn onto your street. The moment is broken when Alfred stops the car. You had never felt upset at a person like this before. You weren’t even that mad! It wasn’t like Alfred was breaking up a tender couple moment between you. You weren’t a couple.

This was a job, and you needed to remember that.

It took a makeup wipe, face wash, and pajama switch until you thought of that moment again. And again, you were focusing on Bruce’s eyes and how they sparkled.

Augh!! What was this, middle school? God. No crushes. Especially work-related.

You lay in bed, Cinnamon curled up next to you. His little chin rested on your hip as you absentmindedly stroked behind his ears. This wasn’t good. You couldn’t lay awake thinking about Bruce Wayne. He probably didn’t even expect that you could be attracted to him. Which seemed impossible.

He was sweet, albeit a little tricky to get through to. Sensitive to the highest degree, considering the sad lot life had dealt his parents. He was a firm boundary setter and keeper. But he was so witty in text conversations with you. He was always willing to shoot back at your jokes with his incredibly dry humor. You were positive that wasn’t on purpose. It surprised you how quickly he had opened up, but he shrunk back to that same husk you sometimes saw on the news every time you met in person.

“Ugh, Jesus Christ,” you said aloud, startling Cinnamon. You cooed sympathetically at him, and he whined at you as if to say, ‘You disturbed me, bubby! How could you?’

“Sorry, buddy. Wanna go for a run?”

Cinnamon danced across your bed to jump to the floor at the mention of the word. Laughing, you dressed in your workout gear and grabbed your phone. It was three am. Checking your crime watch app, you saw it was looking okay for this time of night. You’d just jog around your block and the next a couple times.

The lightest smattering of rain gave a pleasant atmosphere to your jog. You didn’t have your headphones in. Just because you were stupid enough to go out into Gotham at night didn’t mean you’d sacrifice your hearing. You may be an idiot, but you’re not stupid. Cinnamon did his business as soon as you stepped out the door.

“Good pee,” you said.

Starting up a brisk pace, you were able to reach the corner quickly. Once you started, stopping was out of the question. The breathlessness in your chest made you cough and feel alive. The more you focused on your breath, the less you concentrated on Bruce.

Stopping to catch your breath, you leaned against a light post. Cinnamon sat comfortably on the ground, also panting but smiling. Checking the time, you saw it was 4:30 am.

“Good run, boy?”

You hear the shink of a switchblade from the alley in front of you. A chill rolls through your body. Three figures moved out of the shadows. Matching black hoodies made them indiscernible to your eye until they were too close for you to run away. Cinnamon growled but backed between your legs. The middle one, clearly the ringleader, jerked his chin at you, teeth gleaming yellow from the street light.

“The poster child of Gotham! What are you doing out here at this time, your royal highness?”

The sarcastic, grating voice from the center figure made anger shoot through you, but you knew keeping still would be better in this sort of situation. Keep small and stay still as much as you can.

“Think you’re so much better than everyone else because of your fancy apartment and freaky looking dog? Who do you think you are, bitch,” the same guy continued. What? Were his goons not allowed to speak?

They could insult you as much as they wanted, but you drew the line at hating your dog. You stepped forward, intending to defend yourself, when the thud of boots stopped everyone in their tracks. The rain picked up, creating a thick sheet between your small group and the new lone figure approaching you. With the distraction, Cinnamon jumped into your arms and shivered there.

“Dude, we should get out of here. That’s the Batman,” the figure on the left said. All of them were wearing ski masks.

“I don’t give a shit, man. We’re not leaving until we get money,” the middle one said.

“I don’t think so,” said the deep voice from the rain.

As fists began to fly, you ran away from the scuffle down the street. Your heart was beating out of your chest. Bad idea, coming out of your place at this time of night. You wouldn’t do something so stupid again.

Even as you feel your freedom, you stop and turn. Batman is engaged in combat with your would-be attackers. He’s winning, obviously. But something about how he came to your rescue makes you want to stay and watch out for him.

He takes down the guys quickly. When he turns to you, there’s a faint glimmer of recognition in the back of your mind. But of course, he’s familiar. He’s Batman.

“Can I walk you home?”

Holy deep voice. Batman sounded like he gargled gravel in the mornings.

“Oh, uh, sure.”

He steps towards you, and you begin walking down the street. You don’t try and run. That will only increase the velocity of the raindrops and get you wetter. That was a tidbit you got from a book a long time ago. Cinnamon, however, is desperately trying to cower into your arms. His short-haired coat is essentially nothing in this weather, and you should’ve put a sweater on him or something.

“We’ll be home soon, boy,” you said into the wet fur on top of his head.

Batman’s armored hands come into view and scoop your dog out of your arms. What the hell? That’s so fucking rude. You’re about to say something when he pulls his cape from behind him and wraps your dog in it. Cinnamon snuggles right in.

“Thank you.”

Batman hums, and it reminds you of Bruce. A couple of cars pass in the street, and you’re reminded that the workday is starting for most people. 5 am, says your phone.

“I’d advise you not to leave your place again, but I can tell you already won’t,” Batman speaks up.

“Absolutely not. God, I was just so caught up in my thoughts that I didn’t really… think,” you replied.

Silence. Your wet socks squelch in your tennis shoes.

“Can I confide in you for a minute? I just need a sounding board for everything that’s happening in my life right now.”

He hums again, and this sends you. You’re leaning against opposite walls of an alley between your building and the apartments next door. You tell Batman as much information as you can without giving away the ruse of the fake relationship with Bruce.

“So, we’re not technically a couple yet. But I really like him. And I don’t know if I should just turn this flirtationship into something real or just let it fizzle out.”

You look up to the sky, where the rain slows down. The back of your shirt sticks to the bricks behind you. Batman is standing ramrod straight with your dog wrapped in his cape.

“Anyway, thanks for listening. I’m going inside now and not coming out for a few days.”

You take Cinnamon back and look at him in your arms. He’s nearly asleep. Your dog is friendly but not this friendly. He takes a while to warm up to people despite seeming so eager. It’s peculiar. The proximity of you and Batman has your heart thumping in your chest. It reminds you of Bruce.

Batman’s armored hand comes up to brush against your jaw, and you startle. You just weren’t expecting him to touch you. He guides your face up, your eyes following. You make direct eye contact with Batman. His eyes are intense and surrounded by black paint.

His lips part. Slowly, gently, he leans in. He’s going slow enough that you can lean away if you want. Maybe this will help you get over your feelings? That’s terrible reasoning. His eyes are just barely open. That recognition flashes in your mind again, and you push it away.

Then, you’re kissing Batman.

It’s chaste, hesitant. Batman’s hold on your jaw is gentle. He is so, so careful with you. His mouth doesn’t open. You pull away first. Batman’s eyes open, and you finally place where you remember them from. Cold sweat drips down your spine, even colder than your rain-soaked workout clothes.

“Bruce,” you whisper, horror in your voice.

Batman is there, and then he takes out a fucking grappling hook and shoots himself into the sky, out of your sight. You stand there, stunned.

What?

What??

WHAT??

“Oh my god.”

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #batman x reader #battinson x reader #battinson fanfiction #the batman fanfic #the batman

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brucie-bruce-waynee · 2 years

Text

The Actor and the Billionaire Part 2

(~2k words)

(Apologies for the late upload. This fic didn’t get quite the traction I was expecting on here but I’ll post the entire thing regardless.)

Gotham in the morning had this wet kind of light. It was weak but pointed as if it could shatter after stabbing you. Your sunglasses slid down your nose, and you pushed them back up. The car you were being driven in was taking sharper turns than you wanted, but you wouldn’t complain. You were getting free breakfast soon.

Cinnamon wiggled happily in his doggie car seat, smearing his excited snot across the window. You’d decided to bring him out with you since you hadn’t spent an extended period with him in at least three days. You had a dog walker, but he missed his bubby. You missed him too, as much of a pain, he could be. There was nothing more you loved than your sweet little furry son-boy.

Cameras clicked as you emerged from your car with the assistance of your driver, Ivan. He helped Cinnamon down from the backseat and turned to you.

“Thank you, Ivan. You can head back to the parking garage. I’m sure Mr. Wayne will bring me back home.”

Ivan gave you a jaunty salute, and you were left alone with Cinnamon circling around your feet. You’d made sure to check that this place was pet friendly. The Garden was one of the more upscale breakfast cafes in the inner city, but nobody could resist the cuteness of a dog. It was lucky that this happened to be one of the few restaurants in Gotham that was indeed pet friendly.

Mr. Wayne was standing by the restaurant entrance, looking generally nervous but sharp in all black. He wore a large overcoat, which shielded your eyes from the rest of his outfit. His eyes were covered with rectangular glasses, but you could see the remnants of dark bags poking out from the plastic. You realized it wasn’t bruising from lack of sleep but more like makeup remnants as you got closer.

Hmm. Odd.

“You have a dog,” Mr. Wayne said in place of hello or good morning. You stopped right next to him and angled your face to his ear.

“Yes! I was thinking it might be better if we’re seen going to more than just breakfast, so I brought Cinnamon along to take him for a walk in the park. Just if the weather stays favorable enough. Plus, he’s going to have to get used to your scent if we’re going to spend time together.”

Cinnamon was circling your pretend beau, catching his leash around Mr. Wayne’s ankles as you spoke. The man seemed to freeze on the spot and didn’t move until you’d untangled him. But he moved too quickly, and one last go around with the leash pushed him into you. Neither of you went sprawling, but he did press his entire front to yours. He nearly jumped away from you as you laughed.

“Cinnamon! I’m so sorry,” you said between giggles. “He’s always getting into trouble.”

The three of you entered the restaurant then. Breakfast came and went with scripted conversation points that could be discussed loud enough for other patrons to overhear. Cinnamon was happily gobbling up his doggy breakfast under the table. Getting the upper-class rumor mill going was sure to blast the two of you upwards. Only when Mr. Wayne asked you about Cinnamon did you go off-script.

“Oh isn’t he just an angel? I love him so much. When I got my first paycheck, I contacted all the shelters in Gotham to see what puppies they had. As soon as I heard Italian Greyhound litter, I was out the door.”

Cinnamon, constantly aware of when people talked about him, stretched his little paws up Mr. Wayne’s leg. He wasn’t begging for food but for pets. The tiny dog dissolved into enthusiastic wiggles when Bruce Wayne hesitantly began petting Cinnamon. You couldn’t help the large grin that split across your face at the two interacting. Mr. Wayne had such a softness in his eyes that you had yet to see directed at anything else.

“I’ve had him since he was about nine weeks old. The donor of the puppies had an Iggy that had mingled with the neighbors Iggy. I heard from the shelter owner that both dogs got fixed after the incident but I’m so thankful that I got my little guy here.”

Bruce Wayne smiled ever so slightly at the antics of your little baby, and it melted your heart. Cinnamon’s breakfast was all but abandoned for pets by this new person. If Cinnamon approved, that was all you needed. If only this was an actual breakfast date.

“Are you an animal lover,” you asked, twisting one of your rings around your right ring finger.

Mr. Wayne straightened in his chair.

“I wouldn’t say no, but I don’t have any animals. My job wouldn’t allow for me to keep pets.”

You hummed sympathetically. Cinnamon curled himself around your ankles, and you gave him a couple of soft scratches.

“But Cinnamon is a ball of energy one moment and zen the next. Is that normal,” Mr. Wayne asked, signaling for the bill. There was a minor battle about cards in the billfold, but he eventually won.

“Oh yeah. Iggy’s are all about energy. When I know I’m not going to be home, I have a dog walker come stay at my place so he can be walked three times a day,” you said, scooping up the last of your breakfast.

“Three times a day?”

The bill was paid, and you made your way to a park down the street. Your arm was curled safely in Mr. Wayne’s, and the two of you watched as Cinnamon wiggled his little butt down the sidewalk in the park. Mr. Wayne had slid the sunglasses back on his face, and you matched him.

“Italian Greyhounds were used for hunting hares or rabbits and can run up to speeds of thirty-seven miles per hour in short bursts. But they were also companion dogs like they are now. So they’re bred for short-distance sprinting, which is why they’re still used as racing dogs. They need a lot of attention because they’re sensitive and active. So, I try my best and bring him to set when allowed, but this lifestyle isn’t ideal for him,” you finished with a tinge of sadness in your voice.

“He seems pretty happy right now,” Mr. Wayne muttered. You both spotted a paparazzi simultaneously and slowed for a moment to let them get a good shot. Gross. The only time you would ever willingly pose for paparazzi. This was the part of the job you liked the least.

“He just missed his bubby, that’s all. Didn’t you, Cinnamon?”

At the sound of ‘bubby,’ your dog turned around and demanded pets. Veering off to a bench, the two humans sat on the bench. Cinnamon jumped up between you and Mr. Wayne.

“Oh you’re just my little man aren’t you? My little Romeo?”

Your dog was going nuts, letting out eager whines and putting his paws on your thigh to lick your face. Mr. Wayne was petting his back, a gentle smile on his face again. Cinnamon turned to him and started licking his chin. You laughed and pulled your dog away, putting him on the ground again.

“Well, you’re Cinnamon approved,” you said with a laugh.

“I’m glad.”

The three of you walked for another hour, then went back to the restaurant so Alfred could drive you back to your respective homes.

“Thank you for breakfast, Mr. Wayne.”

You started to slide out of the backseat, but Mr. Wayne caught your wrist.

“Please, call me Bruce.”

You smiled, gave him your name, and went inside to let your tired puppy nap.

A week had gone by, and you knew you needed to be seen out with Bruce again. The breakfast and walk had been an enormous success. Alfred said that some investors were more interested in Wayne Enterprises. You’d just been so busy with your filming schedule, and Bruce’s marketing team was relentless with Jamie.

During this week apart, you’d been texting nonstop with Bruce. It took you about three hours to wrangle his favorite color out of him, but it was smooth sailing after that. You were telling jokes, and he was telling you he thought they were funny since he didn’t seem to fully grasp the concept of emojis. You never thought you would be fond of Bruce Wayne at the beginning of this endeavor, but here you were, making fun of him for his whacked-out sleep schedule. A text from him pinged on your phone, and you opened up the conversation again.

‘What’s your alibi for staying up at 3 am in Gotham?’

‘I’m an actor ahsjdj it’s my job to have long hours!!’

‘Rehearsing lines, trying on costumes, being in makeup chairs’

‘And I’m not staying up until 3 am. I wake UP at 3 am to get into hair and makeup for the day’

‘Okay, okay. Truce. I could never be an actor. I’ll leave that profession to you.’

You giggled as your hairdresser fit a wig cap on your head.

‘You better!’

‘I know you’d wipe the floor with me with those pouty lips and sad puppy dog eyes you have’

Bruce went silent after that, and you figured he passed out finally.

“Did you really fire Anthony last week? He seemed like a nice guy,” Beth, your hairdresser, said. You sighed, and your good mood went with it. Why was everyone so concerned about this man? He wasn’t anything special. In fact, he was a pretty big creep.

“He was… staying in my apartment far longer than I would like every night and nothing I said would make him leave. I just didn’t feel safe around him anymore, which is the entire point of having a security guard.”

“Oh, so creepy! He seemed so nice,” Beth said, curling a piece of a wig with a curling iron. Human hair wigs never stopped amazing you.

You felt a flood of irritation. That’s how creeps always were, weren’t they? Always the nice guy until they were the “nice guy.”

“Yeah, well, he was fine. But he’s gone now,” you said flatly. There was a beat of silence as Beth adjusted your wig cap.

“So,” Beth said conspiratorially. “Bruce Wayne, huh? I didn’t think he was your type.”

You smiled coyly in the mirror at her, shrugging your shoulders. Look smitten; look lovestruck. Your eyes softened.

“He’s so unlike anything anyone expects from him,” you said.

Beth cooed, removing the wig from your head.

“Well, if I were Bruce Wayne, I’d make sure to keep a looker like you on my arm. Babe, if I wasn’t married, I’d ask for your hand on the spot.”

You laughed as she slid a blonde wig on your head, the curled look reminding you of Shirley Temple.

“How is your wife, by the way?”

#bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne x you #battinson x reader #battinson fanfiction #batman x reader #the batman fanfic #the batman

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brucie-bruce-waynee · 2 years

Text

Battinson Fanfic Masterlist

The Actor and the Billionaire (Cross-posted to Ao3) (COMPLETED)

Part 1- link

Part 1- Ao3

Part 2- link

Part 2- Ao3

Part 3- link

Part 3- Ao3

Part 4

Part 4- Ao3

Part 5

Part 5- Ao3

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #batman x reader #battinson fanfiction #the batman fanfic #the batman

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brucie-bruce-waynee · 2 years

Text

The Actor and the Billionaire Part 1

Bruce Wayne (Battinson) x reader

Word count: 3k~

(Reader uses a stage name, but is referred to namelessly or as Mx. Grant. No physical description of reader. Reader wears both suits and dresses. Reader uses they/them pronouns. If you see any mistakes, please kindly inform me.)

If anyone had told you six months ago that you would be kidnapped and locked in a warehouse because you were Gotham’s most famous actor, you would believe them in a heartbeat. The numbers didn’t lie. You had full theaters at every movie you starred in. The Gotham population was very loyal, after all.

However, if someone told you that you would be in that same situation because you were dating Bruce Wayne, you would laugh them out of town. You’d never met Bruce and had never even been in the same room as him, aside from one charity auction. Which was why it was such a surprise when you saw a well-dressed older man approach you at your makeup station. He asked to speak with you, saying he was with Wayne Enterprises and had a business opportunity for you. You politely dismissed your makeup artist and asked her to inform the director you would be late.

“To what do I owe this appearance, sir?”

The older man waved a hand and passed you a formal-looking document.

“I am the personal representative of Mr. Bruce Wayne. It would be ill-advised to speak of this out in public. Is there somewhere we could speak in private?”

Just because this man said who he was doesn’t mean you fully believed him. So, you caught your manager’s arm and led the way for the three of you to your trailer. Thirty minutes later, you were sitting open-mouthed on your six-foot beanbag chair. Your manager, Jamie, was in a similar position, though they hadn’t sat down. You were surprised that they were still standing if you were honest with yourself.

“I’m sorry, let me get this straight. You want me to fake date Bruce Wayne to push his company’s reputation?”

The older man, Alfred, grimaced slightly.

“In short, yes. The Wayne Enterprises marketing team believes that Wayne Enterprises would receive more benefactors if the owner and CEO was seen beginning to settle down. The company needs someone unattached and with a good reputation. It would do no good to have someone wild and rowdy to try and uplift the company. Since your debut into the acting scene, you have proven yourself to be incredibly responsible and capable of handling yourself and temptations that may linger around you.”

You bit your lip, messing up the balm on it. Your manager nudged you, and you sent them a glare from where they stood beside you. How could you help it?

“Why is the personal butler of Bruce Wayne coming in place of someone on the marketing team? Why not Bruce Wayne himself,” Jamie asks, coming to your defense when your tongue couldn’t seem to work.

Alfred gives another smile, this one seeming to stretch past its limits of patience.

“I would have to meet, interview, and field any potential partners my master would associate with, real or fabricated. This is me deciding to cut out the middle man. As for my master, he is caught in business at the moment.”

“More like he’d turn to ash if he stepped into the sun,” you said with a sigh, fiddling with the hem of your shirt. Currently, you are in the process of filming a space movie with a retrofuturism aesthetic. This meant you had to wear an outfit so skintight and reflective it was distracting to everyone you encountered. A piece of glitter from your eyeshadow stabbed itself into your tear duct, and you hissed in pain.

Jamie places a hand on your back.

“Mr. Pennyworth,-“

“Alfred, please.”

“Mr. Pennyworth,” Jamie said firmly. “Though this offer may seem enticing to some, Mx. Grant has an incredibly busy schedule and has no time to entertain this silly scheme.”

You stopped fanning your eyes and blinking rapidly to shoot Jamie a glare. The two of you looked to Alfred.

“If you wouldn’t mind giving us a moment,” you said to Alfred.

Alfred dismissed himself from your trailer.

“How did he even get on set? I wish you hadn’t fired Anthony. Or at least hired someone else before you fired him. Being by yourself is dangerous.”

Jamie said your name in a parental tone when they saw you weren’t saying anything. You had to think.

“You cannot be serious,” they said, a hard edge evident in their voice.

“Jamie, let me think! Let’s talk about this!”

You shoved the paper with payment prices towards Jamie after you stood, and they took it. The heels on the boots you were wearing clacked hollowly on your trailer floor.

“Look at that! That’s more money than I’m making with this film alone. Think of where we could send that so it could be put to good use!”

After purchasing your penthouse and setting up your cleaner and security guards, you had so much excess money you didn’t need. So, to charity it went! Your latest endeavors included the Trevor Project and several local charities.

“You know, you can keep some of your money for yourself. Why not buy a new purse or shoes sometimes?”

“Acting is my passion and aside from having a home and people to watch over me, I don’t need much. It’s kind of disgusting how much I get paid,” you said.

“You currently don’t have anyone to protect you because you fired Anthony.”

“Jamie, you know exactly why I fired him. I told you everything.”

Jamie’s mouth twisted in the silence as they worked their brain.

“You know, you’ll probably be spoiled with Bruce Wayne’s money. All the clothes you could want. He’ll want you to attend galas and charity events with him. Every news source will have their cameras trained on you.”

You hummed, running your hands down your outfit again. The boots were nice. Maybe you could take these home.

“If he wants me to be arm candy, I can be arm candy. I can look pretty for cameras. It’s my job.”

“But you’re more than arm candy, and you shouldn’t have to stoop to this level for some billionaire’s marketing team,” Jamie said, trying to appeal to your rational side.

Ah, Jamie. They had good points. They were a saint.

“I know my worth. It’s right there on that paper, and it’s a damn good amount. If I was insulted by the proposition, I wouldn’t have considered it this much.”

Calling Alfred back into the trailer, you gave him the signed contract and NDA. The deal was struck. You would receive encrypted plans through your second personal email address. This would outline the entire relationship from the meet-cute and onward into more serious aspects like getting together and public appearances.

After you’d arrived home, it occurred to you that you might have to marry Bruce Wayne. Your fawn red Italian Greyhound whined at your feet, and you picked him up to bring to your bedroom.

“Oh Cinnamon. What have I gotten into, huh?”

Cinnamon whined again, and you kissed his little bicycle seat head. It had been a long day, and you were more than ready for bed.

Another charity auction, this one at an art gallery. Your dress was a deep emerald green velvet with a slit up the side. A little sexy, but not too sexy. Just tantalizing enough to capture the attention of the Prince of Gotham. You had to hand it to the marketing team; somebody knew what they were doing. The story was incredibly detailed, down to how your hair was parted in your 20s-esque hairstyle. You would be leaning against the bar and ready for his approach.

You felt Mr. Wayne before you saw him. His nervous energy filled your space, and you sipped on your water. The bartender had been kind enough to make it look like a martini, so you now had a free olive.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

Soft, so soft was his voice. It made you want to curl into a blanket and fall asleep. You turned your head slowly, eyes widening just so. The angle would allow for the curve of your neck to be graceful and swanlike.

“Mr. Wayne, so lovely to finally meet you.”

You held out your hand, and he brought it to his lips. He was going off-script. There was only supposed to be a handshake. Maybe this would be good. A whirlwind romance would make sense with an introduction such as that one. He wouldn’t look you in the eyes. They constantly flickered around the room, looking for something.

“And you as well, Mx. Grant. A drink?”

“Yes, of course.”

Mr. Wayne ordered an old-fashioned. You order the same as last time. He offered his arm to you, and you led him to some art on the far wall.

“What’s your opinion of this piece, Mr. Wayne?”

He studied it for a moment, and you studied him. His skin was translucently pale, hair hanging delicately over his left eye. Your hair was opposite his, so when you turned to face each other, the photographers and paparazzi could get your faces in a clear shot.

“This one has a deep feeling of sadness within it,” he said softly.

It was a pair of people. A man and a woman. They were facing one another and squished to either side of the canvas but reaching out to each other. In the middle of them was a large blue circle. The paint strokes made the flat image appear 3-D. At the very edges of the circle was a subtle black outline with small spikes.

“Interesting. What do you think they’re sad about?”

The conversation continued throughout the gallery, and you made sure to pose appropriately at every photo opportunity. The press was here to document the art show, but most news sources would be raving about the two of you. A pity. You really liked this art. You would commission the artist for a piece.

You finally got a good look at Mr. Wayne’s face when confronted with an art piece that was a mirror with a detailed gilded edge.

Bruce Wayne was handsome. His dark hair accentuated his features, especially his light blue eyes. They reminded you of a cloudy morning in Gotham, one of your favorite times to look out the window. He was so curled in on himself, but you knew his shoulders were broad and strong. If this was a regular, organic relationship, you would consider yourself lucky. As it was, you were being paid to pretend to be Mr. Wayne’s partner, so it wouldn’t do you well to catch feelings for him.

Mr. Wayne surprised you with his studied and well-thought-out opinions of each piece you looked at together. People are much more than beneath the surface, but wealth cancels their taste. Even you had made mistakes in the face of your sudden salary as an actor. Deciding to refresh yourself, you shoved everything you thought you knew about Bruce Wayne out of your head to begin an informed train of thought about the man.

1. He looked heavily into symbolism in art 2. He was a gentleman because he wasn’t using this opportunity to cop a feel

You would get to know him better.

After the artist’s closing remarks and thanks for all the donations, you were escorted back to Bruce Wayne’s Rolls Royce. He would drive you home and nothing more. That would get the public buzzing just enough. The car was silent, and as soon as the door was closed, Mr. Wayne slid across the seat from you. Alfred was asking questions as he drove you back to your penthouse, and you answered them politely. Mr. Wayne said nothing.

You tried not looking at Mr. Wayne but couldn’t help it. He had been elusive for as long as you could remember. It made sense when he was a child, but he was labeled a recluse over time. He rarely ever went outside. It would make sense that his investors would start to fall away without seeing him.

The streetlights of Gotham were dim, but they still slashed across Mr. Wayne’s face and made him look like a chiseled statue. You looked at him unashamedly. His eyes slid over to you, then streaked away once he made eye contact. You wanted another look at his eyes. The car stopped.

“Well, I had a very lovely time tonight. I look forward to our next meeting,” you said softly.

Mr. Wayne nodded awkwardly, and you left, going inside to put on a pair of soft pants and eat some comfort food. You could do regular acting, but this was more draining for you.

As you pulled a soft sweatshirt over your head, Jamie’s text came in. Paparazzi pictures have already started swimming about. You looked incredible in your dress and incredibly intimate as you were caught in motion whispering something to Bruce at that first painting. He made a convincing smitten man. Maybe he would rival you in the industry.

You responded with a thumbs up. An unknown number texted you, and you swiped it away until you saw the name ‘Wayne.’ Bracing yourself, you clicked on it.

‘Hello. This is Bruce Wayne. I’ve been informed I should keep your number in my phone so we can communicate and coordinate our meetings. Alfred also suggested we should get to know each other to make our relationship more convincing.’

He ended his texts with periods? And he wrote so formally. You felt like you were being interviewed. He texted precisely how he spoke, so it wasn’t all that jarring.

‘Send me a picture of yourself?’

An immediate response. Mr. Wayne had clearly just taken the picture. The lighting was terrible, and he was still in his suit. Was he in his kitchen? His phone was angled up with his chin down like most men take selfies. God, he was… weird. You didn’t mind, though. He was kind of cute under all that leftover teen angst. At the very least, you knew it was actually his number.

‘Okay. Just wanted a contact picture’

‘And sounds good! We have a lunch date tomorrow and your marketing team planned my outfit’

‘Dark jeans and a black button up. I’m sure your team planned your outfit too’

‘Or Alfred knows what to go for’

Dropping your phone to your bed, you went to get some water. Cinnamon jumped into your arms and wedged his face in your armpit.

“You know, that doesn’t smell that good, right?”

His response was just to stick his wet nose in further. You laughed as you returned to your room. Cinnamon jumped on the plush mattress and stretched himself out on the empty side you didn’t use. After settling under your covers, you held your phone on your chest, reading the following chain of texts from Mr. Wayne.

‘I’m sorry. I had no idea my marketing team had controlled even your wardrobe. The last thing I want to do is make this situation more strenuous than it has to be. I appreciate what you are doing very much. I can call a meeting tomorrow before breakfast to have them pull back.’

‘If you would like me to do so. You may be being paid by the company to go along with this situation, but I would not want to restrict you.’

You immediately began typing.

‘No, no! Don’t do that. I don’t mind. I’ve been in the industry for a long time. I’m used to having people tell me what to wear’

‘If your marketing team wants to paint a picture, I will be the willing subject’

‘Trust me. I know how important setting the scene is’

‘The marketing team shouldn’t be under fire. I appreciate your concern, but they’re trying to get you more investors’

‘This makes it easier for me so I don’t have to choose an outfit for myself’

Deciding you’d blabbed on enough, you clicked off your phone screen and beckoned your dog closer. Cinnamon snuggled into your hip. Your phone lit up blue light on your nightstand, and you picked it up once more.

‘As long as you’re alright with it. The last thing I want to do is make you uncomfortable.’

‘Can you send me a contact picture of you too?’

In the spirit of Bruce Wayne, you sent a selfie right that second. The lamp lighting made you glow, along with your nighttime skincare routine. Your ratty sports sweatshirt from high school covered your shoulders, but it was an intimate picture. Much more personal than you’d send to previous partners this early in the relationship.

‘Here I am!’

‘Good night :)’

Another immediate response.

‘Good night, Mx. Grant.’

#bruce wayne x reader #battinson x reader #batman x reader #battinson fanfiction #the batman fanfic

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