Hold still is so cute! Could you write something with a similar tone for bruce wayne again? Maybe they find a quiet moment away from the crowd at one of his charity galas to share an intimate dance?
𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓 𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒
• bruce wayne
{summary} a quiet dance with bruce
{content} established relationship
The ballroom is dazzling in the way Wayne Foundation galas always are — chandeliers throwing gold light over a sea of silk and champagne flutes, a string quartet doing its best to be heard over polite laughter. You've been to a dozen of these. You could probably recite the seating chart in your sleep.
But you never get tired of watching Bruce work a room like this.
He's up at the podium now, one hand resting easy on the edge of it, the other tucked into his pocket like he hasn't got a single care in the world. The Bruce Wayne smile is doing its job — easy, a little self-deprecating, exactly charming enough to make the donors feel like they're in on some private joke. You know better. You know the tightness at the corner of his jaw that no one else would catch, the way his eyes are doing quick, practiced sweeps of the room even as he delivers a line about the foundation's new youth outreach numbers.
And then, for just a second, his gaze finds yours.
It isn't long. A donor wouldn't even notice it. But something in his expression eases, just slightly, like he needed the anchor point. Like the whole speech was for the room, but that half-second was for you.
You bite back a smile and lift your glass to him, small and private. He almost — almost — loses the thread of his sentence.
The applause comes a few minutes later, warm and generous, and then the foundation's board chair steps up to say a few words about the evening's fundraising total. The room's attention shifts. Bruce's doesn't.
He comes down off the little stage with the unhurried ease of a man who has nowhere to be, weaving through the crowd with a nod here, a handshake there, never quite stopping. And then he's in front of you, and his hand finds yours like it was always going to.
"Come with me," he says, low, just for you.
"Bruce, you're supposed to be mingling—"
"I mingled." He's already pulling you gently toward the tall glass doors at the far end of the room, half-hidden behind a curtain of pale drapery. "For two hours. I get a break."
You don't argue. You never really do, not about this.
The balcony air hits cool against your skin after the crowded warmth of the ballroom, a relief that makes you exhale without meaning to. Gotham spreads out below in its usual glittering sprawl, and behind you, muffled through the glass, the quartet has started up something slow.
Bruce doesn't say anything right away. He just turns to face you, and for a moment he's not smiling the gala smile anymore — just looking at you, something unguarded in it that he doesn't let many people see.
"You did good in there," you tell him.
"I always do good in there," he says, but there's a wry, tired edge to it. "It's exhausting."
"I know." You reach up, straighten a lapel that didn't need straightening. "You looked at me. During the speech."
"Did I." Not a question. His mouth curves.
"Very unprofessional of you."
"Terribly." He catches your hand where it rests on his chest, doesn't let it go. The music drifts out through the closed doors, soft and indistinct, more feeling than melody. "Dance with me."
"Out here? There's no floor. There's barely music."
"There's enough." He's already drawing you in, one hand settling warm at your waist, the other still folded around yours. "I don't need a floor. I need five minutes where I'm not Bruce Wayne."
That undoes you a little, every time. You step into him, let him lead you into an easy sway that has more to do with closeness than choreography, your feet barely moving, his forehead dropping to rest against yours.
"Just Bruce," you murmur.
"Just Bruce," he agrees. "For five minutes."
You dance like that — slow, wordless, the party a warm blur of sound behind glass and the whole city glittering beneath you like it's holding still just for this. His thumb traces small, absent circles at your waist. Your hand curls into his lapel like you could keep him here if you just held on tight enough.
"They're going to notice we're gone," you say, eventually, though you make no move to pull away.
"Let them." His voice is quieter now, rougher at the edges — the version of him that only comes out when it's just you. "I'll go back in. Shake a few more hands. Write a few more checks." A pause, his hand tightening slightly at your waist. "I just wanted this first."
You tip your head back to look at him, and whatever he sees on your face makes something in his shoulders loosen further, like he's set something down he's been carrying all night.
"Five minutes," you remind him softly.
"Five minutes," he says, and doesn't move to go back inside. Not yet.
The music plays on, faint and far away, and for a little while longer, Gotham can wait.
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Do you have any headcanons for Bruce with a flat chested lover? 👀
as a flat chested girlie myself, i will say this once and once only: BRUCE WAYNE LOVES YOUR BOOBS!!! NO MATTER HOW BIG OR SMALL THEY ARE!!!!!
he just loves the close proximity with you whenever he lays his head on your chest. and trust me when i say bruce wayne does not give a shit whether your boobs are big or not. the warmth your chest radiates is more than enough for him.
and bruce's favorite is for sureeee inhaling your scent, your scented body wash and perfume making his brain hazy in a way that relieved all the stress and exhaustion from his body.
bonus is when you're running your hands through his hair while he tiredly mumbles about last night's patrol or if he was super exhausted, you would talk about your day while your hands continued to play with his hair. and from your touch, voice and warmth alone, it would never fail for him to fall into a deep slumber, face still resting on your chest <3
summary: An invitation to the Iceberg Lounge was supposed to be just another night beside your father. Instead, it becomes the beginning of questions you can no longer ignore. While Batman uncovers evidence buried beneath Gotham's elite, a single night of lies, politics, and hidden meetings pushes you one step closer to discovering who William really is.
“You should get some sleep.”
Alfred said, his cane resounding in the Manor, leaving a cup of coffee in-front of Bruce.
“Her father, Alfred,” Bruce said briefly. “Her dad is a bad man.”
The statement and affirmation made Alfred stay in silence, watching the files extended all over the table; Falcone's legal records, Wayne Foundation donations, financial statements, property transfers. Newspaper clippings and a photograph of William leaving a fundraiser.
“He pretends to be a good lawyer.” Alfred murmured, grabbing the photograph. “He knew your parents. He’d built a remarkable reputation as a lawyer since the beginning.” Alfred said, making Bruce look at him with attention. “But… he made himself a fortune, and money, Master Wayne, always blinds you.”
“He does something, he did something to that money.” Bruce affirms, grabbing the document you’d ask for, eyeing the name of the Hospital you’d say it was wrong.
“She turned pale when she read that.” Alfred closes her eyes shortly, remembering your painful face. “Poor thing, it’s was seeing her world ripping apart.”
Bruce made a small grim, almost of pain just to imagine your face. Because he already have seen how uncomfortable you’d get with your father. He wanted to know more about it. More about you.
He was aware he was bad at any type of interaction, he lack of social skills, yet he still was a good observant. He analyze everything, his intuition always getting him a good answer, a good path to follow. Bruce believe in him., he believe in what he felt and watch.
Watching you was a new reason to keep investigating your father. Because he already had an eye on him, but also in you. The two of you being a reason to investigate Gotham’s wealth people, that was before founding you didn’t know anything. You were as lost as he was trying to found an answer.
“I should tell Gordon.”
“Commissioner Gordon?” Alfred said, also grabbing the papers, reading. “He is not going to believe you. William seems to be very wise and careful. You need more proof, Master Wayne.”
“I will have it.”
———
The heavy thud of his boots disappeared beneath the steady rain. Water dripped from the edge of his cowl as Batman crossed the rooftop without slowing. Gotham blurred into streaks of red and blue below him, the city breathing through sirens and distant traffic.
He kept an eye watching her silhouette fading into her apartment. That was his signal.
His wet figure move silently into the dark alleys when he touched the ground.
The familiar knock came long after midnight. Selina didn't bother asking who it was. A small smile tugged at her lips as she unlocked the door.
"Long time no see, Bat."
The apartment was dimly lit, the warm glow from a single lamp spilling across the hardwood floor. Two of her cats immediately wandered toward the doorway, brushing against Batman's boots as if they already knew him.
Bruce barely glanced down. “I've been busy.”
“Mm.” She crossed her arms. “I can tell.”
There wasn't even the slightest hint of a greeting before a worn photograph appeared between them, Bruce held it out. “What do you know about him?"
Selina let out an exaggerated sigh. “Yeah.” She plucked the photo from his gloved fingers. “I've been good too.”
Silence, so she laughed under her breath. “Still terrible at conversations… Come in.” She stepped aside, allowing him into the apartment.
The place was small but comfortable—plants near the windows, records stacked beside an old turntable, cat toys scattered carelessly across the floor. One of the cats leaped onto the couch while another continued rubbing against Bruce's leg.
He stood in the middle of the room, cape pooling around his boots, already studying every exit, every window. Selina noticed the way he was looking around.
“Nice apartment, I know.”
The no answer from Bruce, made her roll her eyes at his reaction. So her attention returned to the photograph.
A tailored suit with a confident smile. “William."
Batman's head lifted almost instantly. “You've seen him.” It wasn't a question, he automatically said the phrase.
Selina nodded once. “I mean... yeah.” She tilted the photograph beneath the light. “He's rich. Powerful. The type of guy who thinks money can buy anything.” She looked back at Batman. “So of course he goes to Forty-Four Below.”
“Forty-Four Below?”
"You remember."
Their eyes met. Selina smiled briefly. “The club underneath the club.”
Batman remained still. Of course he remembered; the music, the guards, the fights. All the secrets hidden beneath Gotham's wealth.
Selina smirked. “You made a mess there.”
“How often?”
She leaned against the kitchen counter, thinking. “Not every night, but very often.”
Batman stayed silent, waiting.
She sighed. “The first few times I thought he was just another businessman looking for… girls or drugs.” She looked back down at the photograph. “But William doesn't drink much or anything. He doesn't flirt.”
Bruce's eyes narrowed. “So why's he there?”
Selina met his gaze. “He talks,” A beat of silence, still looking at the picture, like if she was choosing the words she was about to say. “To the wrong people.”
Batman's jaw tightened. “Penguin?”
“Sometimes, yeah.” She nodded. “Other times... people I've never seen before.”
“What kind of people?”
“I don't know, men in suits, expensive ones.” She folded her arms. “They show up through the private entrance. No names. Security clears half the room.” Batman processed every word. “They disappear downstairs.”
“Downstairs?”
“Past 44.” She murmured.
His gaze sharpened. “There's another level?”
Selina smiled faintly. “I never found the door.”
"You tried."
"I always try.” She said. “They don’t allowed anyone, not even girls with pretty faces.”
For the first time that night, Batman's voice softened—only slightly. “What happened?”
“They're just… careful, they don’t care if you’re pretty or good, they’ll get rude at you.” She handed the photograph back. “So whoever your friend is…”
“He isn't my friend.”
“Then whoever William is…” Her expression lost its teasing edge. “He's involved in something lower than the Lounge.”
Batman tucked the photograph back into his hands. “I need inside.”
Selina gave a quiet laugh. “I figured.”
“You can get me in.”
She raised an eyebrow at his response. "You know, I thought you wanted me to do the job."
“I wouldn't ask it again.”
She stared at him for a long moment. Selina nodded absentmindedly before her eyes drifted back to the picture Bruce was about to tuck inside his belt. “Wait.”
Bruce stopped. “What?”
She frowned, thinking. “William,” Her expression shifted with recognition. “He has a daughter, right?”
Batman's eyes stayed on her, struggling hard to keep his composure. “Yeah.”
“I've seen her.” Selina looked up at him, biting her long nails as she think. “She was there.”
Bruce didn't move. “When?” His heartbeat was going off. He wanted to hear that you didn’t have anything to do with your father’s business.
“A few months ago.” She shrugged lightly. “She wasn't downstairs. Just upstairs.”
“Iceberg Lounge?”
“Yeah.” Another pause. “She looked…” Selina searched for the right word. “...out of place.”
Bruce's brow furrowed beneath the cowl. “Out of place.”
“Like she didn't want to be there.” Selina folded her arms. "I remember noticing her because everyone else was drinking, laughing, doing the drop,” She shook her head. "She just sat there.”
Bruce said nothing, the scene already making him think of you, the way Selina was describing you being a familiar behavior to him.
“Honestly,” Selina admitted, “I figured William dragged her along for appearances.”
“What makes you say that?”
“He kept introducing her to people.” Selina exhaled, turning around to pet of her cats meowing for her attention. “You know, politicians, judges, men with expensive watches and suits… She’d smile whenever he looked at her.” Selina's voice softened. “And the second he turned away…” She looked back at Bruce, who was watching every movement she’d do. “She looked miserable.”
The apartment fell quiet. Bruce lowered his gaze for only a second.
Just long enough to remember the surveillance footage; the charity gala. the way you'd smiled for the cameras. The way that smile disappeared the moment no one was watching.
He'd seen it too.
————
The Friday night was quiet. Painfully quiet. The kind of silence that forced you to think. It made you wonder when the last time you'd actually enjoyed a Friday night was, when the last time you'd laughed without forcing it, when the last time you'd genuinely smiled.
The questions alone were enough to bring tears to your eyes. All you could think about was your mother.
You could still remember the scent of her perfume—soft, never too sweet. The way her perfectly painted red nails always rested against the mug she carried from room to room. The warmth of her smile. The sound of her laugh that somehow made every corner of the house feel alive. She had always been there.
Even before she got sick, the two of you had been inseparable. Friday nights had belonged to the two of you. Baking until the kitchen was covered in flour, watching old movies wrapped in the same blanket, wandering through little bookstores and boutiques just because she loved seeing your eyes light up whenever you found something you liked.
Back then, Fridays meant home. Now they only reminded you of everything you'd lost. The memory struck like a knife to your chest.
A broken sob escaped before you could stop it.
Another followed. Your trembling fingers clutched your mother's journal against your chest as if holding it tightly enough might somehow bring her back. Tears blurred the worn pages until you couldn't read another word.
You missed her.
God… You missed her so much.
Maybe this was grief finally catching up to you. Grief never arrived the way people said it would. It wasn't loud. It didn't announce itself. It waited patiently until you thought you were doing better, until you convinced yourself you were strong enough to keep going, and then it knocked the air from your lungs.
You had spent years postponing it. Burying yourself in work. Smiling through charity galas. Pretending everything was fine because your father expected it to be. Because if you let yourself fall apart, you weren't sure you'd ever be able to put yourself back together again. The hardest part wasn't that she was gone, it was knowing she'd never come back, you would never hear her voice again. Never ask her what dress looked better, never call her after a difficult day at the office, or you had a fight with your father, never hear her tell you that everything would be okay.
That kind of pain had no name. It simply… stayed.
Your gaze drifted toward the rain tapping softly against your bedroom window. A thought had been growing inside you for years. It was quiet, persistent. You'd ignored it every single time.
But now, now it refused to stay buried. Something about your mother's death had never felt right, but you couldn't explain it, you couldn't prove it. It was just only a feeling—a whisper at the back of your mind that had followed you ever since the funeral.
William had changed afterward: too careful, too controlled.
Too quick to shut every door whenever business was mentioned.
Even after you started working alongside him, he never truly let you in. Every answer was vague. Every conversation ended before it really began. The journal hadn't created your suspicions. It had simply given you a voice. Deep down, you'd wanted to investigate your father long before you ever found these pages. You just hadn't been ready. Not until now, not until you had something to hold onto.
Something that looked enough like the truth to finally make you question the man you'd spent your entire life trusting, because your mother had been question him too, before.
The exhale you left made you close your eyes still watching the soft rain, ignoring your phone and just standing up the bed to grab the small necklace its been laying in your beside table. It was your mother’s, the small silver cross she always used to wear and asked for you to keep it. You couldn’t even look it without crying.
“I miss you, mom.” You’d whisper grabbing the delicate jewelry, feeling your eyes getting wet again. “I’ll found answers, I promise.”
“Y/N?” Your father’s voice made you jump out, scaring you. “Can I come in?”
“Yeah…” You said, wiping your nose and putting the journal under your pillow. “What’s up?”
“You have plans tonight?” Your father said, watching you, smiling briefly while he fixed his freshly cleaned white dress shirt.
“Uhm—” You frowned, not understanding his question, remembering if you had forgotten any event. “No— I—did I forget something?”
“No, sweets.” William laughed softly. “You’re coming, then.” He almost ordered you. “Put something pretty, fancy, heels. I don’t know.”
You looked at him, feeling nervous at his now serious gaze. “I… I thought you have dinner with the city council.”
“I do.”
“Then…”
“You're coming.” He repeated, walking towards your bed. His voice was cold, no explanation needed.
You hesitate, looking aways from his gaze, still holding your mother’s necklace. “I don't really feel like going, dad.” You whispered.
William doesn't even look up while fixing his sleeves. “It wasn't a request.” This time he put on his knees, to look at your face. “I want you to meet the city council, officially. So get ready.”
The black eyeliner and concealer couldn't quite hide the redness around your eyes. Every time you thought about your visit to Wayne Enterprises—the approval letter, the missing records, the realization that something was undeniably wrong—you felt your chest tighten all over again.
You haven’t told a word to Ashley.
As much as you wanted to, you couldn't bring yourself to drag your friend into something complicated. Things were already too delicate, too uncertain, to speak about it. With a quiet sigh, you slipped into a simple black dress with long sleeves. A pair of black tights made you feel a little less exposed, and after fastening your high heels, you hurriedly brushed your hair into place, barely glancing at your reflection.
“Let’s go, let’s go, council's waiting for me.” Your father’s rushed and impatient voice echoed through the hallway.
You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone and keys before hurrying out of your bedroom. “Well, I wasn’t told before I had to fucking be ready in five minutes.” You muttered under your breath, as you nearly jogged down the staircase, one hand gripping the railing to keep yourself from tripping in your heels..
“Oh, c’mon, don’t be angry,” He opened the front door without slowing down. “I think you'll like where we're going.”
You frowned as you followed him toward the garage, where two suited men were already waiting beside one of the black sedans. “Where are we going?” you asked, climbing into the back seat after him. “You still haven't told me.”
William straightened the cuff of his jacket before answering. “The Iceberg Lounge.”
Your stomach dropped. “The... Iceberg?”
He nodded as if it were the most ordinary place in Gotham. “The City Council likes to hold certain meetings there.”
You tried to hide the way your breath changed at his answer, you just nodded, gripping your phone tightly and keep in silence. You hummed quietly, turning your attention toward the rain streaking across the window.
You'd been there before. Just two time but enough to know your father keep his nights there. Back then, you'd convinced yourself it was work. Then, for a while, you wondered if there was another woman, if he’d an affair even after your mother had passed away.
But now, neither explanation felt convincing. Your fingers absentmindedly brushed against the edge of your phone resting in your lap.
The approval letter.
The missing hospital records.
The money that had seemingly vanished.
A knot tightened in your stomach. Maybe this wasn't just another dinner, maybe, this could be the first real opportunity you'd had to stop wondering, and finally start looking.
You kept your expression perfectly neutral. If William noticed the shift in your thoughts, he could notice it, you’d to pretend you were angry about the suddenly invitation—or order— you needed to be neutral about it.
Because if something is wrong, maybe tonight you'll finally see it with your own eyes.
————
“Bat, can you hear me?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. Twins’ down. It’s clear, hurry up.”
Batman crouches on a rusted maintenance beam above Forty-Four Below. The bass from the club upstairs is muffled now, replaced by quieter conversations, clinking glasses, and the low hum of people.
He watches a guard checks a hallway and another unlocks a reinforced door. Bruce doesn't move until their timing creates a gap.
So he drops.
One guard barely has time to turn before Bruce drives an elbow into his ribs, catches the man before he crashes into a table, and lowers him to the floor. The second reaches for a gun, way too slow for him.
Bruce traps the wrist, twists it away, lands two fast body shots, and sweeps the man's legs out from under him. The pistol skids across the floor. He disappears into the hallway before anyone else realizes something's wrong.
Bruce could even hear his own heartbeat at the adrenaline while he walks hurriedly lookin for the door Selina told him to look at his left. “I got it.”
“You better be quick. Ozz will know when something it’s off.”
Bruce just hummed, turning to his right quickly to find the door. He needed answers.
Maybe not only for you. But because that was what he fight for.
For the truth.
Vengeance.
————
The bass and music from the club made you frown your eyebrows while you were walking into the place.
You were walking behind your father, as usual, grabbing his elbow just slightly to follow him. The music started to fade as William guided you toward a a more private hallway, moving into people dancing and drinking.
You slowed your pace watching how you were getting far from the club.“Wait. We’re not staying here?”
William barely looked back. “No.” He continued walking to the hallway, reaching a elevator door, a man standing there, already smiling to your father. “The meeting's downstairs.”
“Hey, man.” The grey hair man smiled, greeting your father, and also looking at you. “Never thought of seeing your princess here.”
“She need to learn business, ain’t she?” He said like you weren’t standing beside him.
Both them laughed, making you smile briefly when your father looked at you. “C’mon in, sir.”
When the door closes, you exhaled, nervously. “I thought this was just a club.”
“It is.” William looked at you, smiling faintly. “We just need something a little more… private.”
You nodded once. That made sense. Didn't it?
Your eyes wandered over the hallway when the elevator opens. The security was heavier than upstairs, there were cameras all over, same as guards in every corner. They were circle tables with couches taken by men and pretty girls, drinking, smoking, talking.
A strange feeling settled in your chest. You couldn't explain why, maybe it was because, for the first time, you feel like you weren't looking at this place as William's daughter. You were looking at it as someone who had questions, and wanted answers.
William noticed you scanning the room, he leaned closer, murmuring. “Here.” He grabbed your arm to guide you.
“William, my friend!” A man in an expensive suit approached with a bright smile. They shook hands, hugging each other. “So this is your daughter?”
You stood beside him, smiling politely, nodding. “Hi.”
William rested a hand lightly against the middle of your back. “It is. Sweetheart, this is Harry, the City Council.” He said, making you smile briefly again at him.
“She's beautiful.” Harry, smiled greeting you with his hand.
“She get it from her mother, right darling?”
You forced another smile, laughing uncomfortable. “Yeah, right.” You follow them when they’d sit on the comfy couches, watching how more men started to approach your table. You’d exhale already feeling overwhelmed just to look around and see many politicians talking with councils, judges, like it was normal.
“... William's been saying wonderful things about you.” The man voice made look you looked up from your untouched glass. An older councilman smiled warmly across the table. “I imagine you'll be taking over the firm one day.”
A few people around the table chuckled, you’d smile shyly, but nodding at them, unsure. “I don't know about that,” you replied with a small smile. “I've only been helping him for a little while.”
“But you do work with your father, right?” another man asked, resting his whiskey against the table. “Learning the ropes?”
Before you could answer, William spoke. “She helps around the office. His voice was calm, grabbing his almost empty glass. “Mostly administrative work.”
You frowned slightly.
Administrative?
That wasn't entirely true., you drafted contracts, reviewed case files—sometimes, sat through meetings, and actually, saying something. You even went to law college for him, so your father trusted his work to you with far more than answering emails.
The councilman laughed. “I see… getting her ready, then.”
William smiled politely. “She still so young for it.”
“What kind of law are you most interested in?”A woman beside you asked, smiling while the cigarette was almost hitting your face.
You opened your mouth. “I've actually been helping with—”
William cut in without missing a beat. “C’mon, we’re here to enjoy not to talk about law."
The woman laughed, nodding at William. “You’re right. You must keep her pretty head busy with cases—let’s keep drinking.” She weirdly laugh, grabbing your untouched glass of whiskey towards you. You didn’t hate the taste of it, but it’s been months since you last had alcohol, and right now, you wanted to be full aware to every word said.
“Yes, we don’t want the princess to get bored.”
Everyone smiled, and when the conversation drifted to anything else, you looked at your father. He hadn't even glanced in your direction, he was drinking, as if nothing had happened.
“… Dad.” He turned just enough to acknowledge you.
“What?”
You lowered your voice, making sure no one was looking. ”Why didn't you let me answer?”
A faint crease appeared between his brows. “There wasn't anything to answer.”
“They asked what I do.”
“And I answered.”
“But they asked me, not you.”
William's expression remained pleasant for anyone watching. Only his eyes hardened and he dryly chuckled, murmuring, “Not here.”
Your tightened your jaw, exhaling, turning around to see everyone. Honestly, it didn’t even surprise you at his attitude. Your father’s has always been a manipulative, even when your mom was still alive, he used to always control you, but your mom was there to easy it.
Not anymore.
One councilman laughed. “We couldn't have gotten that hospital proposal through without you.”
William smiled. “It was a team effort.” Your attention got back at the table at the words.
A hospital?
You tried to keep your face neutral. Your pulse quickened, you wanted so bad to ask, to look at your father and ask him.
Before you could hear anything else, and open your mouth, William turned toward you. “Excuse me for a moment.” He smiled politely for the room and you, “The council and I have a few private matters to discuss.”
You blinked, smiling just briefly. “Oh... okay, but—” You nodded, watching him smiled at you, and grab your shoulder.
“I'll be right back.” His hand squeezed your shoulder, ignoring you.
Then he disappeared through another door with three council members. The smile slowly slipped from your face. For a minute, you simply sat there, watching how the men and women there didn’t pay attention to you anymore, making you feel better.
You looked down your phone and watch the hour, then looked back at the way your father disappeared, feeling your anxiety started to grow. You watched one of the man sat there, maybe your opportunity to get some information was there. But the idea already made your head dizzy and your heart was pounding heavy in your throat, you couldn’t do it. Because you knew those men were loyalty to your father, they wouldn’t say shit even if you flirted with them—which you would never, of course.
So you just rolled your eyes at your coward attitude, standing up toward the bar, moving carefully to not jump into anyone, feeling the creepy looks to your body.
“I’ll just have sparkling water, please.” The bartender nodded when you reached the bar.
“You don't drink?”
The voice beside you made you turn. A woman dressed entirely in black—like you, but she had this hot pink wig on, leaned casually against the counter, smiling softly at you.
“Oh…” You murmured. “I do, just… not tonight.” You smiled back, and turning to grab your glass of water.
“Not tonight and others nights, right?”
You frown at her, confusing. “Uhm… do we know each other?”
“Oh baby, we know everyone who comes around.”
You kept the eye contact, even if her eyes were scanning deeply yours to the edge you couldn’t hold it. “It’s my first time here.”
“I know.” She murmured nodding. “I’m Selina.” She smiled briefly. “Be safe.”
—————
The office door stood only a few feet away, locked.
Bruce removed a thin lock pick from one of the compartments on his utility belt. The metal clicked softly against the mechanism, his gloved fingers barely moved when he tried to open it.
Another click.
The lock released, but he caught the handle before it could spring back and slowly pushed the door inward.
Darkness greeted him but the smell hit first, it smelled like expensive cigars, leather and old whiskey.
The office was bigger than he'd expected.
A heavy mahogany desk dominated the center of the room. Shelves lined the walls, filled with expensive liquor bottles, framed photographs, and leather-bound ledgers that looked untouched.
Everything was immaculate.
Too organized and clean.
Penguin wasn't the kind of man who kept things organized, which meant someone else did. Bruce closed the door behind him until only a narrow sliver remained open.
His eyes adjusted quickly. He didn't head for the desk. Instead, he studied the room.
Most people just didn't know how to read it, but since he started his nights activities, he become quite expert in it. The framed painting behind the desk hung a fraction lower than the others, and a scratch marked the wooden floor beneath it. So he automatically approached, his gloved fingers slid carefully along the frame, bit there was nothing.
He checked beneath it. Still nothing.
Then his hand found a tiny piece of cold steel tucked beneath the lower edge. A release latch, he pressed it. It was like if he already knew.
A quiet mechanical click echoed through the room. The painting shifted outward by less than an inch, making Bruce pulled it open, it was a wall safe.
“Of course.”
“Oh, you talk.” Selina’s voice made him almost jump.
“I’m focus.” His hard and impatient voice made her shut instantly. “M’ trying to open his safe.”
The safe required a keypad. Bruce reached into another pouch on his belt, removing a compact electronic decoder. He clipped two wires onto the keypad, the numbers flickered across the tiny screen, and the device cycled through combinations with silent precision.
Almost fifty seconds after, Bruce’s gaze drifted toward the crack beneath the office door, until it light it unlocked. The heavy steel door swung open.
Inside, Bruce frowned at it, there was no cash or weapons or drugs. Just files— dozens of them, neatly labeled.
Construction permits. Campaign donations. Shipping manifests. Financial audits.
Every document looked weirdly legitimate. Bruce frowned, he knew something about guys like Ozz, those criminals rarely hid illegal paperwork. They hid paperwork that looked legal.
He opened the first folder: invoices.
Nothing weird.
The second: tax records.
The third.
His hand stopped: Wayne Foundation.
The words alone were enough to tighten his jaw. Inside were grant approvals. Hospitals. Community shelters. Youth programs.
Each page carried Wayne Foundation letterheads alongside legal certifications.
Bruce turned another page, then another, page after page.
Something wasn't right, all he could read was all the amounts approved and the amount of the money received, but they didn’t match. He grabbed a pencil from the desk and quickly compared them, his gloves didn’t let him write properly, but it didn’t matter at all.
500 000 approved.
310 000 received.
Another.
800 000 approved.
400 000 received.
The missing money was always different, every time he read, always it disappear somewhere between approval and delivery.
His breathing slowed, he was thinking, focusing—someone was misusing the funds before they ever reached the hospitals. Bruce was never interested in his own enterprise, but Alfred were, always repeating him how that was the only thing he had left. He was the one always talking about how his parents care and put all their effort to make they Foundation work and to be honest.
He flipped to the authorization pages, realizing how every transfer had the same signature.
William.
Attorney of Record.
Bruce stared at the name, flipping trough all the sheets to look at the same thing.
“You.”
Not a mob boss, not a politician or a councillor.
A lawyer.
William wasn't stealing the money—or maybe he did keep something to himself—but the thing here was that he was making the theft invisible.
His breath was thick and shaky at the realization, his fingers gripping tightly the pencil. A yellow sticky note slipped free as Bruce lifted another folder, his hand caught it before it reached the floor, three words were written.
Gotham General Hospital.
Below them, written hastily in blue ink:
Hold distribution until W. approves.
Bruce's eyes narrowed.
W.
William.
His camera lens extended from the gauntlet on his wrist with a quiet mechanical whir, takin picture of every paper, of every transaction and every sign.
William wasn't working for Penguin, he was the reason Penguin's operation couldn't be traced.
A voice suddenly crackled through his earpiece.
“Bat.” Selina’s voice was ignored by Bruce, he was still taking pictures “Hey!” It was more urgent this time, almost screaming. “You need to leave.”
Bruce looked toward the office door. “What happened?”
“I just saw Oz. He's heading upstairs.” Her voice was rushed.
Bruce slid every folder back into its exact position, like nothing has ever happened.
“They found one of the guards.”
Footsteps echoed somewhere beyond the hallway, they were heavy and fast. “They know you're here.” Bruce could even hear her heels clicking quickly. “And by the way, the lawyer and the daughter’s here.”
Bruce’s breath shift while he quietly shut the safe, watching the painting clicked back into place. His cape settled behind him as he stepped toward the door fast. “Shit.”
—————
A crash echoes somewhere deeper inside the club, you frowned while turn around to bartender, who was already looking toward the loud sound.
Your eyes blinked automatically at the sound of glass shattering, feeling your heart staring to pound faster, you look around to see the people stop their movements for a second.
“HE'S HERE!”
That’s when everything stopped. One guard grabs his radio and another reaches for his gun, the room erupts into movement, but you stayed there seeing how the people stand, and how the politicians immediately head for the exits.
“You should leave, girl.” The bartender almost screamed at you, making you even more anxious.
“Where is—” Before you could even ask him, he was already leaving the place. You watched how everyone moved desperately, hearing a gun shot making you almost scream at the loud sound.
Unsure what to do, you grabbed your stuff before run into a hallway, you unlocked your phone to try to call your father. You'd run what it felt forever, jumping into scared girls, crying and men running everywhere. The scene making your body cold and shaky.
“Vengeance!”
You feel your pulse accelerate at the scream, looking around for any sign of your father. Another gun shot made you whimper, when you finally see what it looks an exit door, you pushed it, guiding you through a heavy service door. “Shit.” The door was heavy but it guided you into an alley behind the club.
The cold air hit you and the rain wetting your hair as soon as you step outside, still hearing the screams, multiple gun shots and glass being shattered. You breath was heavy and faster, grabbing your phone, with no answer from your father. “Pick up.” You whisper, jumping slightly at every loud gun shot you’d hear.
Then you hear heavy footsteps, you look up to see, scared already to any sound.
But you see him.
Batman steps out of the shadows. He's breathing harder than usual, his cape soaked and a cut along his jaw.
You both frozen. You remember the night you first met him in person, both nights being similar, you stood there, shocked and hearing behind you more screams. They were looking for him.
He recognizes you immediately.
And you recognize him too.
Batman.
“Outside!”
Before you could walk away, you feel your wrist being grabbed, not roughly, but firmly.
He pulls you into the narrow space between two dumpsters, one gloved hand lightly against the brick beside you to keep himself balanced as the men rush past the alley. Flashlights sweep across the rain, only you could hear his heavy breath.
You were shaking, confused, you didn’t even drink, but your head was dizzy.
“Go home.”
That’s the only thing you hear when he lets go of your wrist, and then disappears over the fire escape before you can even say a word, leaving you there, alone.
“Y/N!”
Your dad’s voice echoed through the alley, making turn around, still in shock confused. William was already walking toward you. His breathing was uneven, his tie slightly loosened, rain clinging to the shoulders of his coat. He looked angry.
“What are you doing out here?” He almost screamed at you.
“I was looking for you.” You said worried. “What happen—”
“I told you to stay downstairs.”
“I—I know, but everyone started running—there were people shouting, there were g-gunshots, I— panicked.” You murmured, looking at his eyes.
“You were supposed to stay where I left you.” His voice came out sharper than you'd ever heard it.
You blinked, confused. “I couldn’t be there, dad!” you frowned. “And—I thought something happened to you!”
"I'm fine.”
“But—”
“I said I'm fucking fine!”
The words cut through the rain, his yell echoed the dark alley, while you stared at him. He'd never spoken to you like that before.
“I just…” Your voice came out smaller. “I got scared.”
William rubbed a hand across his face. His eyes darted over your shoulder, he was watching—or looking for something.
He watched the rooftops, the fire escape. Then he look back at you.
“… Did anyone talk to you?”
“What?”
“Did you speak to anyone?”
“No.” You moved your head, frowning at his worried attitude. “Who—”
“I'm sorry.” You blinked at his suddenly apologetic voice.
“What?”
“I shouldn't have raised my voice at you,” William’s voice was now soft, grabbing your arm, and a tired smile appeared. “The council drink way too much, we couldn’t get an agreement.”
“I was worried.” You said, honestly you indeed were worried.
But now, seeing him all nervous, talking weirdly, scared of something, made you even more curious and mad, because he was hiding something, your father was hiding something. He was scared.
hellooooo, this might be a really weird ass request for the batfam but yeah. i was thinking of like maybe reader being at the winter olympic games and winning gold at 15 (inspired by my queen Alina) but Bruce only watching through the tv. reader looks really bummed out while being congratulated by her coaches and team, and them avoiding family related questions. can be fluff/angst.
So basically, Bruce Wayne (platonic, like father x purposely distant daughter) and a one shot, idrc if it's short but I'd appreciate it! + Also love ur art 👀
Pairing: Platonic!Bruce Wayne x daughter!reader
An: this one was short cus I lowk did this half awake and I just wanted to be done with it
The manor was unusually quiet today. Bruce sat in the living room, one elbow resting against the arm of his chair as the television illuminated the dark room. Alfred stood nearby with a tray of tea that no one had touched. “She skates next,” Dick murmured from the couch, bouncing one leg nervously.The camera panned across the packed Olympic arena before settling on a 15 year old girl standing at the entrance to the ice. The youngest athlete in the competition. The commentators couldn’t stop talking about her.
“Only fifteen years old!”
“If she lands everything today, she could become the youngest Olympic champion in over two decades!” Four minutes later you stood still in the middle of the arena. Then, The arena exploded. People from all sides were cheering you on, waving their Gotham City flags in the air. Even the commentators had abandoned professionalism.
“She did it! She actually did it!”
“That is the skate of a lifetime!”
Her coaches rushed onto the ice, one wrapped her in the flags. Another grabbed her face with both hands, crying harder than she was. Expect you looked oddly calm for the win, almost as if you didn’t care for it. Although he was watching from the television screen, he still knew you weren’t really celebrating.
The post-event interviews began, a smiling reporter approached
“Congratulations! Olympic Champion at fifteen! How does it feel?” You responded back nervously with “It… feels unreal.”
“What was going through your mind after your final jump?”
“I was mostly thinking not to fall.” Thr interview went on for a couple more minutes until the golden question “So! Your coaches were celebrating with you immediately. Your teammates looked thrilled.” The reporter smiled brightly “Where’s your family tonight?”
Ah…there it was.. “no..they couldn’t make it, unfortunately.” You had a slight frown but you quickly turned it around as to not arise suspicion or crazy fan theories.
But back in Gotham, Bruce muted the TV and walked back up to his room. You were coming home soon anyway, he’ll make it up to you then…hopefully. While Dick and Alfred looked back at the screen nervously. “Do you think she’ll want to come back at all? It seems like she’s having fun parading around with her friends.” Dick looked up at Alfred, he didn’t show it, but Alfred knew Dick was anxious about the possibility of you not coming back.
“There’s nothing I can do but call to see if she picks up. But until then, you should go to bed, Master Dick.”
| Synopsis: Bruce Wayne is in love with you. He doesn’t want to be.
| A/N: editing, reformatting & reposting this old thing because the previous layout was taking me out LOL. This was actually my first fic since coming back to writing last year, so I had to do her justice.
Bruce Wayne is in love with you. He doesn’t want to be.
The day he finally admits defeat, it brings him pain like no other. He knew it could be nothing short of love from the way he couldn’t stop thinking about you, or the ache that followed him when you weren’t around. No matter how hard he tried to push thoughts of you away, you snuck right back to the forefront of his mind, occupying space that the Batman had no room for. He ignored the feeling for as long as he could, hoping if he paid it no mind it would eventually go away. He needed it to go away.
Most people begin picturing a life with the person that has stolen every thought, every waking moment from them. But Bruce can’t. Where others picture life, Batman pictures death.
When the day comes that he can no longer push it away- when your love has seeped into every vein and cell in his aching body- a heavy, agonizing feeling settles deep in his chest. Reality sinks in, and misery is soon to follow.
His heart should be full of devotion for you, in his mind you deserve nothing less, but instead it’s full of fear. Fear of what happens when you dare to love someone in Gotham. When you dare to anything in this city except suffer, and die.
Flashes of his most horrible memories cloud his judgement. Consoling the inconsolable; parents losing children, children losing parents. Arriving at a crime scene just a few moments too late, the bodies warm but the eyes cold.
Cradling his son, his boy, as the smell of smoke burned down his throat with every heaving breath he took, knowing his Robin would never take one ever again. How he could still taste the bitter ash, days later, preparing for a funeral no father should ever have to attend.
Looking into the eyes of Barbara Gordon, feeling sick with guilt as a doctor tells her she would never be able to walk again. Never forgetting the way she crumpled upon herself and looked at him with utter ignominy, like she had been the one to fail him.
He was the Batman. He had trained himself to snuff out personal weakness for decades; perhaps even longer, from the moment that first pearl hit the ground. He could handle the memories and carry their weight, could concentrate enough to push them down and focus on the task at hand. He could handle the haunting echoes and flashes of horror, knowing he’d see much, much more before his life would end. He told himself he could handle the memories of those closest to him, the ones he had truly failed, and the burden that came with such a responsibility.
What he couldn’t handle was that all of them- every single one- blamed themselves for what happened, for not being strong enough. For feeling guilt, at letting him down. Knowing that they would do it all over again, and do it with unwavering pride, just to remain by his side.
No, he couldn’t handle that at all. Especially as he knew- knew with every fiber of his being- that you would follow suit if he stayed in your life. You would remain right by his side as he lulled you in with a false sense of security, leading you to wrongly assume your dark knight could protect you from any harm coming your way. It was almost too easy to picture his enemies laughing at him, giddy and licking their lips with bated breath, waiting for more tastes of flesh.
So no, he couldn’t imagine being happy with you, even if he wanted.
He’ll push you away, telling you it’s not safe to be with him, not worth it. Did you not know what happens to those closest to him? Did you want to be next? He’ll get on his knees if he has to, his blue eyes full of such despair, just begging you to leave. Begging you to run and never look back, to choose yourself and your happiness the way he was choosing for you.
He begs you to leave. You beg him to stay.
You’ll cup his cheeks and pull him close, telling him you will be okay. You even promise him so, not understanding you hold no power to guarantee such a thing. You kiss him and comfort him, tell him that he’s just worried on your behalf and you love him for it really, but he doesn’t need to be.
You cradle his head as he lays in your lap defeated, and run your fingers over his face with a kindness that doesn’t last in his city. Telling him that you can see a life for the two of you, despite the chaos. One he deserves, because good people always got what they deserve, right? Where you’re both happy, together, as you should be. Laughing together as you reminisce of old jokes, holding hands as you fall asleep, sharing soft stolen kisses under a blue sky; can’t he picture it too?
He closes his eyes, desperate to see it. To see himself living in a world where fear does not exist, sharing a long life with the person he loves. Never worrying about their safety, never having to. He tries, for a second. He really does.
But the clouds come back, and they bring rain. The same rain he’s sure will mercilessly fall on the newest plot at his family’s cemetery, splattering against a gravestone he’ll forever mourn at. He looks up into your warm eyes, already picturing them cold.
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‼️CONTENT WARNINGS : THIRD POV, Gender neutral reader! ,Mentions of Self mutilations, Bruce-centric fic, OOC! Damian Wayne, OOC! Barbara, slight religious themes if you squint, slight medical malpractice, Major injuries.‼️
Bruce’s eyes scanned through Saturday’s paper, searching for a specific column which is his unlikely favorite one. Gotham is [blank], his lips pressed into a thin smile reading the different responses, the different perspectives that formed the responses.
Gotham is Two-faced. Gotham is Killer Croc. Gotham is Batman. Gotham is the Bat’s city. Batman is sacred. Gotham is cursed.
Bruce’s eyes looked at the second to last one with a bit of confusion but brushed it aside. He rolled up the newspaper and walked to the grandfather clock; down to the entrance of the bat cave.
He stepped down the stairs that stretched onto platforms to the batcomputer to work on the ongoing case of a disappearing socialite in Gotham’s high society; it led to every dead end as if she had vanished into oblivion with only a name and her fortunes in hand. He pressed his inner comms that he hadn’t taken out yet.
“Oracle, do you have any traces of her phone?”
“Some cell towers in the upper side of Gotha—oh wait.” Barbara’s typing paused then started once more in a fast paced manner. “Now, she’s moving near the pier. I would suggest moving now before her signal dies.”
“Thanks Oracle.”
He started dressing in his batsuit, pulling up his suit and adjusting it so it would cover the vulnerable spots that weren’t covered with layers of Kevlar and top grade padding.
He arrived at the pier, Gotham’s salty breeze greeted him like a long forgotten friend. He held out his tracker and the red dot that showed that the signal had not moved, it was there; blinking and mocking him.
He looked around and then saw Robin looking down a cramped alleyway.
“Found anything?”
“The socialite is down there.”
He climbed down the rusted down emergency exits that looked too old. Bruce glided down to the alleyway, a shocked expression appeared on his face; the socialite was alive and breathing but she was mutilating herself by tearing at open wounds and pieces of fingers, ears, and a leg was scattered around the damp floor.
Batman instinctively pulled Robin behind him as he went forward to force a sedative injection in her bloodstream. He noticed her bloodied teeth and how the saliva mixture of clotted blood dribbled on the dirty floor. He tightened the tourniquets on areas where it was physically able to.
Hours had passed and the socialite was still unconscious. He watched as the emergency crews were picking up the socialite as he could feel the discomfort and shock melting off of them. They were gone, just like that. He and Robin quickly examined the scene before the area would be swarmed with police and media.
“Same thing, Robin?”
“That this wasn’t the actual scene?”
“Yes.”
Both made it back to the bat cave, Bruce took off his cowl as he watched Damian rummage through the files to see if anything matched with this case but there was none. Not a single one. This was peculiar case, none in Gotham. None in Metropolis.
Bruce sighed, rubbing his temples at the potential that this was simply a case of a wealthy socialite losing their mind but it felt a bitter taste in his mouth.
Sunday had arrived with anticipation as he looked at the morning’s paper to see that plastered on the front page was of the socialite’s discovery.
He sat down in the swivel chair in Batcave, staring at the headline in bold letters of a graphic description of the Socialite’s injuries and an image of her wrapped in bandages.
“Oracle?” He pressed his inner comms. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes. What do you need?”
“The socialite? I’m stuck in this case.” He stood up, arms crossed. “Any escapees from Asylum that went unnoticed? This case does not feel right…”
“None.” She typed on her keyboard. “No escapees. No discharges. I—wait, look at this…”
Bruce’s eyes widened as the video file was loaded onto the batcomputer, it was an Arkham security guard wheeling out a large rectangular box on a rusted dolly into a rented moving van. The date was stamped with Wednesday June 19th at 01:21.
“Oracle, I thought you said that there were no discharges?”
“It wasn’t a discharge, it was an item. You know how some people buy paintings or other things made by a resident in Arkham?”
“They still do that?”
“Yes.”
“Did—“
“Yup, it was from a comatose resident? That’s a bit…”
“I’ll go check it out. Thanks Oracle.”
Bruce stood with his arms crossed, brows furrowed in immense frustration in a way that could not be quelled with a single sip of a coffee.
He stood in the socialite’s hospital room that was littered with flowers and balloons; each bigger than the rest trying to overshadow the rest. He placed his bouquet in row with the rest as he sat down on the cushioned chair that was close to the hospital bed that cradled the fading socialite that was now bound by her remaining limbs.
“How are you?”
“Could be better,” she chuckled. “How are you?”
“I’m doing alright. These flowers are wonderful, which one is your favorite out of them all?”
“Oh…this one.”
She used her remaining finger to point at small dead bouquet with withered flowers.
“Who gave you that one?”
“An angel…” she gushed with fanaticism. “You should have seen them…You need to meet them! You must to enter—“
Her mouth moved rapidly and the stitches on her sewn together tongue had ripped open causing blood and the tongue itself to fall onto the floor. Repeating the mess of garbled words of an angel.
He pressed his head against his calloused palms while he drove towards the Asylum. Bruce stepped up the chipped marble steps that had been once used to drag hysterical patients inside.
His eyes looked around to see that the interior’s beauty wasn’t faded and much cleaner than usual when he would come in as Batman. He took in a breath and an exhale.
He sat across from the head director of the Asylum who is a softly smiling middle aged man by the name of Jeremiah Arkham.
“What do I own the pleasure, Mr. Wayne?”
“I have come to purchase something off of one of your residents?”
“Which resident, Mr. Wayne?”
“You’re not going to believe it but I don’t know the name of the resident.” Bruce shifted in his chair. “But I do know a good friend of mine purchased one on Wednesday.”
“Oh…that’s.” Jeremiah chuckled, pulling from a long metal cabinet; looking for one and a thick file that made a loud plop on his wooden desk. “They specialize in mannequins, quite good. You’d like to order how many?”
“Can you tell me their name? I would love to meet the artist before I order.”
“Oh…” Jeremiah’s face grew into a slight displeased expression. “That can’t happen…”
“Why not? Do you not want me to purchase something from here?”
“Yes but it is purely out of concern for your wellbeing, Mr. Wayne.”
“Why?”
“The artist is heavily medicated and out of safety for you, it would not be good to meet them when they are awake.”
“Oh…alright, can I at least know the name of the artist?”
“It’s [Name] Bogo…Bogo—molotov…no, it’s Bogomolova, I believe—I’ll write it down for you so you don’t forget.” He wrote down the name on a piece of paper and handed it to him. “Is that all, Mr. Wayne?”
Bruce nodded as he accepted the paper, putting it inside his pocket.
Bruce drove the way back home with an unknown sense of excitement in a way. Finally, a break in the case that was starting to burn away at his brain.
He quickly arrived at the Batcave as he input the name of [Name] Bogomolova in the Arkham’s database that was often lacking in security measures.
He breathed a sigh of relief at the files that unraveled in front of him; the single black and white admission photograph of [Name] with their eyes open, healed scars on both cheeks, another on their forehead and one on the lower jawline.
His eyes scanned the details and noticed that the administration was heavily medicating [Name], almost excessively. His blue eyes noticed how each time they were unmedicated the handwritings of previous doctors would go silent and a new one would appear like a never ending paper trail of a cycle.
“ …keep administration interference to a minimal degree to not fall under the patient’s words. Deadly charismatic to the point of self mutilation from interactions with said patient.”
Another page flip continues with him darting towards the doctor’s notes. Another new handwriting.
“Another doctor lost. We have to start cutting corners, some patients can go without their treatments.”
Bruce shook his head at the idea of trading one patient treatment for a dozen of others treatments as scapegoats.
“Limit all interactions. Permanent isolation if possible, all administration must wear ear covering when entering their room. Increase dosage, said patient has been heard whispering to inmates from the vents.”
The doctor notes ended with no further explanation. He scrolled to the next page which was suddenly the unusual newspaper clippings of [Name] translated from their native language to English.
[clipping ripped]”… found in a tragic state. Local authorities deem this a tragedy on both sides.”
“Locals have been hearing of the Angel, just a myth.”
“Another religious statuary found made with rotten corpses during the heavy snowstorm? A miracle or an ominous sign?”
“Local aristocrat found dead after suffering sepsis from self-inflicted amputation…”
“…The injured wife of a deceased wealthy man claims that an angel told them to do it!”
Bruce blinked as the files ended like an unsatisfactory ending to a book that was finally finished.
The familiar alert rang to his phone, checking it to see that it was a city alert in bold letters that said,” WARNING : DEADLY INMATE OF ARKHAM ASYLUM ESCAPED, [Name] BOGOMOLOVA. DO NOT INTERACT IF SPOTTED.”
Bruce quickly donned his batsuit as Robin eagerly joined him in the Batmobile. He turned to look at Damian with a familiar scowl.
“Damian, you can’t come.”
“No, Batman needs a Robin!”
“It’s dangerous—“
“I know that it’s dangerous but it’s never stopped us.”
“Damian, get out of the Batmobile. It’s for your own safety. This person is extremely dangerous.”
“I can—“
“No, you can’t.” He gripped the steering wheel.”“This person is not like the others. Please Damian, get out of the Batmobile. You… you can have extra time playing that game of yours.”
“Really?”
“Yup.”
Bruce smiled softly, seeing the boy scramble out of the Batmobile to eagerly play a game upstairs and out of the Batcave for once. He sighed in relief, driving out of the cave; his fingers hovered over the alerts to signal the other vigilantes that he knew would be prowling the streets of Gotham but he moved his fingers away to continue driving.
He started receiving an alert on his gps located in the Batmobile, it was on the richer side of Gotham as he drove over there with such intensity.
He opened the once beautiful manor that he had recognized during annual hosting galas. His eyes widened at the pure massacre at the blood and fingers, limbs scattered around the entire manor like discarded clothes that would be picked up be a maid or a butler.
Bruce entered the grand living room to only see the once familiar host, drenched in their own blood and missing limbs; hastily shoving large amounts of cash into the burning fireplace that crackled and popped with a hunger that Bruce never heard before. He wanted as the host dragged themselves to the mannequin that was intricately carved; real jewels covered them with a hand on your chest and an arm on the masked forehead.
Bruce pulled away as he stepped down the hall to the grand ballroom, covered in pools of sludges blood and identical mannequins all around the ballroom in different positions; some had their eyes covered, some were positioned in somewhat friendly manner, others had the praying motion. But it was difficult to remain calm when all of his senses were telling him to run, to drop this case like a dog who got shamed.
“There appeared to them cloven tongues as of fire,” the rasped voice whispered, “and they began to speak in other tongues.”
Bruce turned around expecting to see the rouge monologuing behind him that there would a greater plan to the destruction of Gotham. But there was none.
“We will scourge the flesh from the living carcasses of the rich. Their filthy gold will build our kingdom.”
The rasped voice continued to whisper into the crevices of Bruce’s brain. He shook his head as he stepped away to turn on his bat vision to see that it would be useless and dread; all of the mannequins had bones woven into their structure.
The sharpening of a blade as he turned and saw a person dressed identical to the mannequins, jumping onto him; it ripped. Bruce instinctively rose up his hand to block his face as the blade tore through the layered kelvar, through his hand; noting that there was no right hand but only a blade. He felt the blade slowly leave a scar on the right side of his lower jaw; the blood dribbling down.
He managed to push them off of him as it seemed that they were a relentless storm that never planned on stopping. Each slash, each cut and each whisper echoed through him.
No matter the punch nor the slash, nothing was stopping them. Their golden teeth glimmered in the hallway light and the metallic scent of blood stained the walls of the hallways which he finally recognized to be a symbol, just one symbol; a double layered cross with a circle on the second cross.
He heard the sirens of the police come, they were so close. He realized that they stopped attacking, moving backwards towards the bloodied disaster of the grand ballroom.
“Why are you doing this, [Name]? Money? Did someone put you up to this?”
“You cannot sacrifice with defiled hands.”
He threw a tether to forcefully plant them in the spot.
Batman watched them enter the back of the Batmobile, he had stuffed his ears with even more earplugs that they could handle.
He began the long drive back to Arkham, still hearing the whispering like nails on the chalkboard.
He could feel as if his grip was slipping in a way, as it wasn’t tight enough gripping the steering wheel. He arrived at the asylum, getting out to hand [Name] over to them but when he opened the latch for the back of the mobile. It had been opened, nobody was in the back.
bruce wayne is bisexual, zero question about it. he does have a slight presence towards women, but he has dated both and is attracted to both.
bruce wayne never really gave a second thought to his gender, he never looked particularly feminine so he had never been called a girl - at least not seriously. he had done drag as brucie wayne that one time and he didn't feel any discomfort, nor did he feel any euphoria. he's happy to be whatever, it would be perhaps odd if someone called him a girl, mostly because he has a very traditionally masculine frame rather than his own discomfort.
dick grayson ৴ nightwing
dick grayson learnt from bruce, (it runs in the family) but i view him as pansexual while being demiromantic and especially demisexual, it takes him a long time to form sexual and romantic attraction, he has to know the person inside and out in order to really form any non-platonic attraction. while he's playfully flirty, it is just playful - he has the capacity to love anyone regardless of any physical attributes, he just has to have a very intimate bond with them in order to do so.
dick grayson has never shied away from appearing as feminine, so what that he wore tight leotards? i do think he views himself as a man, he doesn't have any qualms with being a dude, but he doesn't lean into the whole 'this is maculine, this is feminine' ideology, he wears what he wants, whether that be a pink cardigan or dirty jeans. he does whatever hobbies he wants, he doesn't care if knitting is seen as a 'grandma' thing, but he also likes fixing his motorcycle. basically, he doesn't have discomfort with his sex and he wears / enjoys what he wants regardless as stereotypes regarding certain clothes or actives as a certain gender.
jason todd ৴ arkham knight
jason todd is aroace, case closed goodnight. yes i know i have x reader fics, i do have to take most of the batboys out of character to write them, at least in terms of how they'd actually be in a relationship. but if we're talking strictly canon, he's absolutely aroace to me. remember people, aroace doesn't mean absolutely zero nil romantic / sexual attraction, it means LITTLE to none - and i feel like that fits him
jason todd is male, i imagine him to have been picked on in school for being small and underweight due to his poverty and called girly for being smaller, i like to imagine it's peer of why he's so large as arkham knight, he feels uncomfortable with the idea of being a woman because of his past.
tim drake ৴ red robin
tim drake is bisexual, as said in canon, my own personal headcanon is that he's demiromantic though! he can have sexual attraction to anyone really, but it he really has to know someone to love them in a romantic sense
tim drake is pretty androgynous, he canonically looks like his mommy so i think he's been mistaken for a girl at first glance, especially when his hair was longer, he doesn't really mind but again i think he feels comfortable in his gender. however if we're talking personal headcanons that are a little ooc i do like to imagine him as transmasc, in which case he would hate his androgyny and just want to look like a man, he hates when his hair is longer, even if everyone says it suits him, because people the amount of people that misgender him goes up.
creator comments
i'm unfortunately still unwell asf, i had this in my drafts so i posted it to give some content lol! sorry this is so rushed and scrappy
