𝐛𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 𝐢𝐧 𝐠𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

⤷ bruce wayne

• {content} bruce loves using your butt as a pillow

It's past two in the morning when you hear the shower shut off in the bathroom just off the bedroom, which means patrol ran long again, which means you already know how the next ten minutes are going to go.

You don't move from where you're sprawled on your stomach across the bed, book propped open in front of you, one leg kicked up lazily behind you. You're three chapters deep into something you should've finished last week, and you have exactly zero intention of losing your page.

The bathroom door opens on a puff of steam. You don't look up.

"You're still awake," Bruce says, voice rough with the particular tiredness that comes after a bad night — not injured-tired, just done-tired, bone-deep.

"Mm. Waiting for my husband to come home from his little nighttime hobby."

"It's not a hobby." He pads across the room in nothing but sweatpants slung low on his hips, hair still damp, and you know without looking that he's got that faint crease between his brows he gets when a night's been long but not disastrous. You've learned to read him in increments like that.

"Vigilante crime-fighting is absolutely a hobby, Bruce. You don't get paid."

"I get paid in—" he pauses, clearly searching for something "—civic pride."

"Devastatingly funny. Truly, Gotham's got jokes."

He huffs something that's almost a laugh, and then the mattress dips beside you, and you already know what's coming a full two seconds before it happens.

"Don't you dare—"

Too late. His hand lands square on your backside with an easy, familiar smack, and you yelp into your book.

"Bruce!"

"What." He says it like the most reasonable man alive, already sliding a hand over the spot he just smacked, squeezing once, unbothered, like he's checking the mail. "It's right there."

"It's attached to me, that's not an invitation—"

"It's always an invitation." He says this with the calm, insufferable confidence of a man who has never once been told no and meant it. Which, fine. He hasn't.

You swat weakly behind you, more out of principle than actual objection, and he catches your wrist, presses a kiss to your knuckles like an apology he doesn't mean even a little, and then — inevitably, gravitationally, like this is just where the night was always headed — he folds himself down and drops his head right onto your butt like it's a goose-down pillow he paid four figures for.

"Oh my god."

"Comfortable," he mumbles, already sounding half a step from unconscious. His arm slings loosely over the back of your thighs, anchoring himself there.

"You have an entire pillow. Several, actually. I've counted."

"None of them are this good."

"You're insane. You are a grown man. You run a multi-billion dollar company and dress up as a bat and you are currently using my ass as a headrest."

"Priorities," he says, muffled, eyes clearly already shut.

You sigh the sigh of a woman who married this exact behavior with her eyes wide open, and go back to your book, one hand idly dropping to card through his damp hair because — fine. Fine. It's not like you're going anywhere.

"How was patrol," you ask, mostly just to feel him talk, the low rumble of his voice vibrating faintly against you.

"Quiet. Couple of break-ins. Jason wouldn't stop narrating everything over comms."

"That tracks."

"Alfred left a plate for me. I didn't eat it."

"You're eating it tomorrow before you leave this bed, I don't care whose butt you'd rather be using as furniture."

"Deal," he says, already three-quarters asleep, thumb tracing a slow, absent line against the back of your thigh. "Love you."

"Love you too, you enormous menace." You turn a page one-handed, careful not to jostle him. "Squeeze my butt again and I'm telling Alfred."

"He already knows."

"Bruce."

He just smiles against you, eyes still closed, and doesn't move an inch.

𝐓𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐄𝐍

{summary} He thinks he’s slipping. You think he’s hotter. Obviously, you’re right.

{content} bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment, body image insecurity

You weren’t even supposed to be in the bedroom yet.

You were looking for your phone.

Instead, you stop dead in the doorway.

Bruce is standing in front of the mirror, shirtless, hair still slightly damp like he just got out of the shower. One hand is braced on the dresser, the other… hovering over his stomach, pressing lightly, then pulling away like he doesn’t like what he feels.

His expression?

Critical. Focused. Annoyed.

“…Great,” he mutters.

You raise a brow, leaning against the frame. “Wow. Who pissed you off this time?”

He doesn’t turn around immediately.

“…Me,” he says flatly.

That gets your attention.

You step inside, slower now. “That sounds dramatic. Should I be concerned?”

Now he glances at you through the mirror.

“Probably not,” he says. “Unless you’ve developed strong opinions about poor discipline.”

You snort. “Oh, I have plenty of those. Just not about you.”

He gestures vaguely at himself, like the answer should be obvious.

“This,” he says.

You look.

And look a little longer than necessary, just to make a point.

“…Yeah,” you say.

His jaw tightens. “Yeah.”

You hum, walking closer, circling slightly so you’re not just another reflection behind him.

“Yeah,” you repeat, “you look good.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t do that thing where you pretend—”

You reach out and poke his side.

He stops mid-sentence.

“First of all,” you say, completely ignoring his complaint, “rude. Second—what ‘thing’?”

“That,” he gestures again, more annoyed now, “where you act like there’s no difference.”

You tilt your head, considering him.

“There is a difference.”

He nods once, like finally, finally—

“Yeah,” you continue, “you’re hotter.”

Silence.

He turns his head, actually looking at you now.

“…You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve been told.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You step right into his space now, no hesitation, your hand sliding lightly across his stomach—not critical, not analyzing, just there.

His breath catches, subtle but there.

“You feel nice,” you say casually.

“…Nice,” he repeats, like the word personally offended him.

“Mhm.” You nod. “Very. Ten out of ten. Would absolutely ignore responsibilities to touch again.”

He lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff. “That’s not helping.”

“It is,” you argue. “You just don’t like the method.”

He shakes his head, stepping back half a pace—until his back nearly hits the dresser.

“I’ve lost definition,” he says. “I’m slower. I should’ve noticed sooner.”

There it is.

You soften—but only a little.

Instead of arguing, you step closer again, closing that half-step distance like it never existed.

“Bruce.”

He doesn’t answer.

Your hand slides up his chest, steady, grounding.

“You know what I see?”

He gives you a look. “Apparently something fictional.”

You roll your eyes and—without warning—lean in and press a kiss to his collarbone.

He freezes.

Another one, just above it.

“I see someone who hasn’t slept properly in weeks,” you murmur.

A kiss to his shoulder.

“Someone who’s been carrying half the city on his back.”

Your fingers curl lightly against his side.

“And someone who still looks—unfairly—good doing it.”

He exhales, slower this time.

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes.

“You’re allowed to change,” you say. “You’re not a statue.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?”

He hesitates.

And that hesitation says everything.

You sigh softly, but there’s no frustration in it—just understanding.

“C’mere.”

You don’t wait for permission. You take his hand and guide it—gently—back to his own stomach where he was just criticizing himself.

He tenses at first.

“Feel that?” you ask.

“I know what it feels like.”

“Yeah,” you say, your hand covering his, pressing it there just a little more firmly, “but you’re feeling it like it’s a problem.”

You shift closer, your other arm sliding around his waist.

“I’m feeling it like it’s you.”

He goes quiet.

Your thumb brushes lightly over his knuckles.

“And I like you,” you add, softer now.

He watches you for a second—really watches you this time, like he’s trying to decide if he believes you.

“…You’re biased,” he says.

You grin. “Hopelessly.”

That finally cracks something.

A small smile. Barely there, but real.

You take advantage of it immediately, leaning up to press a quick kiss to his lips—light, teasing.

“Also,” you add, not moving far, “for the record?”

He hums faintly.

“You’re hot.”

He shakes his head, but there’s no heat in it anymore.

“…You’re ridiculous.”

“And yet,” you say, backing him lightly against the dresser now, hands still on him, “you’re smiling.”

He pauses.

Realizes.

And—yeah.

He is.

You soften again, just a little, your forehead brushing his.

“Stop picking fights with yourself,” you murmur. “You’re on my team.”

His hand comes up then, settling at your waist, grounding himself there.

“…Stay?” he asks quietly.

You huff a small laugh. “Wasn’t planning on leaving.”

And this time, when he glances toward the mirror—

He doesn’t look annoyed.

He just looks… less harsh.

Which, for Bruce, is basically progress.

𝐀𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐅𝐄𝐖

{summary} every night after curfew, you meet Theodore Nott in the corridors of Hogwarts. He keeps you a secret, cold in front of others, but alone he’s soft, teasing, and clearly more attached than he lets anyone see.

{content} secret relationship, fluff

the castle changed after curfew.

by day hogwarts was all noise and movement, students rushing to lessons, laughter in stairwells, professors sweeping through corridors like storms in robes.

by night, it was quiet.

the torches along the stone walls burned low, shadows stretching across the corridor.

you pulled your robe tighter around yourself as you slipped through the third-floor corridor, careful to avoid the places where prefects liked to linger.

it was ridiculous.

sneaking around the corridors like a criminal 'cause theodore nott preferred secrecy to common sense.

he was already there.

leaning against the arched window at the far end of the hall, one ankle crossed over the other, tie loosened, sleeves pushed back.

"you're late," he said without looking up.

"im early"

"you're four minutes late"

"you counted?"

𝐇𝐎𝐋𝐃 𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋

{summary} Bruce insists he has it handled. You disagree, pull him in, and take the razor from his hand—turning a simple morning routine into something quiet, intimate, and a little too close to ignore.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

“You’re going to cut yourself.”

Bruce doesn’t look away from the mirror. “I’ve been shaving longer than you’ve known me.”

“Yeah, and yet,” you say, leaning against the doorway, “you look like you’re negotiating with the razor instead of using it.”

That gets you a glance—brief, unimpressed, but softer than he pretends.

“I have it handled.”

“Mm.” Your eyes flick to the uneven line of shaving cream along his jaw. “Sure you do.”

He turns back to the mirror, clearly intending to ignore you.

You don’t let him.

You step in, then—without warning—hop up onto the counter, settling yourself comfortably. “C’mere.”

Bruce pauses mid-motion.

“You’re serious.”

“Very.”

There’s a beat. A quiet standoff.

Then he exhales, sets the razor down, and steps forward.

You nudge him closer with your knee until he’s standing between your legs. The space disappears easily, like it always does with him. Your knees rest against his sides, then pull him just a little closer without thinking.

“Bossy,” he mutters.

“Uncooperative,” you shoot back, picking up the razor. “Tilt your head.”

He does.

No argument. No hesitation.

Your fingers come up to his jaw, guiding him gently as you start, slow and careful. The razor glides along his skin, and he stays still—more still than you’ve ever seen him.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“I’m standing still.”

“That’s not what I said.”

“I’m looking at you.”

You glance up for half a second—just enough to confirm it—and immediately regret it.

“Bruce.”

“Hm?”

“Focus.”

“I am.”

“You’re not.”

His hands settle on your thighs, warm, steady. Not distracting. Just… there.

Grounding.

You shake your head slightly and keep going.

“If you move,” you warn, “I will absolutely ruin your face.”

“You won’t.”

“You’re very confident for someone who could lose half his jaw right now.”

A faint hint of a smile touches his mouth. “I trust you.”

That lands softer than expected.

You don’t comment on it. Just rinse the blade, bring it back up, and continue, a little slower now.

It’s quiet for a moment. Easy. The kind of quiet that doesn’t need filling.

“You don’t let people do this for you,” you say after a while.

His grip tightens just slightly against your legs. “I let you.”

You pause—just for a second—then keep going like it didn’t affect you at all.

“Don’t get sentimental,” you murmur. “I’m holding a weapon.”

“Dangerous position.”

“For you.”

“For me,” he agrees quietly.

You finish one side, wiping the remaining foam away with your thumb. The touch lingers just a second longer than necessary.

Neither of you moves.

“Other side,” you say softly.

He tilts his head immediately.

Your knees press in a little as you lean closer, steadying yourself. His hands shift slightly—still respectful, still careful—but there’s something a little more intentional in the way he holds you now.

“Don’t move,” you murmur.

“I’m not moving.”

“You always say that.”

“And I always listen.”

You smile under your breath. “Debatable.”

Still, he stays perfectly still while you finish.

When you’re done, you set the razor aside and grab a towel, gently wiping the last traces of shaving cream from his skin.

“There,” you say, leaning back just enough to look at him. “All clean.”

Bruce doesn’t step away.

If anything, he leans in—just slightly—like the space you’ve created isn’t one he plans on keeping.

Your hands rest on his shoulders now. His stay where they are.

Close.

“Good,” he says. “You’re hired.”

You huff softly. “Pretty sure I didn’t apply.”

“I could convince you.”

“Oh yeah?” Your fingers absentmindedly smooth over his collar. “How?”

His gaze drops for a brief second—then returns to yours. “I’ll think of something.”

You nudge him lightly with your knee. “Careful. You’re getting charming.”

“Only for you.”

That… lands.

Your hand slides from his shoulder to his jaw again, thumb brushing over the freshly shaved skin like you’re checking your work—but slower this time.

“Stay still,” you murmur.

“I thought we were done.”

“We are.”

“Then what—”

You lean in before he can finish, closing the small space between you.

The kiss is soft.

Unhurried.

More warm than anything else—familiar, easy, like it belongs right here between teasing and quiet moments.

Bruce stills for half a heartbeat—just enough to register it—

Then his hand shifts to your waist, steadying you as he leans into it, returning the kiss just as gently. No rush, no pressure—just staying there, like he has nowhere else to be.

When you pull back, it’s slow. Your forehead nearly brushes his.

“…There,” you murmur.

His thumb traces a small, absent circle at your side. “There?”

“Finishing touch,” you say, softer now.

A quiet breath of a laugh leaves him, barely there. “Effective.”

You smile faintly, your hands slipping back to his shoulders.

You start to shift, your legs loosening around him—but before you can move away, his hands slide down to yours, catching them.

“Next time,” he says, voice lower now, “I’m returning the favor.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You shaving me?”

His mouth curves slightly. “We’ll improvise.”

You roll your eyes, but your fingers tighten around his anyway as he helps you slide off the counter.

He doesn’t let go once your feet hit the floor.

And when you leave the bathroom together, he stays just a little closer than necessary—like he hasn’t quite decided he’s done with the moment yet.

𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐋𝐋 𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐘

{summary} Bruce tries to cook. You try to behave. Neither of you succeeds.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

The kitchen smells like something expensive and probably unnecessary.

Not in a bad way—just… very Bruce. Rich, warm spices curling through the air, something sizzling in a pan like it has a personal vendetta, and soft jazz playing low enough that it feels more like a suggestion than actual music. The windows are cracked open, letting in a thin stream of evening air that brushes the curtains just enough to make them sway.

And then there’s Bruce.

Shirtless.

Of course he is.

He stands at the stove like he was born there, broad shoulders relaxed, muscles shifting subtly with every small movement as he stirs whatever he’s making. There’s a dish towel slung over his shoulder like he’s pretending to be casual about the whole thing, but there’s nothing casual about the way he looks—like a magazine cover accidentally wandered into your kitchen and decided to start cooking.

You lean against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him for a long moment.

“…You know,” you say finally, voice slow and thoughtful, “most people wear clothes while committing crimes.”

He doesn’t turn around immediately. Just huffs out a quiet laugh, like he knew you were there the entire time—which, knowing him, he probably did.

“What crime am I committing?” he asks, calm and amused, still stirring.

You push off the doorframe and wander in like you own the place. Which, at this point, you kind of do.

“This,” you gesture vaguely at him. “Public indecency. Emotional manipulation. Being unfairly attractive while sautéing… whatever that is.”

He glances over his shoulder now, one brow lifting.

“Risotto,” he says, like that somehow proves your point wrong.

“Oh, of course. Shirtless risotto. Classic.”

There’s the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth now, subtle but very much there.

You circle behind him, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging over his back in a way that is not subtle. He goes back to stirring, but his shoulders tense just slightly—just enough that you know he’s aware of every step you take.

“Is there a reason you’re lurking?” he asks.

“Observing,” you correct. “Judging, mostly.”

“Mm. And what’s the verdict?”

You step closer. Close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him, smell the clean soap mixed with whatever he’s cooking.

“Still pretty,” you say casually.

He snorts—actually snorts—and shakes his head.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet,” you hum, leaning in just slightly, “you keep me around.”

Before he can respond—

Smack.

Your hand lands squarely on his ass.

It’s not subtle. It’s not gentle. It’s very intentional.

Bruce freezes mid-stir.

There’s a beat of silence.

Then, slowly, he sets the spoon down.

“…You know,” he says, voice lower now, “most people don’t assault the person cooking their dinner.”

You grin, completely unrepentant. “Most people don’t look like that while cooking dinner.”

He turns then, fully, and there’s that look in his eyes—the one that means you’ve started something.

“Oh, I see,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “So this is about my behavior.”

“Entirely,” you nod, backing up half a step… which he immediately closes.

“You walk in,” he continues, voice smooth, “distract me, insult me—”

“I complimented you.”

“—and then you hit me.”

“Affectionately.”

His lips twitch.

“Affectionately,” he repeats.

You tilt your head, innocent. “You liked it.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t deny it either.”

That earns you a proper smile—small, sharp, and a little dangerous.

“Oh, you’re feeling bold today.”

“Always,” you say.

He hums, considering you for a moment, then reaches past you—close enough that his arm brushes yours—to grab the spoon again.

But instead of turning back immediately, he leans down just slightly, voice dropping near your ear.

“Careful,” he murmurs. “I might start returning the favor.”

You grin. “Promise?”

That does it.

He laughs—soft, genuine—and finally turns back to the stove, but now there’s a shift in the air. Lighter. Warmer. Like the teasing has settled into something familiar and easy.

You hop up onto the counter beside him, legs swinging idly.

“What are you even making?” you ask, peering into the pan like you understand anything happening in there.

“Risotto,” he repeats patiently.

“That tells me nothing.”

“It’s rice.”

“Wow. Groundbreaking. Shirtless man invents rice.”

He shoots you a look. “I regret cooking for you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“…No,” he admits after a second, “I don’t.”

You watch him for a bit, quieter now, but still smiling. He moves with this effortless confidence, like everything he does has intention—even something as simple as cooking.

“…You’re enjoying this way too much,” you say.

“Cooking?”

“Showing off.”

He glances at you again, amused. “You think this is for you?”

You scoff. “Please. Who else is it for? Alfred’s seen you shirtless before, I assume.”

Bruce pauses.

“…That’s a deeply upsetting sentence.”

You laugh, delighted. “Oh, come on, don’t pretend you’re shy now.”

“I’m not shy.”

“Mmhm.”

“You’re the one sitting on my counter critiquing my cooking.”

“And your face,” you add.

“My face?”

“Very pretty. Distracting.”

He exhales through his nose, shaking his head, but there’s no hiding the faint flush creeping up his neck now.

“You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you slide off the counter, stepping closer again, “you’re still here.”

You reach out, this time not smacking him, just letting your fingers brush lightly along his side, softer now. The teasing doesn’t disappear—it just shifts, settles into something a little warmer.

Bruce’s hand catches your wrist gently before you can pull away.

There’s a pause.

Then he lifts your hand just slightly—and presses a quick, absent-minded kiss to your knuckles before letting go.

“Stay out of trouble,” he says, turning back to the stove like he didn’t just do that.

You blink.

“…You literally fight crime.”

“Not the point.”

You smile, leaning back against the counter, watching him again.

“…Hey, Bruce?”

“Mm?”

You consider for a second.

Then, very deliberately—

Smack.

Again.

He stops.

Slowly turns his head.

“…I warned you.”

You grin, already backing away. “Worth it.”

He sets the spoon down again.

“…Come here.”

“Oh, absolutely not—”

Too late.

He catches you easily, pulling you back with a quiet laugh, and whatever happens next is less about revenge and more about the two of you dissolving into that easy, familiar chaos—half teasing, half affection, entirely yours.

The risotto, inevitably, gets slightly overcooked.

Neither of you really cares.

“Hey—!”

Your protest dissolves into laughter as he spins you, quick and controlled, until your back bumps lightly against the counter again. He doesn’t trap you there, not really—just stands close enough that escape would require actual effort.

And you’re not that committed to escaping.

“You’re very brave,” he says, folding his arms, looking down at you with that same almost-smile, “for someone with absolutely no exit strategy.”

You tilt your chin up, unimpressed. “Bold of you to assume I need one.”

“Oh?” His brow lifts. “So this was your plan?”

“Obviously.”

“Enlighten me.”

You gesture between the two of you. “Step one: provoke you.”

“That part’s going well.”

“Step two…” You pause, considering. “Still working on that.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head, and for a second the whole dangerous billionaire thing drops completely, replaced by something softer—something that’s just him.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you love it.”

He doesn’t answer that. Which, honestly, is an answer.

Instead, he reaches past you again to check the pan, like he hasn’t just cornered you in his kitchen. Like this is all completely normal. But there’s a faint smirk lingering now, something amused and knowing, like he’s waiting for your next move.

Which, of course, is a mistake.

Because now you have to do something.

“You’re distracted,” you say suddenly.

“I’m cooking.”

“Poorly.”

He gives you a look. “I was doing fine until you started assaulting me.”

“Excuses.”

“Sabotage.”

You lean in just slightly, lowering your voice. “Admit it. You like the attention.”

He glances at you sideways. “I tolerate it.”

“You thrive on it.”

“Careful,” he murmurs, “you’re projecting.”

You gasp, hand to your chest. “I would never.”

He finally turns fully toward you again, closer this time, expression softer but still edged with humor.

“No?”

“No,” you repeat, quieter now—but still smiling.

There’s a beat.

The kitchen hums around you—the low music, the soft bubbling of the pan, the faint rustle of curtains. It all fades just slightly, like it’s stepping back to make room for the moment.

Bruce studies you for a second longer than necessary.

Then—quick as anything—his hand lands lightly against your side.

Not a smack. Not quite.

But definitely payback.

You jolt, laughing. “Hey—!”

“Affectionately,” he echoes, completely straight-faced.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I learned from the best.”

“You’re literally the worst.”

“And yet,” he says, mirroring you from earlier, “you’re still here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just that familiar spark, the easy back-and-forth that never quite turns serious, never quite fades either.

“…You’re enjoying this.”

“A little,” he admits.

“Just a little?”

“A lot,” he corrects, after a beat.

You grin.

“Thought so.”

He shakes his head again, softer this time, and turns back to the stove—but not before nudging your knee aside so he can stand closer without bumping into you.

You stay where you are, perched against the counter, watching him like before. But now there’s a quiet kind of rhythm to it—your teasing, his responses, the way neither of you really tries to stop the other.

After a moment, you lean over slightly, peering into the pan again.

“…Is it supposed to look like that?”

“Yes.”

“It looks suspicious.”

“It’s risotto.”

“It looks like expensive glue.”

He exhales a laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “You are banned from the kitchen.”

“You brought me here.”

“I didn’t bring you—”

“You exist here,” you interrupt. “Same thing.”

He gives up arguing, which is rare enough that it makes you smile.

“…Taste it,” he says instead, scooping a small bit onto the spoon and holding it out toward you.

You eye it skeptically. “If I die—”

“You won’t.”

“—I’m haunting you.”

“You already do.”

You grin, then lean forward and take the bite.

There’s a pause as you consider it, deliberately dramatic.

Bruce watches you, unimpressed. “Well?”

You hum, dragging it out.

“…Okay,” you admit eventually. “That’s actually really good.”

“I know.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.”

You nudge his arm lightly with your shoulder. “Still looks like glue.”

“And yet, you liked it.”

You open your mouth to argue—then stop.

“…Don’t use my own logic against me.”

“It’s effective.”

“Rude.”

He just smiles to himself, turning back to finish up, but there’s something lighter in the way he moves now. Less focused on the task, more on the moment.

You watch him a little longer.

Then—

because you absolutely cannot help yourself—

you lean in, quick as anything, and press a fleeting kiss to his shoulder before pulling back like nothing happened.

Bruce pauses.

Not dramatically. Just enough.

“…You’re inconsistent,” he says after a second.

“How so?”

“One minute you’re hitting me—”

“Affectionately.”

“—the next you’re doing that.”

You shrug, entirely unbothered. “Range.”

He huffs out a quiet laugh.

“…Stay,” he says, softer now, not looking at you this time.

You don’t make a joke out of it.

Just settle back against the counter, close enough that your knee brushes his when he shifts.

“Yeah,” you say lightly. “I was planning on it.”

The teasing doesn’t stop—not really. It never does. It just weaves itself into everything else, into the quiet, the warmth, the way the two of you exist in the same space without ever quite settling into silence.

By the time the food is done, you’ve both lost track of how many times you’ve laughed, how many little jabs turned into something softer before they could land properly.

And when Bruce finally plates the risotto, handing it to you with a raised brow like he’s expecting another comment—

You just smile.

“…Still pretty,” you say.

He rolls his eyes.

But he’s smiling too.

𝐋𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐍𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐓

{summary} After Slughorn pairs you with Theodore Nott for a Potions project, you accidentally find letters he never meant to send, each one about you.

{content} no smut, unspoken feelings, no-war universe, invasion of privacy

It starts because of Slughorn.

more specispecifically, because Horace Slughorn decides that “collaboration builds character” and pairs you - a Hufflepuff - with Theodore Nott.

you don’t question it out loud, but you do notice the way a few slytherins glance over when your names are called together. nott doesn’t react at all. he just nods once, like it’s already been decided and there’s no point arguing.

“amortentia variation,” Slughorn says, beaming. “subtle alterations, personal influence—very delicate work, you’ll need to trust each other.”

you almost laugh at that.

nott doesn’t.

๑

he doesn’t talk much during the first half of the lesson. he works efficiently, measures precisely, and corrects your hand placement once—briefly, without comment—before stepping back again like even that was more interaction than necessary.

when the bell rings, you’re still copying down notes when he speaks.

“i’ll do the base draft,” he says, already packing his things. “you can refine it.”

you look up. “or we could just… work on it together?”

a pause. not long. just enough to feel like he’s considering whether that’s worth the effort.

“the library,” he says finally. “tomorrow.”

then, like it’s an afterthought, he slides his textbook toward you. advanced potion-making, edges worn, pages marked.

“you’ll need it,” he adds. “the annotations are more useful than the printed instructions.”

you hesitate. “are you sure?”

“i’ve already memorized what I need.”

there’s no arrogance in it. just fact.

you take the book. “right. thanks.”

he nods once, and that’s the end of it.

๑

you don’t think about him again.

not properly.

not until later that evening, when you’re sitting in the hufflepuff common room with the book open across your lap, skimming through his notes—neat, precise, written in the margins like he couldn’t help improving what was already there.

it’s almost impressive.

you’re halfway through a paragraph when something slips loose from between the pages and falls against your wrist.

a folded piece of parchment.

you frown, picking it up. it’s thicker than a normal note, creased carefully.

your name is written on the outside.

that’s what makes you pause.

there’s no reason your name should be there. not in his handwriting.

you turn it over once in your fingers, like that might change something.

it doesn’t.

you open it.

you answer questions before anyone else has time to think. it’s inefficient.

you blink.

not because you’re wrong. because you don’t hesitate.

your grip tightens slightly on the page.

there’s no signature, but there doesn’t need to be. the handwriting is unmistakable—controlled, deliberate, almost too precise.

nott.

you should stop there. you don’t.

the next one is tucked further into the book.

you sit near the windows in herbology even when it’s colder. i don’t understand why.

a pause in the writing, like he’d stopped.

you said you like the light.

another line, sharper.

that’s not a sufficient reason.

and then, smaller—

iIt is to you.

something about that one lingers.

you reach for another.

Diggory spoke to you after class today.

the ink presses harder into the parchment.

you laughed. It was louder than usual.

a space. then—

it shouldn’t matter.

another line, written over slightly, like the first version wasn’t enough.

It doesn’t.

and then, almost cramped at the edge—

It does.

you don’t realize how many there are until they’re spread in front of you.

some are short. observational. detached in a way that feels forced.

others-

others aren’t.

one, written more messily than the rest:

I don’t like you.

a line break.

I don’t.

the ink digs into the page.

This is inconvenient.

and then, after a long gap—

You are inconvenient.

you stare at that one longer than you mean to.

๑

the next day, you notice him.

not intentionally. not at first.

but now that you’ve read them, it’s impossible not to see it—the way his gaze lifts when you speak, how it lingers just long enough to be deliberate before dropping again. the way he seems aware of where you are without ever turning fully toward you.

it’s controlled. Subtle.

but it’s there.

and now you know what it means.

๑

by the time you meet in the library the next evening, the letters are folded neatly in your bag.

you tell yourself you’re going to focus on the project.

you don’t.

theodore is already there when you arrive, books arranged in front of him, notes half-written. he glances up briefly as you sit across from him, then back down again like this is nothing more than obligation.

like you didn’t read every word he never meant you to see.

you try, for a few minutes, to pretend the same.

it doesn’t last.

your hand moves before you can overthink it, pulling the folded letters from your bag and placing them between you.

his reaction is immediate—not outwardly dramatic, but precise.

his pen stops.

not mid-word. exactly at the end of the line.

then he sets it down.

carefully.

“you took those,” he says.

not you read them.

not give them back.

just that.

“they fell out of your book,” you reply quietly. “i didn’t know they were there.”

“you do now.”

“yes.”

a pause settles in. he doesn’t reach for them.

that’s what feels strange.

“they’re about me,” you add.

“i know.”

his voice is even, but there’s something underneath it now—tight, restrained.

“you weren’t supposed to read them.”

“i figured that out.”

his gaze lifts to yours then, sharp and direct in a way it hasn’t been before. “then why didn’t you stop?”

the question lands harder than you expect.

you hesitate. “because my name was on them.”

that’s the wrong answer.

you can tell by the way his jaw tightens slightly, the only visible sign that something’s slipped.

“that doesn’t make them yours,” he says.

“i didn’t say it did.”

silence.

you study him for a moment, then push a little further. “you wrote that you don’t like me.”

“i don’t.”

too quick.

too clean.

you shake your head slightly. “that’s not what it sounds like.”

“they weren’t written to sound like anything.”

“they contradict each other.”

“that’s not your concern.”

“it is if they’re about me.”

that lands.

he stills—not completely, but enough that you notice.

“you’ve decided you understand something,” he says, quieter now.

“i think you’re trying very hard not to say something.”

his gaze sharpens. “and what would that be?”

you don’t answer immediately.

because now that you’re here—now that you’ve pushed this far—it feels different. he’s not angry, not really.

he’s… exposed.

and he hates it.

“you notice everything,” you say instead. “where I sit. who I talk to. when I’m not there.”

“that doesn’t mean anything.”

“it does if you keep writing it down.”

his fingers press lightly against the table, controlled but tense. “writing something doesn’t make it important.”

“no,” you say softly. “but keeping it does.”

that’s the moment it shifts.

not loudly. not dramatically.

but something in him gives—just slightly.

his gaze drops, not to the letters this time, but to the space just beside them, like looking directly at them would be worse.

“they weren’t meant to be kept,” he says.

“but you did.”

a pause.

then, quieter—more honest than anything he’s said so far—

“i didn’t throw them away.”

it’s not a confession.

not really.

but it’s close enough.

you feel your chest tighten slightly. “why?”

he doesn’t answer right away.

when he does, his voice is lower.

“because it’s easier to write it,” he says, “than to have to see it happen in real time.”

you frown slightly. “see what happen?”

his gaze lifts to yours again, and this time there’s no distance in it. no careful detachment.

just something unguarded. brief, but real.

“that it doesn’t matter,” he says.

your breath catches.

“that you talk to other people,” he continues, more evenly now, like he’s already trying to pull it back under control. “that it’s irrelevant.”

“and it isn’t?”

a pause.

“no.”

the word is quiet. certain.

you don’t look away. “then why pretend it is?”

“because it should be.”

there it is.

not anger.

not denial.

just… truth, said like it’s a problem he hasn’t found a solution to.

you glance down at the letters, then back at him. “you could’ve just told me.”

“no,” he says again, but softer this time.

“why not?”

his expression shifts slightly—not defensive, not cold.

just tired.

“because then you’d know,” he says.

“i do know.”

“not like this.”

a beat.

“not because you chose to.”

that lands heavier than anything else.

you hadn’t thought of it like that.

you swallow, then gently push the letters a little closer to him. “do you want them back?”

he looks at them for a long moment.

then shakes his head once.

“no.”

you blink. “no?”

“you’ve already read them,” he says. “there’s no point pretending otherwise.”

You hesitate. “do what happens now?”

another pause.

he picks up his pen again, but doesn’t start writing.

“now,” he says, voice steady again, control slipping back into place, “we finish the assignment.”

that almost makes you laugh.

“right,” you murmur.

but neither of you moves.

not immediately.

and when you finally do start working, something has shifted—quietly, subtly, but undeniably.

because now, when you glance up and catch him looking at you—

he doesn’t look away quite as quickly.

𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐀 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐔𝐓𝐄

{summary}He doesn’t fall asleep easily. Not like this. Not without pulling away.But today, he doesn’t.

{content}bruce wayne x reader, established relationship, fluff, soft intimacy, domestic moment

Sunlight spills across the living room in long, lazy streaks, cutting through the tall windows of Wayne Manor and settling over the couch like it belongs there. It’s quiet, but not in the heavy, late-night way—this is softer, easier, the kind of quiet that comes from a rare, unplanned break in the day.

You’re stretched out along the couch, half on your side, half on your back, one arm tucked under your head while the other lazily scrolls through your phone. There’s a faint hum of something playing on the TV, more background noise than anything else, and for once, you’re not waiting for anything.

Which is exactly why it surprises you when Bruce Wayne walks in.

Not in a rush. Not mid-call. Not already halfway distracted.

Just… there.

You glance up, one eyebrow lifting slightly. “You’re home.”

“I live here,” he replies, but there’s a quieter edge to it than usual, like even he knows that’s not really what you meant.

“You know what I mean,” you say, shifting a little to make space without thinking about it. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“I’m aware.”

You watch him for a second as he loosens his cufflinks, setting them down absentmindedly on the table before glancing around the room like he’s deciding what to do with himself now that he’s here.

“You okay?” you ask.

He nods once. “Just… needed a break.”

That’s rare enough on its own that you don’t question it too much.

“Come sit, then,” you say, nudging the cushion lightly with your foot. “You look like you’re about to keep standing there and pretend that counts as resting.”

That earns you the faintest shift in his expression—something almost like amusement—but he doesn’t argue. He moves toward the couch, slower than usual, like he’s actually letting himself follow through on the idea of stopping.

When he sits, the cushion dips beside you, warm and familiar.

For a moment, he just leans back, exhaling quietly, his head tipping slightly against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded like he’s trying to let the tension go piece by piece.

“You look exhausted,” you murmur.

“I’m fine.”

“Sure,” you hum. “That’s why you came home in the middle of the day to ‘take a break.’”

He doesn’t respond to that.

Which is answer enough.

You shift a little, turning more toward him, your knee brushing lightly against his leg. “Lie down for a second.”

“I don’t need to—”

“Bruce.”

It’s not pushy. Not insistent.

Just… simple.

He pauses, glancing at you, weighing it in that quiet way he does—and then, without making a big deal out of it, he gives in.

“Just for a minute,” he says.

“Sure,” you reply easily.

He shifts then, turning slightly toward you as he stretches out along the couch, one arm sliding around your waist without much thought. Before you can even comment on it, he settles closer, his head lowering—

—and then it rests against your chest.

You still for a second.

Because that’s… not subtle.

Not careful. Not measured.

It’s instinctive.

Unthinking.

“…comfortable?” you ask softly, your hand hovering for just a moment before coming to rest lightly against his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, voice already quieter, rougher at the edges. “Stay.”

You huff a small breath through your nose, something warm settling in your chest as your fingers move gently through his hair, slow and absent.

“Wasn’t planning on going anywhere.”

The sunlight shifts slightly across the room, warming the space around you, and for a moment, everything feels… still.

Not tense. Not waiting.

Just calm.

You feel it happen before you fully register it—the change in his breathing, the way it slows, evens out, the subtle weight of him settling more heavily against you.

“…Bruce?” you murmur, just to check.

Nothing.

You glance down slightly, just enough to confirm it—and there it is.

He’s asleep.

Just like that.

No warning, no catching himself halfway through.

Gone.

A quiet smile pulls at your lips, your hand stilling briefly before resuming its slow movement through his hair. “You didn’t even try to fight it,” you murmur under your breath.

He doesn’t move.

If anything, he shifts closer, like his body’s leaning into the contact without thinking about it.

And that—

That gets to you more than you expect.

Because this isn’t how he usually is. There’s no control in it, no distance, no awareness of how close he is or how much he’s letting go.

It’s just trust.

You adjust slightly, careful not to wake him, one hand resting against his back now, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The TV keeps playing quietly in the background, but you barely notice it anymore.

You don’t check your phone.

You don’t move away.

You just stay there, letting the moment stretch, memorizing the quiet of it.

Because you know how rare this is.

Eventually, though, he stirs.

It’s small at first—a shift of his head, a deeper inhale, his hand tightening slightly at your side before relaxing again. Your fingers pause in his hair as you glance down at him.

He exhales slowly, then lifts his head just enough to pull back, blinking against the light like he’s trying to figure out where he is.

“…I fell asleep,” he says, voice low, still rough with it.

You raise an eyebrow slightly. “Yeah. You did.”

He sits up a little more, dragging a hand over his face, then glances back at you, something more aware settling in his expression now.

“…sorry,” he says.

You shake your head immediately. “Don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“Apologize for falling asleep,” you reply. “You clearly needed it.”

He exhales through his nose, something almost like a quiet laugh slipping through. “Apparently.”

A brief pause settles between you, softer than before.

“…how long?” he asks.

“Not that long,” you shrug. “Long enough.”

He nods once, glancing at you again like he’s replaying it in his head.

“…I was on you,” he says.

“Very much,” you reply, a small hint of teasing in your voice.

That earns you the faintest lift at the corner of his mouth, something subtle but real.

“You should’ve moved me.”

“I could’ve,” you say. “Didn’t want to wake you.”

Another pause.

He looks at you a second longer this time, something quieter settling into his expression—not guarded, not distant, just… there.

“…thanks,” he says finally.

You shrug lightly, leaning back into the couch. “Don’t make it weird.”

“I’m not.”

A beat.

“…just noting it.”

You nod once, glancing back at the TV. “You can fall asleep again, you know.”

He huffs a quieter laugh this time, shaking his head slightly. “I’ll pass.”

“Your loss.”

But he doesn’t move away.

Instead, after a second, he shifts just a little closer again—subtle enough that you don’t comment on it, but noticeable all the same.

And this time—

he stays.

𝐋𝐈𝐏𝐒𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐊 𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐒

{summary}Before Draco Malfoy’s Quidditch practice, a quick moment turns into something harder to walk away from-for both of you

{content} suggestive, heavy make-out, established relationship, quidditch player draco, no-war universe, fem!reader, all characters aged up

the corridor is empty. completely empty.

which is the only reason draco has you pressed back against the stone wall like hes forgotten he has somewhere to be.

your hands are already in his hair, pulling him down to you, and he doesnt resist-not even a little. if anything, he leans into it, one hand firm at your waist, the other sliding up your jaw to tilt your face exactly how he wants it.

the kiss isnt soft. it hasnt been from the start.

it messy, heated, the kind that keeps going because neither of you is willing to stop first. your lipstick is definitely ruined, but you dont care-and judging by the way hes still pulling you closer, neither does he.

you barely get a breath before youre kissing him again. and again.

“draco-“ you murmur, but it just turns into another kiss when he doesnt pull away.

his grip tightens slightly at your waist, like hes keeping you exactly where you are, like letting you go isnt even an option hes considering.

you tug his hair again, a little more impatient this time.

“dont go yet,“ you say against his lips, quieter now, but not less insistent.

he exhales softly, forehead brushing yours for a second-but he still doesnt step back.

“i have practice“ he mutters, like the words themselves are annoying.

you dont move. “then be late“

his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, holding you there-not pushing you away, not pulling you closer either. just... keeping you.

“ive already pushed it,“ he says, quieter now. “theyll notice“

“they always notice.“

“thats not the point.

you tilt your head slightly, still too close to him to pretend its over. “then what is?“

“I’m already late,” he says quietly. “If I push it any further, I’ll have to explain it.”

theres something in his tone-controlled, but not detached.

your fingers curl tighter into his shirt anyway. “stay“

you dont say it like a joke. and he knows it.

his gaze drops to your lips for a second- smudged, slightly uneven-and something in his expression shifts. not hesitaton.

temptation

“i want to“ he admits, low enough that it almost doesnt sound like something he meant to say out loud.

thats what does it.

you pull him back in immediately, more insistent this time, like that answer was all you needed.

“one more kiss“

again-not really a request,

he lets out a quiet breath, like hes already lost that argument with himself.

“just one“ he says.

you both know thats not true.

his hand returns to your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek once before he kisses you again-slower, deeper, like he’s deliberately taking his time even though he doesn’t have it. like leaving you like this would be worse than being late.

your fingers tighten in his shirt, holding him there, trying to stretch the moment just a little longer.

it almost works.

for a second, it really feels like hes not going anywhere.

like hes decided it doesnt matter.

but then he pulls back-reluctant, controlled, like it takes effort.

his forehead rests against yours, breath uneven.

“...if i stay“ he says quietly “im not going“

you dont answer.

because you know thats the point.

his hand lingers at your waist, thumb pressing lightly like he hasnt fully decided to let go yet.

then-

“after practice, babe“ he says, softer now, like a promise hes making more to himself than to you.

you dont like it.

but you let go.

barely.

he hesitates anyway.

just for a second.

then he steps back-and forces himself to leave.

๑

by the time draco walks into the changing rooms, he looks mostly composed.

mostly,

blaise notices immediately.

“oh, thats embarrasing“

draco doesnt even look at him. “what is?“

from the bench, theodore glances up, eyes flicking over draco once before a smirk forms.

“you didnt check a mirror?“ theo says.

that makes draco pause.

“check what-“

blaise cuts him off, already grinning. “your face, malfoy“

draco frowns slightly, lifting his hand to his mouth-and then stills.

because he feels it.

lipstick.

smudged across his lips, just off to the side.

blaise lets out a short laugh “yeah. that bad“

theo leans back slightly, clearly amused now. “bit obvious, dont you think?“

draco drags his thumb across his mouth, looking at it briefly before grabbing a towel.

“shut up“

“oh, we know exactly who that is,” blaise adds casually. “youre not even trying to hide it.”

draco wipes it off with a little more force than necessary. “im not hiding anything.”

“thats clear.”

theo hums lightly. “she didnt want you to leave, did she?”

draco shoots him a look.

which is answer enough.

blaise grins wider. “right before practice too. thats rough.”

draco tosses the towel aside, already pulling on his gloves. “are you done?”

“not even close,” blaise says, still amused. “but we can be.”

theo just watches him for another second, then looks away, like hes already said enough.

but the smirk stays.

And draco ignores it.

mostly.