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Higuruma x Reader

cw: sub!Higuruma, dirty talk, established relationship, excerpt

You were being so mean. Poor Higuruma felt like he was being tortured. You sat across from him in the booth, bending low to make sure he could see down your low-cut top, before curling your tongue around your cocktail straw. You sucked it slowly, taking too much of the straw into your mouth with pouted lips. Under the table, you hooked your ankle around his, tugging to spread his legs. 

Higuruma shuddered, his knuckles white as he gripped the tablecloth. “You bloody tease,” he hissed. 

“Who, me? I’m just enjoying our dinner date,” you smiled. You kept eye contact as you slid your foot higher, brushing your stiletto heel against the bulge in his slacks. 

He clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut. “I’m going to pay you back for this when we get home, my love,” he warned. 

“Oh I hope so.”

That would normally be as far as it went. You loved to rile Higuruma up in public, because you loved how he would put you in your place in private. But some dirty little part of you wanted to test the limits tonight, wanted to see just how far you could push him before he snapped.

--

“Please, god, please,” he whimpered, crumpled at your feet. “I’ll be good, I promise, I’ll be so good for you…”

His groveling sent a surge of guilty pleasure down your spine. You bent down to his eye level, grinning wickedly. “Yeah? Gonna be a good boy for me, pretty thing?” You grabbed a fistful of his hair to make him nod. 

Tears sparked in his eyes at the sting of his scalp, but he let you puppet him into obedience. “Y-yes, yes I’m your good boy…”

You release him and straighten back up, staring down at him through your lashes. “You’re cute when you’re pathetic.”

Hiromi groaned raggedly, eyes fluttering closed at the insult. To his horror, he felt a wet stain spread across the front of his slacks, his aching cock leaking precum. “Please…say it again,” he murmured. 

Your eyebrows shot up. You had been confident that he was enjoying the dynamic, but the man almost came in his pants at being called pathetic? This was going to be so much fun. You tilt your head, feigning innocence. “Say what, baby?” 

Shame and arousal swirled in his gut, his dress shirt straining over his shoulders as he tensed. “Say I’m pathetic…”

You laugh. “I love you like this, my pretty, desperate, pathetic boy.”

The lawyer moaned, his head tipping back to stare up at you in adoration. “I’m yours,” he whispered thickly. 

“Yes you are.”

what

...my. my notes...!???? i put ALL my notes in the summary so they don't crowd the main text area. i dont use the comment thing

(you have to go to google drive now and look at file information and scroll. gee thanks. i put it in summary because it was easy to look back to while i was writing instead of switching tabs. guess thats fucked now.)

..now im glad i write down my notes on discord first lmFao. so i can STILL avoid drive (i barely even use drive as it is..). with the exception of notes i wrote down there instead of on disc. at least its usually story-related notes that i write down as a part of the fic so it doesnt matter that much... haha.

(spoilers for jjk shibuya arc)

and that i decided to put my notes in the main writing area for once because. because! (idfk my reasoning)

anyway while im here take another wip excerpt!

continuation from my previous wip excerpt

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Book 1 and 6 spoilers, slight novel spoilers (havent read it myself but ive seen ppl talk about parts of it, which is where the embrace and umbilical cord comes from)

the lack of honorifics on trey after he used his UM (thats the right abbreviation right?) is what cater actually does to trey in book 1 (and is intentional. in the novel its mentioned that cater only uses yobisute with trey when he's being serious)

also this is a mix of canon dialogue and non-canon dialogue

also i cant remember what honorifics teachers use with their students. or what crowley uses. i know he uses last names, but idfk if he uses kun or, say, san. shrug. teachers in general use like kun and chan tho i think so.

-ryocho means like. dormitory leader, or dormitory director, i think. ive seen fan translations use it so im taking it.

--------

anyway thats a lot.

i dont know when cater ended up as one of my favorites (i wanted to write him to get used to writing his character cause he and idia were the ones who i admittedly struggled with the most. but now im here with this super long cater-centric fic.)

“You have no idea how badly I want you.” You no longer cared about groveling at his feet; you saw the world in his eyes and God’s own breath in the flutter of his lashes. You didn’t want to love Bruce Wayne, but you rarely got what you wanted—you should’ve known that by now.

Fateful Beginnings

VI. “dinner”

parts: previous / next

plot: after a sour interview attempt, you find yourself in the wrong place at the wrong time.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, brief mention of sa (which did not transpire), anger, arguing, feeling helpless

words: 2.2k

You quickly remembered how furiously he beat up the man in the alley. Maybe the truth was more transparent than you'd realized; you saw the Batman edge to him so clearly now. Batman was in the way his jaw set, his stature as he walked closer to someone. The staccato of his pointed words and how they flowed so securely past his lips. You could see it in every flex of his muscles, the intensity of his gaze. You never wanted to be on the receiving end of his vitriol. For now, all you had was his frustration and annoyance. Better than being prey.

"Forcing your dick into a stranger isn't exactly getting anything meaningful, is it?" You bit back, running over the pattering in your chest. Bitterness stung your tongue as you watched him pull back and pace between the desk again. "I'm talking money. Assets. Opportunities. If people had everything they needed, they wouldn't pillage the streets trying to find a means of self-preservation—"

He cut you off as rage seeped into your voice. "You talk like you know from experience."

"I know I'm far closer to them than an out of touch rich kid." You turned the recorder to OFF. He looked at you with suspicion. "What are you doing?"

"This is pointless." You clenched fingers around the recorder and grabbed your phone from where it sat on the table. Anger was starting to overtake you listening to someone who had everything in life handed to him look down on those who had less lucky circumstances. "I'm not dealing with you. I'm leaving."

Quick, heavy footsteps came up behind you and he grabbed your elbow. You ripped it away from him and kept on down toward the iron door. "I'm leaving." As you walked you remembered you'd left your heels; you wanted to turn around, but kept forward. Heat flushed your cheeks when you reached the door that wouldn't open. Panic. Would he even let you out? Is this when the torturing began?

"Master Wayne?" A British man's voice filled the basement. A clank, the sound of metal, and then a stutter. "Who—”

You spun around to face a grey-haired, well-dressed man peering out from an open-plan elevator. He had a pair of spectacles in hand and a worried expression. Opening your mouth to speak proved futile when Bruce Wayne was always so ready and willing to answer. "She knows, Alfred." His tone was flat and to the point, if a bit terse. Worry melted to curiosity as he nodded at you. Was that a statement or a signal?

You did a small, annoyed wave. "I'm Y/N. Wanted to interview Gotham's elusive billionaire." You covered the words in as much sarcasm as humanly possible to mask your deepening anxiety. Did he know how to fight too?

"Pleasure to meet you, Y/N. How about staying for dinner?" You felt softer with the presence of this man in the room. Was this his father? They didn't look particularly alike... and why wouldn't Bruce Wayne have an accent if this was his parent? Hadn't his parents died while he was young? Maybe he was a caretaker of sorts? A cook? Maybe it was too naive, it was likely so supremely naive as to be moronic, but you felt the mood shift when this 'Alfred' walked in. A positive one. Bruce Wayne started to answer the dinner invite with a resounding hell no, which plastered a smile right on your face. "I'd love to!" You skipped over to retrieve your heels and sidled beside this Alfred in the elevator. Your heels ached and you wanted nothing more than to crash in your own bed. However, pissing off this asshole? And getting free food? You felt it the utmost priority to get under Bruce Wayne’s skin as much as possible. Maybe you could get more information for your paper while you were at it.

Alfred gave a come here motion for him to join you, and after a heavy scoff and eye-roll he slumped his way over. With a press of a button the doors closed and elevator shot up. To your right wafted a gentle scent of fresh musk; whoever he was, he even smelled fancy. To your right the smell of old clothes. Your eyes wandered to the stiffness of Bruce Wayne's suit; it looked like it hadn't ever been worn, and the musty scent lent that credibility. Clustered together in this small space with Alfred too, you got a bit more brave. Tested the waters. Wanted to see if your anxiety could be alleviated. You picked off a piece of lint that was on his shoulder; as soon as you touched him his head whipped toward yours, expression accosted. You suppressed a laugh. "Just some lint, Jesus."

The elevator stopped suddenly, forcing you to grab the bars as you stumbled forward. Him and Alfred walked easily as you stumbled behind them. You looked up to the massive staircase across the way, and noticed this elevator was placed adjacent to the kitchen in a dark hallway. The ceilings were impossibly tall with gothic arches and swirls in excess.

"I'm changing." Bruce Wayne walked unceremoniously out of the room and off somewhere in the gargantuan mansion at the first opportunity. Alfred showed you around the kitchen, handing you a heavy ceramic plate. Knowing them it could even be diamond. The house wasn't particularly well-lit; surprisingly for a wealthy family. Your mind immediately went to rich celebrities and their glistening homes. Gotham was so fucking weird.

Alfred winked at you as he got out two more plates. "Master Wayne can dish up himself, being how grumpy he's acted." You let out a small chuckle when the man himself silently appeared beside you, empty plate in-hand. He was suspiciously quick, and it looked weird outside of the suit. He smelled a bit better now, like a woody oak tree... and detergent. "Sorry, the prince has to dish himself." You crooned, handing him the ladle to the crockpot.

The sound of scraping dishes brought you back to meals with your mom and dad at the living room table. Homesickness enveloped you. How were they doing? They seemed excited to go to graduation; you hadn't seen them in nearly two years.

The scraping stopped. You watched carefully for the first fork to touch a tongue that wasn't yours. You made pleasant conversation until Bruce grew suspicious. He gestured to you. "Didn't you want to eat?"

Goosebumps riddled your thighs and you did your best to will them away from your arms and prying eyes. The house was so dark. You stumbled over some dumb excuse. "I always let the hosts eat first." It went over about as well as you thought it would with him.

"You think Alfred poisoned you?"

Shame did wheelies in your mind. It seemed a bit storybookish; come to the secret lair, have a final dinner before inevitable demise. The arches, the long table... it was all very reminiscent of something underground, something akin to holiness but more sinister. He stared at you when Alfred took a scoop from Bruce's bowl, and swallowed. You took a bite and instantly settled at how delicious it was. "Alfred, is this, uh, mulli—"

"Oh, yes! How did you know?" He was chipper, likely making up for his less kindly dinner partner. You told him how you'd asked what sort of cuisines Bruce was into—to which he shot another glare your way and the old man grinned.

You made sure to draw out the length of the dinner in spite of Bruce Wayne. He picked at his food, not eating, as you and Alfred prattled on about this, that, and oh, this other thing! It wasn't all a ruse, however; you thoroughly enjoyed Alfred as he seemed exceptionally kind and competent. Looking into his weathered face and hearing his posh accent took the burning sting of Bruce's presence away—which was another thing: he always had people refer to him with formalities, so you resigned to calling him Bruce.

"I'd like to leave, Alfred." Bruce spoke through grit teeth and pushed his plate toward the center of the table in protest. If he had been a bit more animated, it might have looked like he was throwing a tantrum. You didn't bother to hide the grin twitching your lips because you knew he'd hate that, too. It was as if nothing mattered more than getting under his skin. The bickering was peaceful, really.

Alfred wasn't having it. As far as he could tell you were being a perfectly pleasant guest, and it befuddled him why Bruce was behaving that way. He’d put a few pieces together down in the batcave, given Bruce’s unceremonious announcement that you knew about Batman, but why would he be so cold? He had always told the boy it would happen eventually, and you didn’t seem to be a particularly malignant presence.

You'd notice a glare being shot from him to Bruce after he made a snide comment or a face to something you had said, which only made you add another cherry to the pile. It wasn't like Bruce was completely in the right; in fact, he had poked at you equally as much. His transgressions were more passive, less perceptible. A judging twitch of the eyebrow, a squint, an eye-roll. It was his house and he knew he wouldn't be kicked out for acting up, so he didn't bother watching himself.

You frustrated him. Your voice was grating, your chipper demeanor nearly making him gag. But. There was something more. He truly could have gotten up at any time, as Alfred was still under his payroll. Alfred had little say in how Bruce behaved at the end of the day, and he knew he could have stormed off to his bedroom without (much) consequence. You felt like an itch he couldn't scratch. You weren't dismissible, no, but that was due to how uniquely you frustrated him. It made him feel like bees swarming in his mind, thoughts scattered, body constantly teetering off the edge. A thorn he couldn't get out of his side... for some reason. The very fact that he could not pin down a sure one sent his frustration past manageability. You knew he was Batman and you were blackmailing him for it, but that was what anyone else would have done in that situation. Why was your personality so infuriating? Like a knife slipping under his fingernails?

ZZZ ZZ. ZZZ ZZ. ZZZ ZZ. Your phone buzzed and Alfred took his cell out of his breast pocket. You opened your phone to an emergency alert. FLASH FLOOD WARNING FOR GOTHAM METRO AREA. SEVERITY: MODERATE THREAT TO LIFE AND PROPERTY. STAY INDOORS UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

Bruce's brows knit together again, much as they did at city hall. "What? What's the alert?"

Alfred spoke first. "It seems there's a... flash flood warning for our area. It says to stay indoors until further notice." You hadn't noticed the sound of the torrential rainpour until you really focused in on it. There were light pattering sounds far above with the terrifically high ceilings, though very steady and consistent. If it were in your apartment you wouldn't have been able to sleep in that damn cube. Wait. Sleep. You started typing into your phone the Gotham City website, and there was a red banner posted 12 seconds ago scrolling through bolded words in white. You read them aloud.

"It says on the city website to... expect delays for up to 72 hours?!" You couldn't hide the shock in your voice. Alfred immediately turned to Bruce who got up and slammed himself out of the chair. "Great. Just great." His annoyance ricocheted off the entryway walls, his hands fists at his side. Shit. Shit shit. Your eyes nearly bugged out of your head. "Wait, my paper! It's,"

"It's alright dear. I'll make you a bed in a spare room down the hall from me. I have a laptop too, if your professor still expects you to turn it in during a monsoon." Alfred tried to laugh but you weren't in the mood, your heart pounding against its cage as you sobered at the thought of having to be around Bruce for more than another hour.

"Master Wayne, you'll give a tour to Miss Y/N while I draw up a room."

"Are you kidding me?" You couldn't see him but the frustration in his tone was different now. It felt... inescapable, which made the terror more palpable. You had just blackmailed the most infamous vigilante in the world. And now you were stuck in his house. Fuck. Karma.

Fateful Beginnings

VIII. “as the rain settles”

parts: previous / next

plot: you wake up in Bruce Wayne’s bed and fear the worst. alfred and you share a tender moment after crushing news.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mention of drugging/assault, mention of cancer, description of wounds/pain

words: 4k

a/n: i hope the formatting on here is okay! i’ve really enjoyed posting these for you all, tell me how you like it so far in the comments! ✨

You woke up feeling sweaty and disoriented, peeling your cheek off the slobbery sheet. The room was so dark and you fell back against a pillow. Is this my apartment? Why are the lights off? You wondered aloud why you felt so bad. Your head pounded and your throat felt sore... you started and bolted up out of bed. You looked around, frantic, and noticed this wasn't your room, this wasn't even your building; this was Bruce Wayne's fucking room. "Fuck, fuck," you peeked outside the slightly open door and saw no one standing in the small sliver of the hallway you could see. You psyched yourself up for leaving, wondering why the hell you had ended up in here. Your mind was fuzzy, memories blurred, and you couldn't think while covered in his smell. You didn't even have your phone on you, what the hell had happened?

Padding out the door you tried rushing to the stairs but noticed Bruce stepping down them. You stopped in your tracks, noticing how... sweaty he looked. You narrowed your eyes at him and took a step back as you both stared at each other. You squeezed your eyes shut and spit out the words swirling in your mind. "Did we, um,"

"What?"

"I woke up in your bed,"

"Do you not remember?"

Your mouth went dry and you felt a white hot rod of anxiety rush through you. "Oh fuck," You threw your hands over your face and shook your head, shocked. He must have drugged you, that was why you didn't remember! He had drugged you and then used you, he'd gotten revenge, finally, and—

"What? You had an allergic reaction." His incredulous tone reverberated off the stairs. "Alfred put peaches in the food. You took some allergy meds and then went up to my room and crashed."

"So we,"

"Why would we?"

You stood there like that as you struggled to trust him. He had known about the peach allergy, which he wouldn't have known unless you'd had a reaction. Or he pulled your hospital records. But your throat hurt like it did after a reaction; you didn't remember much and were exhausted, which was customary for taking Benadryl. You resigned to trusting him and vowed to verify it with Alfred later; right now, you needed to get back to your room.

You were halfway up the stairs before you remembered you'd drooled all over his sheets, and he'd walk into a massive wet spot. Oh god. What if he thought it was pee? You hurried down the stairs and to his doorway. He turned and glared at you. "What?"

"I'm uh, that's drool. Not pee." You felt yourself blush with embarrassment. He looked from you to his bed and then to the floor. He mumbled something about it being fine, and getting new sheets, but you didn't stick around. Unable to tolerate the embarrassment you rushed back to your room and slammed the door shut. You stayed there panting a few beats before settling on the edge of your bed. Opening your phone made your mouth do the same. It was late afternoon now, and you had to turn the paper in by the next morning.

You nearly tossed your phone to the other side of the bed until you noticed three missed calls from your father. Worried, you furiously tried to call back until the BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP of the 'disconnected' tone threatened to send you into psychosis. then, a text popped up from your dad: Hi hunny. Your mother and I had to cancel our flight to graduation. We tried to call you but we heard Gotham was flooding. Are you safe?

You texted back. Yes, I'm safe. Why did you cancel? Your heart raced as you saw the text bubbles pop up and fall back again. Up and back. Up and back. What on earth was he trying to say? You shut your laptop and stared at the bubble until it paused, and a longer message was sent. We didn't want to text you this, but it's good you know as soon as possible. Your mother's scan came back today and her cancer is back. We need to save as much money as we can for her chemo copayments. We're sorry hunny.

Before tears could overflow you rushed words out onto the phone. How bad is it this time? And that's okay. I didn't want to walk really anyway. I'll get a flight back home ASAP.

More waiting, and more tears welling up in your eyes. You crossed your legs and rocked back and forth in bed to try and soothe yourself but to no avail. About a minute later a text came through from him. Worse than last time. They're doing a lottery for a new clinical trial and your mother is very interested in it. In the meantime, her first chemo appointment is tomorrow afternoon.

You thanked your dad for letting you know, turned your phone off, and began to sob. Your mother had bladder cancer, and if it was worse than last time... you shuddered at the thought, your bones rattling. She'd had localized cancer—if it was worse, how much worse was it? Your breathing became labored and fast, and before you knew it you were dry-heaving off the edge of the bed, your knuckles white as they gripped and tore at the comforter. A gentle knock interrupted your cries and you quickly wiped your face with your sleeve. It was Alfred.

"Miss Y/N? I thought I heard tears." The gentleness in his voice made you stifle more sobs and you trembled as you sat back in bed, putting your head in your hands. He stood there while you quietly sobbed for another moment before he walked over and crouched down beside you. "I can talk to Bruce if he said anything to upset you. He hasn't been welcoming. I'm sorry." You shook your head so fast you saw stars. "No, no," you wiped your face again with your sleeve. "Uh," Your voice shook which nearly sent you over the edge again. What if she can't handle chemo? It was so hard on her last time. They almost sold the house. How am I going to afford to help them? At least I don't have debt. Is she okay? I wonder how she's feeling. Your mind reeled, running in every which direction. What if she dies?? What if she dies?? What if I spent some of the last days of hers holed up in this fucking prison cell?  You looked to see Alfred peering worriedly and the truth spilled out of you. For the next ten minutes, he proved a diligent, empathic listener as you explained the text you'd just received. You explained how hard it was to see your mother like that, and how worried you were. It ended with a question of when the storm might possibly let up so you could be taken back to your apartment. Alfred explained they were expecting to unclog the city drains in the early hours of the morning, and he could drive you back home at that point.

"Would you like to work in my study with me this evening? I have a lovely desk that hasn't had enough attention lately." You gravitated to his warmth in the cold house and agreed, following him with his laptop in tow right across the hall. His office was just as dark and gothic as the rest of the house, but with some trinkets and cleverly placed paintings to bring in a sense of light. You made yourself comfortable in the firm cushion of a squeaky chair, the weighty desk intimidating past what you thought was Alfred's style. He arrived a few minutes later with some snacks for the both of you, just as you were starting to draw up an outline. He immediately asked a question which nearly had you rolling your eyes and thinking about going back to your room.

"So." He sat the plates between the both of you, gesturing for you to take as you pleased. He sat in an armchair across the room, next to a brightly rolling fireplace. "What's this between you and Master Wayne?"

You stiffened at the question, knowing you were in the wrong. If you were honest, would your safety be jeopardized? If you were dishonest, would he pick up on that and pester you further? You absently typed away on the keyboard for a moment, deep in thought. With a squinted expression you looked up. "I'm writing a paper on him. Or, I was." You looked at the page which had DAD-DRAFT in centered bold. An idea had popped into your mind the moment Alfred had left, after waking up in Bruce's bed and feeling the weight of your burdensome presence. You'd decided to pretend to have interviewed your dad about his journey around the US with Bon Jovi—he'd told you the story a thousand times, which would prove easy enough to zone out with and bust out a paper in one night. It wasn’t quite the perfect fit for the topic, but it would be enough to get you a passing grade.

Alfred matched your expression. "Was? You're no longer writing the exposé on him?"

Surprise caught you like a firecracker exploding. Was this a trap? Had he and Bruce talked about it, and now you were sitting eating poisoned food? He followed your worried stare at the plate in front of you and sighed. "Miss. I'm not going to poison you." Ugh. He was as introspective as his employer. Your eyes cast downward with a tinge of shame. Didn't even really know the poor guy but you felt bad about hurting his feelings. Maybe it was because he was old and had kind eyes. "I uh," You stammered your way through a rough detail of the past week. Of meeting Batman in the alley, of trying to interview him, of realizing at the event from just his eyes that it was him, and how annoying Bruce was. You made sure to emphasize that point in the retelling to soften the impact of blatantly blackmailing the guy. Alfred sat for a moment with a soft nod of his head, staring off into space. You rushed out the next sentence. "But I'm not going to actually do it on him, though. It doesn't feel right." Your heartbeat thundered, churning out the rest of your words as anxious promises, everything spilling out all at once as if you were at confession kneeling before a priest. "I only said it because I was angry, I know it's wrong, I know he helps people, I promise I won't ever tell anyone, that would put so many people's lives in jeopardy,"

"Hey, hey," Alfred rose and walked to the side of his desk where you sat with your head in your hands. You didn't want to look at him. You didn't want to know if he believed you or not. It didn't matter. As much of a front as you had put up the last day and a half, you didn't truly believe any of it. Alfred spoke and you only caught the edges of his sentences. "I believe you", "don't worry" were among the snagging phrases that lulled you back to the moment. Your lip was trembling in unison with the tears about to spill over your lash line when you looked up at him. He took a few short steps and opened his arms for a hug which you dove into. This time you were tuned into every word he spoke, like you were a little kid again. "Don't you worry about it, Miss." His hug was firm and assuring. "You did what you thought you needed to do in a scary moment. That secret of his was all you had. He's Bruce Wayne! The Batman! If I hadn't raised him from such a young age I might have been intimidated by him as well."

You moved out of the hug to wipe your eyes on your arm. His words were calming you, helping you realize he believed what you were saying and it wasn't so wrong. You had been terrified of what he might do. You had been scared, jumpy, intimidated. And he had been intimidating. You both transitioned into your individual activities; Alfred reading some supremely old-looking book (which you'd joked about looking like a first-edition Bible), you typing furiously to fill the many empty pages before you. For the next few hours it was much the same, a little snacking, a little chit-chat. You wanted to ask him more questions about Bruce, about why he was the way he was, and about why Alfred stuck around. You kicked yourself for not writing about this topic earlier, for not having the time to fulfill your curiosities and academics. Around ten in the evening Alfred yawned and checked his watch. The sound startled you, deep into the tenth page of your paper. As you were brought back to the present moment you were reminded of your mom, of your dirty clothes, of being stuck in a house in a city you hated; it was late, and life was getting to you. Sleepy Alfred, however, was less perceptive and didn't comment on it. He rose from his chair and gestured to his laptop. "You can stay in here and work as long as you need. I, however, am going to take advantage of quite possibly the one night all year that Batman can't make an appearance and go to sleep."

You nodded and thanked him, wishing you could pick his brain but resolved to finishing your last assignment. Before he left the room, however, you remembered to ask him about being in Bruce's room. "Alfred? About earlier,"

Alfred looked down and shook his head. "Oh Miss, I'm so sorry. I didn't know whether to bring it up. Are you feeling any better?"

So it had been true, what Bruce had said? "No it's okay, peaches are delicious. You couldn't have known." You paused and drew in a breath. "When I woke up I didn't remember what happened. Mr. Wayne had to tell me what happened." It felt weird to use his first name in the presence of Alfred, who most notably referred to him in only the fanciest of ways. A grin slipped onto his face, and you could've sworn his eyes sparkled. "Did Master Wayne also tell you how worried he was?"

The laptop, which you were fiddling with, clunked back onto the table with a loud SNAP. "Worried? Him?" He let out a soft chuckle in response. "He doesn't like to show it, but compassion comes easily to him. I wish he'd embrace his sensitivities more but, alas." He smiled and stood in the hallway for a beat. "Have a good night, Miss Y/N."

You sat for a moment. Him, concerned? About you? About anything other than himself? Perhaps Alfred was being his typical kindred self, painting Bruce in the most positive light. Maybe he glanced over at you while you choked and Alfred interpreted it as a gesture of kindness.

It took a few minutes to orient back to your paper, but you gave yourself a pep talk. As soon as this is turned in, that's it. Graduation. Last assignment. That's all. Focus. The next few hours, then, were spent slamming out your paper without so much as a minute's break. You even closed your eyes and let your fingers do all the work, hearing your dad's dramatic retelling like a script. And then a reporter stopped me. They thought I was a new member of the band we were hanging out so much! All because I went to that one concert. I didn't even care about going! But the tickets were so expensive and my sister didn't want to let them go to waste. Man, the trouble we used to get into! If you weren't so buzzed from your half-day nap earlier you might have fallen asleep.

By four in the morning, you'd just hit the page minimum and began formatting; relief poured over you, drenching you in euphoria just as you heard a heavy thud come from the entryway. Alfred was in his room nearby, but you heard the soft lullaby of classical music wafting out from under his door. He was fast asleep, but he was your best bet for safety. You slunk to the doorway and paused, listening as footsteps thudded and the sound of groans filled the house. Your brow furrowed when the man called out: "Alfred," It was Bruce.

You crept out to the stairwell to look over at the foyer, shocked to see him in his full suit, struggling to get his cowl off. "Alfred, I need stitches," His breathing was ragged and he fell against the wooden newel to the right of the first stair. "Alfred,"

It was so weird seeing him this way. You hadn't seen him yet in the suit knowing his identity. Timid. You felt timid. Even in the massive hallway he was filling the space—larger than life. You went to knock on Alfred's door but Bruce noticed you. "Is Alfred up?" His tone quickly steadied and you turned to see him standing mostly upright, holding in a wince. "Never mind, don't wake him. I'm good."

You couldn't decide whether to laugh or scoff. He was being so stubborn it staved off the sense of impending doom. "Bullshit." You countered. Even from far below you could see him glowering at you. He repeated himself. "I said I'm fine."

You crossed your arms and stared him down. Was he really trying to act all tough? Now that he was in the presence of a woman? Was he really that insecure? You decided to test him, and gestured up the stairs. "If you're fine then walk up the stairs." It would be nice to watch him eat his words.

"I don't need to do anything," he hissed back at you, pain breaking through his crafted stoicism.

"If you don't walk up them yourself I'm getting Alfred."

His glare intensified to intimidating ferocity, and you bit back the anxiety that lurched in your stomach. This is why everyone left him alone. He was good at getting people to stay away, even if it was out of fear. He took one step up on his left leg and winced terribly--you almost winced in sympathy as he struggled up the next two steps before thudding onto his hands and knees. Instinctually you walked down to help, but he snapped at you. "I don't need your help." He tried to rise again but thudded hard against the stairs. You gave him a once-over and noticed he left a trail of blood from the door to his left leg. His face was looking a bit pale and sweaty. You anxiously tucked your hair behind your ears and walked down to Bruce, too busy groaning in pain to see you. When he noticed your shoes in his periphery, he balked. "I don't need help,"

"I swear to god it's me or Alfred."

"Fine." He grumbled, shifting to his back and elevating his leg on a bottom stair. He gestured with his head to a closet by the door. "There's a medical kit in that closet. I need it."

You hopped down the stairs, grateful to be using your legs again after spending the last ten hours stuck to a desk chair writing twenty pages of Dad Talk. You clung to the side rail as you got closer to the bottom stairs, noticing piles of water and mud he'd tracked in. You avoided each other's gaze as you bolted past him to the entryway closet. Settled plainly on a center rack was a bright red duffel with white lettering: FIRST AID. You turned and shut the closet door just as Bruce peeled off his boot to reveal a massive slice in his calf. The bag nearly fell out of your hands with a gasp. "Oh my god,"

"Wound spray. Now." He grit his teeth and you walked over with the spray can in hand, almost tripping. It looked like it was something from the battlefield in the late 1800s, rusted like it too. Was it even safe to use? "Spray it. Six inches away."

"Are you sure—"

"Just do it."

You pressed hard on the nozzle and a bunch of clear liquid spurted out, causing an eruption of pain from Bruce. "Fuck," he panted, throwing his head back. You winced as he clutched his knee right above the gash. "Jesus christ,"

Your limbs were tingling with adrenaline. That looked serious. "What now?"

"Wound sealer. Give it to me." You rifled through the haphazard medical bag until you saw WOUND SEALER in a plain white tube. He nodded for him to take it, and you handed it over. "Press my wound together."

"What? How do I—"

"Here." He grabbed your hands and put fingers from each hand on either side of the wound, pushing it together like tectonic plates. "Hold it just like that." You heard a ripping sound and then he leaned in, pasting the liquid along the rough seam. Almost like magic you felt the tension of the skin release from underneath your fingers, sewing him up in a matter of seconds. "Holy shit," you let your hands off his skin as the bleeding completely stopped. He let himself relax back against the stair and settle his breathing. With his eyes shut you could get a better look at him—how had no one noticed who he was before? He had the same facial structure, build, and teeth. Maybe people in Gotham didn't pay much attention to things like that? Maybe you'd just... you didn't know. You didn't know what made less sense: that he hadn't been found out before, or that you had noticed it immediately.

"Thanks." His voice was gruff but less strained now. The only sound was the drops of rain still falling from his suit to the marble, and the faint emanation of strings from upstairs. You didn't know how to respond to him when he was being normal, so you didn't. You put away the bag while he wrestled off his cowl, and you were already up three stairs before he spoke again. "How's your head doing?"

Head? "Uh, I had an allergic reaction,"

He laughed under his breath and it was like a needle in your spine. "No, I mean your head wound. From last week."

Last week... thumbing through your thoughts was hazy around him. He took up too much space. You moved your hand through your hair and felt the painful snag of a scab. Oh shit. The alley. Sheepishly you turned to face him. "Uh, good. Fine."

Your eyes met briefly, long enough for him to nod at you and look away. He was wanting to say something like I'm glad, but it didn't roll off his tongue as he thought it would. He didn't like being half inside the suit in front of you, it was disorienting. Luckily you made another smart comment.

"So you have Alfred babysit you every night?"

A glare settled naturally on his face. Every time he even thought about saying something nice, you barged in with your intrusive, abrasive self. "Believe me, I've tried to get him to stop. He doesn't listen."

"He's probably just worried about you."

Fateful Beginnings

IX. “goodbye, Gotham”

parts: previous / next

plot: when the flooding recedes, Mr. Wayne helps you leave the city—but not before a sufficient olive branch.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, mention of chemo, playful banter/teasing

words: 2.9k

Bruce looked over with a heavy scoff, and you bristled. Before he could react you continued. "Alfred is kind, and thoughtful, and obviously helps you because you were calling out to him again and again." This elicited an immediate response.

"Don't tell me about Alfred." He spoke through gritted teeth, the color coming back to his face with red heat. You wanted to step away but swallowed the lump in your throat. Alfred says he's so compassionate, huh? Doesn't seem like it. "You don't have to keep up this tough guy facade, you know."

His sarcastic laugh boomed in the hallways and you could've sworn you heard Alfred wake up. "Facade. Big words."

"Dick!" You turned on your heel and stomped up the stairs, then heard a low sigh. "I'm sorry." He spoke. You didn't turn to look at him; it was triggering hearing a man mock you so openly, especially in his own home. Being a vigilante billionaire didn't absolve him from being a human being. "That's not fair fighting, and I didn't mean to imply—"

"That I'm some mousey, stupid woman?" You whipped back around, all but hissing at him. He met your eyes carefully from the bottom of the stairwell. He gave a small nod, looking smaller now. "Nothing like that. I apologize." His swift recognition of wrongdoing did make it sting a bit less, and you had to remind yourself you were essentially camping out at his place. You leaned against the top railing, staring down at the masses of brown marble flooring. The moment felt just tender enough for honesty. "You can be scary, Bruce.... Wayne." You hovered on his last name, hoping it might act as an olive branch.

Bruce didn't want to be scary. Sure, to criminals he wanted to be, but hearing you say he brought it home hurt. It sank into his chest a bit like a branding iron. He didn't like hearing you say his last name; it already felt foreign in your voice. He looked over at the puddles of water he dragged in and shifted the convo. "The flooding seems to be letting up. You'll be able to get back to your apartment soon."

You took that more personally than was necessary. A thought glued to you. "Wait, will I be able to see Alfred again?" You felt ridiculous as soon as you said it, knowing you were about to graduate and move across the country permanently. You wanted out of this city more than anything in the entire world. Now you were concerned about missing a random old guy? You walked over to the top of the stairwell and sat crosslegged, putting your head in your hands. Bruce shifted uncomfortably, not knowing quite what to say to you, and wondering why the hell you'd decided to sit with him on the stairs. You assumed he wasn't going to respond to the Alfred comment, and you didn't really want him to. You thought about how Alfred had said Bruce was worried during your reaction and decided to pay it forward. It took a lot more effort to verbalize than you thought. "Do you want any pain meds or anything?"

It felt like a breeze shot through Bruce's stomach. A weird rippling sensation. His leg was burning in pain and he wanted to say no, he needed to say no, he wouldn't accept help from you... except seeing you with your guard down was... pleasant? If he forgot you were about to expose him, which he immediately remembered. His momentary lapse in annoyance ended with his next comment. "Are you still going to expose me?" You didn't say anything, and after about thirty seconds of silence he looked up at you. You slowly and discreetly shook your head. "No."

Bruce cleared his throat, trying to hide his relief. "I'm good on meds, yeah." He slowly rose from the stair and limped his way up. It was more bearable now that his body was lit up and electric—you weren't going to tell anyone? He wanted to trust you, it sounded genuine, this felt genuine, and usually he could trust his read of a situation... but it was you. You were different than everyone else. You'd noticed him immediately. It didn't even take a full second for years of practiced concealment and tracking two separate identities to fall apart. You scared him, too.

You stepped aside as he rose to the top of the stairwell. He looked at you from his periphery and gave a small nod. "Night." His voice was raspy and quiet, and then the only other sounds were of boots against ground and your own heels as you padded back to Alfred's office. The next half hour you whizzed through the formatting, scheduling an email for a few hours later to Dr. Vry. You got ahead of her disappointment by writing:

Good morning Dr. Vry, I hope this email finds you well. Unfortunately Mr. Wayne rescinded his offer mid-interview, so I interviewed someone else. The paper is attached below. My sincerest apologies, and thank you again for getting me the journalism materials. They will be returned swiftly in the AM. If you would like confirmation that I did meet with Mr. Wayne I can put you in contact with his manager. Best, Y/N Y/L/N.

Sleep was hardly restful. You tossed and turned the next few hours, wired from finally turning in the last paper for your degree. You'd received an email back at 8:49am, where Dr. Vry expressed deep regret at your lack of follow-through on what would have been Bruce Wayne's first ever interview:

Ms. Y/L/N, thank you for turning in your paper. However, it would be remiss to not acknowledge my disappointment at what would have been such a spectacular frontier in journalism. I look forward to hearing from Wayne management to confirm your meeting. Regards, Dr. Janay Vry.

Fuck. Now you had to elicit Alfred to send a 'sorry' email. You sat up in bed, promptly hearing a strong knock. "Can I come in?" It was Bruce. You hurried your greasy hair back into a ponytail with a rubber band you'd found and sat expectantly on the edge of the bed. "Yes?" In walked Bruce, presumably fresh from a shower. He had your phone in-hand. Your brow furrowed. He nodded in anticipation. "You left it in Alfred's study. He's making breakfast now. No peaches." Bruce paused, avoiding eye contact. "Uh, and he wanted to tell you the flooding has died down enough to drive you back to your apartment." He tossed your phone to you and nodded before shutting the door. You sat, feeling the rage of hunger in your stomach. The first thing you did was look for flights back home: there was one from Gotham to Seattle at 11:45am, a five hour direct. With the time difference you might be able to make your mother's chemo appointment. Tentatively, you booked one of the last seats and bolted out to breakfast. It was 9:03. You needed to get home and shove all your belongings back into your luggage.

"Someone had a restful night!" Alfred was cheery, and placed an omelet in front of where you sat yesterday at the table. Bruce was already dished up and sidling into his chair across from you. "The ingredients are only egg, green and red bell pepper, spinach, olive oil, salt, and pepper. All good?" You gave him two thumbs up and thanked him, walking over to your side. You felt bad hurrying them. You waited for Alfred to dish himself up and sit down, tucking into a few bites before you broached the question. "I actually booked a flight today, back home. My mom has a uh, thing happening and I needed to be back. Bruce—Mr. Wayne said the flooding had gone down, and I was wondering if I could get a ride back to my apartment."

Bruce side-eyed you when you corrected his name. It still felt weird hearing you say his last name. It was weird hearing you say his first. It was weird that you knew he was Batman. It was just... weird. He finished chewing and gestured to you. "What time's your flight?"

It was unnerving to have such normal conversations with Bruce Wayne. After both your walls had begun to settle the night before, you felt the weight of his reputation. You blushed, and could tell he noticed. "Um, around eleven. Like two hours." Bruce's eyes nearly bulged out of his head "Couldn't have told us sooner?"

Alfred spoke, his face fallen, ignoring the man's antics. "I actually can't this morning, some men from accounting at Wayne Enterprises scheduled an emergency meeting. I'm so sorry. I'm sure Master Wayne can manage, however." He shot a glare at Bruce and Bruce rolled his eyes, starting to tear into his omelet with urgency. "Yeah fine, whatever."

You squeezed your eyes shut tight at feeling like such a burden. The next fifteen minutes you scarfed down as much food as you could, then went back upstairs to gather your shoes and phone. You noticed Bruce standing expectantly at the front door, wearing sunglasses as he peered at what you assumed to be a newly-delivered paper. He looked up when he heard your footsteps, making you hustle down the stairs.

Without a word he slid through the open door, but you reached your head around to see Alfred cleaning up the kitchen. You ran over to him and gave him a hug, quickly telling him about the email thing. He agreed to send the email shortly, and even offered to return your journalism supplies. Looking at the time—9:45—you had no choice but to take him up on it. He told you not to be a stranger and sent you off on your way. Your heels ached the arches of your feet, but you weren't taking a chance with the sewage water still taking up an inch of real estate on the concrete. Bruce was already pulling out of a matte black Lamborghini, the passenger door opening automatically as you walked to it. You slid into the leather seat and tucked your feet in as he sped off.

You watched out the window as trees and grass turned to buildings whizzing by. The car was quick and steady; the tinting on the windows seemed a bit excessive, but you understood the need. After a few minutes of silence he startled you with a question. "Why didn't you write the exposé?" He tried to make his voice strong, his tone nonconfrontational. You shrugged. You were still a bit bitter about the night before and his comments about your smarts, but if this was going to be your last time seeing him you figured there was no shame in being honest. "I didn't want to jeopardize the city. As much as I hate to admit it, you make it better." You let out a heavy sigh trying to rid of the tension. His hands stiffened on the wheel. It was the first kind thing you'd ever said to him; it was the first time someone other than Alfred had mentioned Batman to him... because you were the only one outside of him who knew. A small smile curled up his lips. Music to his insecure ears. Did he really make it better? Really? He wanted to. He really, really wanted to. Did you really mean it? Actually?

"STOP!" Your shout caused an immediate braking, and a worried mother clutched her kids as they rushed across the crosswalk. Bruce tensed, eyes wide. He'd never come close to hitting a pedestrian. His heart pounded as he glanced at you beside him. You stared with a tight-set jaw, your hands clenched together in your lap and eyes as wide as his own. He moved his attention back to the road and kept on, refusing to entertain any more potentially lethal thoughts.

It was 10am on the dot when you pulled up in front of your apartment complex. It had been such an awkward ride you hadn't questioned how he knew your address, but you didn't have time to pester him. Bruce got out just as you were jogging to the lobby doors, and your eyes nearly bulged out of your head as you hissed at him. "What are you doing?! Someone could see you!"

"Traffic is always bad around this time at the airport. We need all the time we can get, I'm helping." His tone was flat and he adjusted his sunglasses... as if they could distract from the Lambo in front of the complex screaming BRUCE WAYNE IS HERE! You pushed through the lobby and rushed to the elevator, Bruce calmly in tow. The doors opened and you both stepped inside. He sidled in next to you now, and you looked over at his outfit. Unlike the last elevator ride together, he was just wearing a black tee and trousers. He glanced at you from his periphery and you quickly moved your line of sight to the floor with a subtle blink. A subtle aroma of pink pepper and musk lingered in the air, mixed with a little bit of sweat. Your sweat. You hadn't showered in days, and did a little shift of your weight away from him. Embarrassment washed over you.

"What?" He turned his head, noticing your movement away. "Looking for more lint?"

No, I just smell bad. You thought. I probably smell like ass and I don't want that to be your last memory of me. It became apparent to you how terrible of an impression you would leave on the man—forcing your way into his home with blackmail, being forced to more than overstay your welcome, now he was helping you pack while you smelled like sweat and spit. It was embarrassing. Very embarrassing.

The DING of the elevator doors opening to your floor was like a call from heaven, and you rushed past him so he couldn't get a good sniff.  You fumbled with the lock and thanked god how poor you'd been as a student; your apartment was small and minimalist, making it easy to throw everything into one or two luggage bags and move yourself back home in a jiffy. Trying your best to forget that a billionaire was standing in the middle of your studio, you went to your small closet and pulled out the large checked-luggage bag your dad had bought you two years prior. You hadn't been able to fill it then, but were grateful now for the extra real estate.

"What do you want me to do?"

You looked around the room, running through a short list of everything you'd have to do in the next half hour. The bedding needed to be removed, bathroom ransacked, kitchen food trashed, and clothes packed. Oh. And you needed to go down to the lobby and break the lease.

"Uh, can you clean out the fridge? I need to get to the lobby." You bit your lip hard, anxious as you grabbed your keys and rushed downstairs, ignoring the elevator in order to try and metabolize some of the stress. You only had about ten dollars left in your checking, and you'd forgotten that breaking a lease would mean an extra fee. When you made it to the receptionist, it was a new person you'd never seen before. She looked sour, and rolled her eyes when you walked up. "Hey uh, I need to break the lease."

"Name and unit number?" She smacked on gum as she sat up and started typing. You obliged, and after agonizing silence she shook her head. "Your lease ends this month anyway and you already paid the rent. We'll be sending a check to your permanent address after you have returned the keys with your deposit if everything is good."

Oh thank GOD. You thanked her profusely, somehow still out of breath, and went back up the stairs. Jesus. Thank god. If you had to ask Bruce Wayne for MONEY? You would've rather jumped off the Gotham bridge to your untimely demise. You put the key in your lock and opened the door to him standing with the bedding removed, fridge open and cleaned out, and half your clothes packed into the bag. Half of you wanted to be angry at him touching things without your consent, while the other was begrudgingly impressed. Almost like he read your mind, he spoke. "I didn't look at individual items, I just picked up armfuls and shoved them in."

Looking at your apartment now, the only thing left was the few toiletries in the closet (which could be recycled) and whatever was in your bathroom. You checked your watch: 10:20. "Thanks uh, can you wait in the car? I think I want to shower real quick."

He chuckled, plopping the last of your clothes into the bag. "I'm sure your seatmate will appreciate it.”

You gasped under your breath. "Really?" It hurt. You didn't want it to, but it did. You wanted to shoot something back at him, like you were only trying to smell like him or some shit. But it stung. For some reason. He chuckled again, shaking his head with a sly grin turning up his cheeks. "Nah. But you believed it."

Fateful Beginnings

X. “discernment”

parts: previous / next

plot: back in your respective hometowns, you navigate a sudden shift in family finances. Bruce Wayne contemplates an identity shift.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, health issues, chemotherapy, debt, substance use

words: 3.1k

a/n: i feel like this chapter is kinda the end of the setup. i’ve had a lot of fun subverting expectations of Batman’s identity usually being kept secret, and seeing how that impacts the story to have it be known so immediately. ahhh i’m very excited to keep writing <3

You did your best to shower as quickly as possible, ransacking your medicine cabinet behind the mirror while the water was heating up. Toothbrush, toothpaste, you had it all back at home, and it went into the trash. Shampoo, conditioner, body wash, all did the same after you used up what you could and jumped out of the shower, wrapping yourself in a single towel you were fine with leaving behind. As you walked back into the main room, you stopped for a moment. With the sheets off the bed, the kitchen empty, and the rest of the room deserted besides what was left of your luggage, it felt final. Gotham was finally being abandoned and you could go back to the safety of hometown life.

Sweats, tee, sneakers. The plane ride was going to feel massively long with how much anticipation was in your bones thinking about being able to make your mom's appointment. You'd clarified with your dad with a text message and he responded that her treatment was at 3. Even if the plane left by noon, that was 9 to them--you'd be home by 2, could head straight from the airport to her chemo. Luggage zipped, key in hand, you nearly made it out the door before remembering you had edibles sitting in your nightstand. You couldn't technically have it in your apartment, and you definitely couldn't bring it past TSA... you shoved it in your pocket to discard in a public trashcan and made your way to the lobby. You gave the keys and your name to the same young woman, and walked out of the lobby for the final time. Damn. I'm really done here. I'm done with Gotham. I just need to make it on my plane. Then I'm gone.

Bruce was slumped down in his chair trying to avoid passersby. You slipped in beside him and yanked your thick luggage between your legs. He sat up and nodded at you as he buckled, and you did the same. As you reached to click the seatbelt in, the edibles slipped out of your pocket and fell at his feet. Shit. He reached down, read the package, and his brow furrowed. "Marijuana?"

You laughed. Hadn't he ever seen it before? "Yeah uh, I can't take it with me to the airport or leave it here." You shrugged and held your hand out expectantly, but he hesitated. His eyes scanned your face, confused. "You do marijuana?"

Now you were looking at him with confusion. He'd never done it? Drops were hardcore; weed was legal in Gotham, it was legal in most states now. You'd gone to a dispensary just around the corner from your complex to get it, surely he had experience. "Sometimes. Why are you looking at me like that?" A slight defense crept into your tone; people drank alcohol all the time, why was it strange to have edibles? He gave the slightest shake of his head and mumbled. "I just don't see the point."

"I don't get the point of drinking alcohol either, but,"

"I don't drink. I don't do any substances."

You whipped your head toward him. "Like ever?"

"I need to be clear at a moment's notice." He gestured for you to click your seatbelt in, dropped the edibles in your lap, and pushed on the gas. You sat in silence for most of the ride there, and just before he took the exit toward the dropoff lane you held them out to him. "Here. Take them." You paused. "Please."

He shot a glare at you, nearly missing the exit. "Why?"

"You don't have to take them or anything, I just can't have them on me at security." You shrugged and he begrudgingly obliged, tucking them into his pant pocket. He pulled to the right and stopped, unlocking the car. You sat for a moment, staring at all the passengers going in, all the couples embracing each other with heartfelt goodbyes. Your heart throbbed. You wanted that. You wanted to be held, you wanted someone to miss you—someone that didn't have to, like parents. Someone that liked you enough for you, as you were, for no reason other than enjoyment and care. Already in your mid-twenties you were beginning to wonder if that would ever happen for you, and it didn't help to be sitting in a car with the most frustrating, cold man imaginable while looking at so much warmth and love.

He hesitated before asking what had been on his mind since City Hall. “How did you know it was me?”

You hesitated just the same, then shrugged. “I don’t know, i just… knew?” How else could you express just how unique his eyes were? You turned toward him and met his available gaze. His eyes were so distinctive... you couldn't even quite place the color, further puzzling you as to how you had matched him so immediately to the vigilante. Maybe that was the whole thing—his eyes were so unplaceable. Sitting between a gray and blue with no particular lean to one or the other. You hadn't seen anything like it. "Thank you." A smile was easily conjured for him, sympathy and guilt fueling it. "I know I pushed my way into your home. And again, I won't tell anyone. Promise." You cleared your throat and averted your eyes as you popped open the passenger door and grabbed your luggage. He didn't respond until the door was almost shut. "I know. Have a safe flight."

You hid your smile as you shut the door behind you and walked through to the lobby of the airport. You were just in time to get in line for TSA and still make it to your terminal. You shuffled around in your purse to find your ID and pulled up the virtual ticket on your phone. God. You were finally going to be home.

You woke to the pilot over the intercom: "Good afternoon folks, we have arrived in Seattle, Washington. It is now 1:39pm as we pull into the terminal. The weather is a comfortable 73 degrees with partly cloudy skies. Alaska Airlines thanks you."

Waiting for you in the lobby was your mother and father, but your eyes quickly landed on your mother's new wheelchair. She looked frail, with more deep-set wrinkles exaggerated by her new thinness. A lump formed in your throat. He'd said she'd gotten worse. You hoped it wasn't impossibly worse, but soon you would find out more information. You hid your surprise and ran to them with open arms. Your mother started weeping, pointing out how much more grown up you looked. "Your updates on Facebook didn't do you justice," She complimented. Thankfully her voice was unchanged.

Your dad drove you all straight from airport parking to her doctor's office. Chills traveled up your spine remembering the times you'd sobbed alone in your car wondering if the chemo would work, if the medicines that made her vomit and cry in the middle of the night when she thought no one was listening would be worth it. Only to end up back here. But, you reminded yourself, with so much more time than some people got.

Your dad looked tired, so you told him you'd take your mom inside. She was happy to get some time alone with you, chattering on with questions about what exactly Gotham had been like. "I've heard so much about it. Your dad focuses on the bad things now more than I do, he's been worried sick. Especially with all the explosions. Those did worry me I'll admit. But you're back now! We got your room ready, and Walter is so excited to see you! Ever since we made the room up he has been sitting at the foot of your bed." Walter was the family cat your mother got about seven years ago when she was first diagnosed; he was her therapy cat, and he'd taken to everyone in the house. You were excited to see him, you'd missed him tons.

The receptionist smiled when you walked into the clinic, gesturing for you to follow her to a room down the hall. "Mrs. Y/L/N, how are you doing? This room is ready for you." As you wheeled your mom in and sat her next to the IV, you pulled a chair over to sit nearby. You noticed it wasn't already pulled close—did people normally not accompany their relatives, friends, neighbors to their appointments? It saddened you to think about someone having to endure chemotherapy alone. You'd never do that to her.

About halfway through some more casual conversation—the neighbors were doing great, excited to see you, your dad had been working on a back porch for them to spend nights looking at the sunsets together, she'd stocked the fridge with all your favorites, asked about your classes, and gushed to the nurses about how you were now a soon to be college graduate. She also expressed sorrow about having you come back so early and miss graduation, to which you immediately and profusely told her not to worry. You were so glad to be back, and grateful to just do everything you could. You told her how you'd be looking for a job this summer.

A nurse walked in and gently reminded you both about payment. Your mom gestured to her purse sitting at the table opposite her and you went to find her credit card. Long ago your family had abandoned debit, as the mounting costs of having cancer were too much to front all at once. You hurried to the receptionist and stood in line behind a mother and young kid with a bald head. God, kids shouldn't have to go through this. No one should have to. "Miss Y/L/N?"

"Yes, this is for Ellie Y/L/N." You held out your credit card but the receptionist cocked her head at you with a furrowed brow. "Oh hon, your balance is paid."

You stopped. What? "Uh, I'm sorry, I don't think I've paid yet." You stared at her as she clicked a few buttons and focused on her screen. She shook her head. "Nope, but an anonymous benefactor has paid your remaining balance and left a card on file." She smiled over at you. "Must be your lucky day!" She clicked a few things with her mouse and walked over to the printer, handing you an invoice. In bold print next to the mountain of numbers which had previously had a negative in front was a new 0 next to PAID. Concerned, you rushed back to your mother's room. She noted your concern at once. "Y/N, what is it?" She moved toward you enough to get the monitor to start beeping to stay put. You stared down at the paper. "It, it says it's paid. By an anonymous person, I don't, I don't know."

You fell back in your seat as you handed your mom the paper. She pored over it, then shrieked with relief. "Honey, this is a blessing. I can't believe it!" Tears came to her eyes and she looked around. "My phone, I need to tell Thomas,"

"Here, I'll call him." You took out your phone with clammy hands and dialed him. This was... unbelievable. The debt had been well above six figures. Each treatment was a few thousand dollars, with a month-long course going above thirty thousand. Not to mention the massive cost of the at-home medications she had to take multiple times per day that weren't covered by insurance. Your dad shouted with glee, saying he was going to order everyone pizza tonight. "Golly," he sounded on the verge of tears as well. "Looks like luck might be on our side."

As you helped your mom out of the clinic and into the car, your parents embraced each other and danced in place in the parking lot. Your mind was occupied, still in shock. If they had their balance paid, if all the costs coming up were covered, your dad's job at the school would be more than enough to sustain the family. Maybe they could even retire. He'd been saving up his 401k to pay off the balance in one lump sum, though he was only halfway there. It was nice to see them celebrating, but you had a strange feeling in your stomach. Who had it been? Who could have known? Your mother wasn't keeping her diagnosis a secret; many neighbors had been very supportive, and she had many friends who were decently well off that had helped your family when things got rough. But none of them had nearly enough money to do something like that.

As your dad pulled up to Domino's, it hit you like a ton of bricks. It had to be him. There was no other person who could afford it. But how had he known? Did he snoop? Did it even matter?

It had to be Bruce fucking Wayne.

Bruce dragged his pointer finger along the embossed lettering—LEMON LIME THC GUMMY. He was worn out, but could not possibly sleep. The night had been shockingly uneventful with only a few carjackings on his radar. Even the walkie talkie Gordon had lent him from the station was quiet. The night had ended early, yet he still felt tense with untapped energy. Pulling out his phone from his nightstand he Googled marijuana and sleep which elicited clear results: Cannabis may improve sleep quality by helping people fall asleep faster and wake up less often at night. Sigh. He checked the dosage instructions on the back of the tin and pulled off a small piece. Here goes nothing.

Immediately after swallowing he started to feel fearful. What if you had poisoned it? A final blow? Your last revenge? He pictured your eyes meeting his from the passenger side earlier that day. Again, I won't tell anyone. Promise. He thought your eyes were too kind not to mean it, but he still walked up the stairs over to Alfred's room. He was still up reading the paper when he walked in.

"Alfred, I'm gonna be taking some weed tonight." As soon as the words left his mouth he wanted to scream with embarrassment. Here he was, in his late twenties, telling his guardian that he was talking drugs. Non lethal ones at that. Alfred peered up from over his papers with a small bit of surprise. Bruce had never shown interest in drugs before, and it felt a bit awkward, like he was admitting something terrible to a parent. He tried to make his reaction measured and interested. "Oh. Okay! Sounds... good!"

Bruce shifted his weight between feet, wanting to fall through the floor. He was still nervous of how he would react. Would his face melt? Would he have a panic attack, "Yeah. I'll be in my room." Alfred, having known him all his life, easily read between the lines.

"Do you want me to, check on you?" He paused halfway through, not wanting to come across condescending. Bruce seemed anxious. Alfred tried to smile at him. The kid averted his gaze. "I got them from Y/N. They're just for sleep." He turned to leave as Alfred continued. "Okay. Uh, have a good rest."

Bruce mumbled "Thanks." before disappearing back to his room. He laid in waiting facing the ceiling with his arms crossed across his chest, looking small and worried. Why had he trusted you so implicitly? What if your kind words at the airport had been nothing more than a ruse? He needed to be smarter than that. And the crosswalk? How he'd almost hit someone? He couldn't believe it. You clouded his thoughts more than he'd even realized. You weren't stupid and he couldn't ignore the possibility that you knew exactly what you were doing. But what were you doing? You didn't like him. You left Gotham to care for your mother's returned cancer. You were so ready to rid yourself of the city. And he did believe you when you said you wouldn't tell anyone. You puzzled him.

He decided to take a hot shower to try and relieve some extra stress before the weed kicked in. The heat coaxed his muscles to relax, his shoulders to drop, and his eyes to close. He focused on the sounds of the water, the feeling of the soap on his tired, chronically injured body as his hands ran over his bruises. He forgot the time while he was in there, until he started feeling floaty. Blinking to try and shake the sensation, he stepped out of the shower and threw on a pair of sweats. He sat on the edge of his bed and felt its emptiness. His vision was slightly blurred, reminiscent of when he got hit too hard in the head. It wasn't as jarring as he was anticipating, and let himself relax back to his initial position staring up at the ceiling.

His walls were painted black, and that made him a bit nervous. Through his periphery he saw the empty darkness of his room and turned on his bedside lamp. The soft incandescent glow felt warm on his skin and he relaxed into it. Thoughts began creeping up at the edges of his mind. Your eyes gave it away. I don't know, I just knew. Your words fluttered around the room to dizziness. That was possibly the worst answer you could have given, knowing that unless he wanted to reduce visibility while fighting and wear some sort of glasses, he could be recognized any time. In the haze of his high he pictured himself in front of him. Bandaged, bruised, melancholic, isolated. His hair dark and in his eyes. It came to him akin to an epiphany: he needed to make himself more distinguishable from his nightlife. He looked like someone who might be Batman. How instantly you knew him. There had to be someone else like you. You weren't an anomaly, no, you couldn't be.

He got out his journal and started scribbling on the page.

Me now: dark, casual, isolated, angry, unfriendly, critical

Batman: dark, isolated, angry, unfriendly, critical

Too many similarities.

Then he wrote down the opposite: bright, fashionable, connected, easygoing, friendly

As his high peaked he looked out the window at the streets of his city. It hit him like a ton of bricks settling into the pit of his stomach. He needed to become a Wayne—public facing and more inconspicuous, he needed to create distance from the two halves of him. He needed to become so different as to practically gaslight the people of Gotham into discarding their suspicions as madness. He fell back onto the mattress. He couldn't hesitate.

He had to become Bruce fucking Wayne.

Fateful Beginnings

XI. “lying through teeth”

parts: previous / next

plot: you have a tense visit with old friends that culminates in a hotheaded confession. Bruce Wayne decides his first official public appearance.

pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

cw: 18+, sexuality

words: 2.6k

You woke up the next morning to brightly colored curtains and walls. You shot up in bed, startling a creature at your feet to jump up. It was Walter, and you were in your childhood bedroom. The sheets were from when you were a tween, some bright pink floral bedding that your dad had pulled out of the back of the closet. It smelled slightly musty, but Walter quickly fuzzied it up and made it feel like home. He crawled up to you with a yawn and stretch, and you pet his head as you gathered your surroundings. You weren't in someone else's bed. It wasn't dungeon-like. You heard your mom and dad talking out in the living room and heaved a sigh of relief.

Your phone on the bedside table vibrated, and you checked it. 1:38 in the afternoon. You rubbed the sleep out of your eyes and wandered out to the living room, your feet immediately rendering that they were back at home safe and sound. Your parents greeted you with delight as they had hands on the door—your mother had a new walker. She's not that old yet. God. I should have asked to see her scans yesterday. "We'll be gone until dinner, talking with the neighbors. I told Margaret about the anonymous donor and oh my, all the neighbors are gathering to celebrate!" With that she and your father bid you adieu, letting you know there were leftover pancakes from breakfast in the fridge.

Margaret. Mar. You took your phone out of your pocket and sent her a text. You hadn't told her you were leaving yet, but you weren't super close, and it had been on a whim... Hey, so sorry to let you know this over text but I left back to home yesterday. My mom's health is having some issues so I had to move quickly. How are you doing back there?

After eating some cold blueberry pancakes you slumped over in a dining room chair to think ahead to your mostly empty day. Walter wandered around behind you until he found his food bowl and went to town. If he followed his usual pattern he would curl up in his bed near the couch and go into a food coma for the next few hours. You smiled. What a cutie. You opened your phone again, this time to call your friend Lara. She answered on the very last ring. When you told her you were back in town, she responded sheepishly. "Uh, we thought you wouldn't be in town this early. We wanted to plan a homecoming party for you with your parents but we hadn't gotten around to it." 'We' referred to your friend group: Lara, Gabbi, and Rose. You didn't believe her when she said she was planning a party—you didn't even know if they were really your friends anymore. You'd tried to reach out so many times while you were in Gotham, but you'd only received enough responses to fit on one hand. All short, staccato, to the point. "Miss you!" and "Sounds good!" were the only type of responses your group of friends since high school had left for you since you'd left the city, though you started to wonder if they ever gave you things besides pleasantries at all.

You asked if the group wanted to go get coffee now, and after another hesitation she agreed. "Gab and Rose were just on their way to meet me to go to thrifting, but that can wait." It didn't sound like she wanted to wait, but nonetheless you planned to meet at 2:30. You showered, put on some clean clothes from your luggage, and grabbed your old bike to ride over. You had sold the car you'd gotten senior year of high school to pay for the flight to Gotham two years ago.

At 2:31 you pulled up to the local coffee shop. Sat on a patio table were Lara, Gabbi and Rose, all on their phones with drinks mostly empty when you pulled up. Had they been waiting here? Had they already been here? "Hi, sorry, we couldn't wait and already got our drinks." Lara smiled over her phone and gestured toward a grande chai latte sat across from her. "We got you a chai since you probably don't have a paycheck yet."

You held back a wince. Backhanded. You remembered another reason why you'd left which you'd tried hard to forget: your friends were... callous. They didn't have much of a filter, nor show much interest in anything outside of their own interests. Gabbi and Rose gave subtle waves when you sat down across from them, eyes still glued to their phones. Rose gasped and showed something to Gabbi, who gasped alongside her. "Ugh. That douche."

"How was your time in the big city?" Lara put her phone down while the other two chatted to look at you. At least Lara, however disinterested she could sound, tried to be an attentive friend. She'd had dreams of going to Harvard Law after you'd both binged Legally Blonde sophomore year of high school, but she'd missed the deadline senior year after a particularly bad bout of the flu. Now she worked a the local flower shop and somehow secured a local exchange student boyfriend, of which they were now three years strong. You put your chin in your elbows and sighed. "It's more dangerous than I thought. And also more boring. I think Gabbi and Rose would really like it there, it's more for partiers I think. I don't know, I never really found my place." You noticed Lara's eyes start to glaze over and shifted the subject. "But uh, I officially turned in my last paper for my degree! So as soon as they send in my certificate through the mail I'm done!" You forced a smile and Lara did the same. "Good for you." Her tone was sickly sweet and you once again hid a wince.

There was an awkward pause for a few moments until Lara cleared her throat and absently asked what your paper was on. Without thinking much of it, you responded. "I was going to do it on Bruce Wayne, but he stopped halfway through the interview."

Gabbi, Rose, and Lara all gasped in unison, and the former threw their phones onto the glass table. "OH MY GOD," Gabbi shrieked. "You've met Bruce Wayne?" By the way their faces lit up it was as if Ariana Grande, Taylor Swift or Beyonce had just entered the room.

"Did you hook up with him?"

You frowned. "I, I didn't need to sleep with him to get the interview,"

Gabbi, who had asked the question, furiously shook her head. "No," she said with an eye roll. "Because he's a billionaire?" They all stared at you with big, bright eyes. You had their full attention for the first time in your entire friendship. It hurt you, but you tried to hide it and quickly change the subject. "No, I'd never,"

Rose interrupted with a laugh. "No way, I'd do him in a second. Did you see the photos of him shopping today in Gotham? He looks ripped." The three women laughed to themselves and started loudly talking about their fantasies. "I think he likes cowgirl, how could he not? I don't think I could do doggy, he's just too fucking hot. I'd want him to remember my face too, no way."

"He's got to be a dom. He's not letting anyone on top of him."

"He's too jacked to just do missionary. He probably has some crazy sex dungeon."

"Ooh a REAL LIFE CHRISTIAN GREY! Holy fuck Lara I never thought about that!"

Why couldn't they see the flames shooting out of your ears? "He's not even hot, guys," You rolled your eyes and sat back with your arms crossed. "I don't understand the hype. He's... no."

"Come the fuck on, Y/N, he's the hottest celeb right now." Rose was rolling her eyes at you now, while Gabbi glared at you. "What's your problem?"

You threw your hands in the air, exasperated. Your voice rose as the tension in your body became unbearable. He's not hot. He's not cool. He's just Bruce fucking Wayne. He would be no one if it weren't for his fucking mountain of money. "You all couldn't care less about my life. About me, about my school." Hands slammed on the table as you shoved your chair back. They jumped, gasping. "Y/N!" They chastised. It didn't matter, the words were already pouring out of your mouth as unconsciously as vomit. "The first time you all really look at me, pay me any fucking attention, is when you think I might have fucked Bruce Wayne. I'm done."

"Fuck off, everything just has to be about you." Rose snarled. You were already on the way to your bike but spun around at the sound of them getting back to their phones, more furiously now. Nothing with them had ever been anything but themselves. They'd never paid you mind. They kept you in tow because you were too nice. Someone who could always be a shoulder to cry on. Someone to run errands with. Someone to rant to about the other friends in the group.

"You know what?" Fists balled at your sides. Your face was twitching at their audacity, at all the adrenaline shoving through you, making you a live wire. "I did fuck Bruce Wayne. And fuck you."

The flash of cameras haunted him as he slammed the door behind him. Alfred had stared at him peculiarly when he walked in, noticing the Dior and Prada bags in his fists. He wanted to press Bruce on what he planned to do with the clothing (the boy never went out unless he was forced to) but decided to wait and watch it all unfold. Unfold it had; as Alfred sought a snack in the kitchen later that evening, Bruce had walked out in a sharp Prada double-breasted suit, adjusting his cufflinks and shaking out his arms before standing in the entryway. "What do you think? Is this a good Bruce Wayne?"

The question struck Alfred, and he hadn't answered for a good few seconds. Why was he acting like Bruce was a character? He went towards that curiosity. "You look like yourself in a suit." To which Bruce responded with a short huff and looked at the ground. "I just, I need more separation from Batman. I don't want anyone able to suspect me." His answer made well the confused storm raging in Alfred's brain. No one had ever recognized Bruce before so he'd never had to grapple with that possibility. Along came someone who had, and now he was outfitted in silhouettes he'd only hoped Bruce would grow into. Tears sprung to his eyes; he could tell the boy noticed, but all Alfred did was nod. He imagined Martha seeing her boy all grown up now, looking sharp and mature. "Makes sense, right then."

Bruce holed up in the basement scribbling into his journal. Got designer clothing today. Hated it. Needed to. Creating more separation from myself and Batman. Another close call would lead to some difficult decisions I don't want to make. I still have work to do here, and I don't want to go into hiding earlier than planned. Suddenly fear and anxiety gripped him. Maybe this could just be a one-off. Bruce Wayne hardly seen again, per usual. He could have just gotten the suits to update his sizing, maybe his butler didn't get his sizing right and he had to do it himself. So he had something to wear to the city hall meetings. No, he couldn't do Alfred like that. He'd just wear it to the next meeting. Change around the Batman suit, make it a full face covering: no lips, eyes behind colored mesh. He could sneak platform wedges into the boots somehow to make him considerably taller, to further throw people off his trail. His eyes heavied with sleep from the weight of the exposure today, but he still needed to go out as Batman.

Before he could, however, he needed to empty the earbuds and contacts he'd worn to shop. They were filled with recordings from earlier, something he'd done in case he needed to look back at anything later. You never knew when crime would strike in Gotham, and sometimes he only had a few seconds to make an ID. He plugged them into their chargers where they immediately began streaming data to his screen. He skimmed through it mindlessly for a minute, hearing nothing besides screaming paparazzi and the clicking of cameras. A clustering of voices from a throng of onlookers he'd passed through, desperately asking for a photo, an autograph, a million dollars. He'd strolled quickly past, paying them little mind beside passing greetings... and a mumble. Rewind.

Mumble.

Rewind.

"Might be a new member in the club."

He could barely make out the gruff, low vocals. The club? Then an even softer, quieter response. Unreachable.

Rewind. Vocal increase. Isolate. Max volume.

"Think we can trust him?"

After that point you had entered the store and were no longer in reach. Which club? Had you heard those voices before, or was this new? The last thing you heard before getting out of reach, disappointingly, was the first man scoffing. "The prince of the city? He's more of a fed than the cops."

Bruce immediately went to his contacts to replay the footage. He roughly matched the timing of the words to men barely in his periphery—but nothing close to making an ID. If it hadn't been for the damn cameras... he could have been more vigilant. Being in public exhausted him more than any single night shift. He started scribbling more musings. No trust with public. Become less of an enigma. A partier? A Yachter? Own room at the clubs? Separation and infiltration. Talk of a club. He reviewed the footage again with neurotic focus.

As far as was possible to tell from the fish eye footage, they were suited. The only type of people who wore suits in downtown Gotham were rich. The type of people who couldn't be touched; the business district was up north, far enough away to not get mugged by partygoers the moment something valuable was visible. They had to be people that couldn't be messed with. The type of people who receive a bad look one day and have your head the next. The clubs. The dinners. These people weren't a part of the mainstream party scene; they were in the club within the club, Penguin types. Bruce groaned and tossed his pencil across the table. He didn't want to do this, and after today he realized he'd have to sacrifice more of Batman than he thought if he would have the energy to get through the day as Bruce Wayne.

He pulled up the Gotham event page and marked down every listed event to his calendar. How was he going to explain his sudden personality shift and movement into the public arena? Questions swirled and dizzied his mind. He could only do so much in his cape; now he had to create another mask. And his first big event would be Gotham University's graduation ceremony.