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you and DICK GRAYSON didn’t work out for a number of reasons. you were different people with different schedules and different opinions on how things should be run. maybe there was too much pressure, maybe you were both too busy - whatever the case may be, it was time to call it quits. when he sees you with a new guy, he didn’t think it’d hit him as hard as it did. he shouldn’t have taken for granted that you’d be single this long—although he’d argue you moved on pretty quick. it eats at him, especially because since you’ve gotten with him, you haven’t talked to dick much socially. at least you two were friends before, now it’s radio silence. you excuse yourself from the room he’s in, you let conversations awkwardly fizzle out, you mysteriously make yourself look busy when you’re unsure he’s going to brief you about an impending mission. it’s getting annoying. when he calls you on it, you uneasily laugh, scratch the back of your head, admit, “yeah…” because you know he’s not stupid, something is up.
as soon as you spill the latest gossip on your relationship does dick understand why you were too embarrassed to admit it to him. “he wants to wait?” he parrots in disbelief, loud enough for you to scoldingly shush him. “like you haven’t done it - at all?”
“don’t say it like that! i’m not going to rush him.” you respond matter-of-factly. backing up in your seat, you lean back on your hands, pushing your chest out in a way dick can’t help but note. a line worries between your two brows, gazing off into the distance at the thought of it. “he just needs… time is all.”
air huffs out of dick’s mouth as he leans on his own hand to the side, tilting his head at you n letting his black hair hang. “well, that’s his prerogative then, i guess.” he manages to muse, at a loss when faced with the reminder. when faced with the reality of having been with you, however, it’s harder to swallow. knowing what you look underneath all those clothes is a privilege dick has taken for granted - especially now knowing someone else is ignoring it while they have it within their reach. “so…” he chats melodically, “how are you doing with that?”
guilt scrawls across your face as you glance down, pressing your lips together as that familiar feeling in your stomach churns. shame. “i dunno, it’s okay.”
“you feel bad ‘cause you want to?” he says all too knowingly. it exasperates you.
you roll your eyes exaggeratedly, “i shouldn’t even be talking to you about this.” an ex is hardly an appropriate subject for this topic, but you don’t have anyone else to confide in about this. somehow the voice in the back of your brain has convinced you dick is the only one who would understand. you won’t even let yourself entertain the darker possibility that he’d empathize with you, offer to fix it… you feel another layer of guilt and you palm your forehead. it scares you that you miss it. you miss having someone who’s willing to do it with you, you miss feeling desired in that way… you miss what you’re used to: the streak of daily and highly educational sex you’d had when you’d had your run with dick.
“hey, don’t worry about it.” his shoulders slump forward as his hand wraps around your wrist, guiding it down to your lap. a smile stretches onto his lips, the crooked and mischievous kind that only he’s able to pull off. “i won’t tell.”
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we moved on too quickly from the possibility of WALLY WEST x reader x DICK GRAYSON. wally’s phasing out of the game, and dick’s been promoted to lead. you’ve been added to the roster and neither of them seem to keep their heads around you: wally can’t help but outwardly flirt, that old playboy dog in him seeping through the cracks as he checks you out in your suit n asks, “uh, are you.. doing anything later?”; whereas dick’s bad bag of tricks consist of getting a little tongue-tied around you and gracefully bowing out of conversations that run too long. when they both get used to you being around, interactions are smoother. wally somehow gets you out of the mount, reminding you there’s more to life than work, managing to snag alone-time with you. dick can talk to you without panicking, and you’ve even caught a stray comment here and there about how “you looked good out there.” both boys tipping you off as to how they feel about you. you knew things always seemed to be tense between them when they three of you were in the same room, you didn’t know they were in competition. you’re not sure how to go about it, you like both of them, but neither of them have the guts to be upfront with you about it - or they have an undisclosed gentlemen’s agreement to stay away from you. the latter makes more sense considering their friendship, so why have you had each of their tongues down your throat at least once before?
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content. Bruce Wayne × Intern!Reader, exploitation.
summary. Bruce sneaks into Wayne Enterprises for files, and he finds the new intern asleep at her desk, buried in advanced code and diagnostics not meant for her...
Gotham. 12:47 AM
Bruce moved silently around Wayne’s Enterprises. He’d slipped in through a private entrance, bypassing security protocols with a keycard only he and Lucius Fox possessed. He needed files from a project tied to a shell company he suspected was funneling tech to Black Mask’s operations. The kind of lead Batman chased.
The floor was supposed to be empty.
Lights dimmed, monitors off, the hum of servers the only sound. But Bruce’s eyes caught a faint glow from a corner cubicle. He froze, instincts flaring, then relaxed when he saw no threat... just a desk cluttered with coffee cups, energy drink cans, and scattered papers. A young woman slumped over the desk, her head resting on her arms, hair spilling across a notepad filled with circuit diagrams. Two monitors flickered in front of her, one displaying lines of code, the other a diagnostics report for a prototype neural interface.
Bruce’s brow furrowed.
Nobody should be here this late.
He approached, softening his presence as much as a man like him could. The nameplate on her desk read “Y/N Y/L, Intern.” He glanced at the monitors again, complex code, far beyond intern-level work, and a diagnostics log that should’ve been a senior engineer’s responsibility.
His jaw tightened. Something was off.
He reached out, intending to tap her shoulder lightly, but the moment his hand hovered near, Y/N jolted upright with a sharp gasp. Her blazer was rumpled, one sleeve slipping off her shoulder, and her hands flew to smooth it down, tugging at her skirt to cover her thighs. Her eyes, locked onto him.
“Oh my God—Mr. Wayne?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper, thick with sleep and panic. “I—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep, I was just—my task isn’t even done, I—”
“Y/N,” Bruce said, cutting through her stammering. “This isn’t your job.” He gestured at the diagnostics report on her screen, then the stack of papers marked with red ink corrections from someone else. “You’re an intern. You don’t even have to be here this late.”
Her face flushed, and she shrank back, hands twisting together.
“I’m so sorry, I know I shouldn’t—I just, they asked me to finish the diagnostics, and I thought if I stayed, I could—” She bit her lip, eyes darting to the floor. “I didn’t mean to mess up.”
Bruce’s expression softened, regret flickering in his chest.
His words had come out too harsh, like he was interrogating a suspect instead of talking to a kid who looked like she hadn’t slept properly in days. He glanced at the monitors again, noting the elegance of her code— efficient, with annotations that showed a mind sharper than most of his senior staff. Then he looked at the coffee cups, the robot figurine on her desk, the doodled circuits on her notepad.
She was drowning in work that wasn’t hers.
He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You didn’t mess up,” he said. “But it’s almost one in the morning. You shouldn’t be here.”
Y/N’s shoulders hunched, like she was bracing for a lecture. “I can walk home, it’s not far. I just need to—”
“No,” Bruce interrupted. “I’m driving you home. It’s too late for you to be out in Gotham alone.”
Her eyes widened, and she shook her head. “Oh, no, Mr. Wayne, I can’t—I mean, you don’t have to, I’m fine, really—”
“Y/N,” he said, his voice carrying the quiet authority that made boardrooms fall silent. “Please, I insist.”
She hesitated, glancing at her desk, then back at him.
The exhaustion in her eyes won out, and she nodded reluctantly.
“Okay. Thank you.”
Bruce waited as she gathered her things, shoving papers into a worn backpack and slipping her robot figurine into her pocket. He noticed her hands trembling slightly, nerves, or maybe too much caffeine. She followed him to the elevator, keeping a respectful distance, like she was afraid of taking up too much space.
In the parking garage, Bruce opened the passenger door of his sleek black Aston Martin. Y/N slid in, looking wildly out of place against the leather interior, her backpack clutched on her lap. As he drove, the city’s neon lights streaked across her face, and she stared out the window, silent.
“Where am I taking you?” he asked.
“East End, near Miller Street,” she said quietly, then added, “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”
Bruce’s grip on the wheel tightened.
He knew the East End too well...
Batman’s patrol routes often started there.
“You walk that alone at this hour?”
“Sometimes,” she admitted, then quickly added, “I’m careful.”
He didn’t respond, but his mind was already turning. Y/N, intern, staying past midnight on work that wasn’t hers, walking home through Gotham’s worst streets. He’d seen her kind of talent before... vulnerable to being chewed up by a system that didn’t care. And he’d been too distracted, too absent from Wayne Enterprises, to notice it happening under his nose. They pulled up to a modest apartment building, its brick facade tagged with faded graffiti.
Y/N hesitated, then turned to him. “Thank you, Mr. Wayne. Really. I’m sorry again for—”
“Stop apologizing,” he said, meeting her eyes. “And tomorrow, you leave at five. If anyone asks you to stay late or do their work, you tell them to talk to me.”
Her lips parted, but no words came out.
She nodded, then slipped out of the car, her backpack slung over one shoulder. Bruce watched until she disappeared into the building, then drove off, the files he’d come for still in his coat pocket. As he merged into Gotham’s late-night, he made a mental note:
it’s that voice. a hand comes to the small of your back n you subconsciously lean into BRUCE WAYNE’s direction, you feel his lips brush the outside of your ear, warm breath washing over your pebbling skin, “a little boring, isn’t it?” he remarks, poking fun at his stuffy birthday party. the way he talks, low and gravelly, huskily whispering to you like a secret. you don’t even realize you’re smiling as you fit into his side like puzzle pieces, his thick arm strapping around you. you’d expect him to rear by now for decency’s sake, but he closes in the minute space again, “you wouldn’t be interested in… taking a tour, would you?” it’s some kind of bid for a thrill, chasing you down into an abandoned corridor to get your back up against a wall. cupping your cheek so he can mouth at your neck, his nose bumping your dangling earring with a melodic jangle. he’s subtle in the way he herds you deeper into his mansion, wandering hands causing you to squeak n scurry a little faster when he tries to pull a dress strap down or pinch at your behind. away from prying eyes, he can express his want freely, and he knows how much you love feeling desired - the kind of lust that causes him to throw away propriety, act like a debased man trying to get you to giggle n scold him. that knowledge evokes his reaching fingers, boyishly clutching at the skirt of your dress just at the underside of your ass to tug you back into him. it earns him a chide of his name, glancing at him over your shoulder when he’s able to press your backside into his hips. in an embrace, he grasps your jaw to turn your head so he can capture your lips in a kiss, his other hand frisking you over your outfit while he swallows your weak protests. it’s all in the name of fun, of course, the possibility of getting caught in the hallway outside the party room gets your blood pumping. he speaks against your lips, “why don’t i show you the master bedroom?” you grin, and you nod in his hold.
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