#brucewayne x reader

𝙳𝚒𝚕𝚏 𝙱𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚎 𝚆𝚊𝚢𝚗𝚎 𝚡 𝚆𝚒𝚏𝚎! 𝚁𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

𝘴𝘺𝘯𝘰𝘱𝘴𝘪𝘴: 𝘉𝘳𝘶𝘤𝘦 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯’𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘣𝘪𝘵, 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘦𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘰𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘶𝘭 𝘸𝘪𝘧𝘦 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘩𝘦𝘭𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

You heard the gravelly hiss of the Batmobile before you ever heard the door.

It was late — later than usual. Past 3 AM. You were curled beneath layers of soft blankets in your shared bed, the lamp on your nightstand casting a muted glow across the room. Warm hues against the cold tones of Gotham's moonlight outside.

Your bonnet was still tied neatly over your head, a silk wrap you always tucked on before Bruce got home. He would always grumble to see you’re still awake waiting for him but nonetheless he loved your pretty face being one of the first things he saw coming home.

You were drifting in and out of sleep, trying to wait up, like always. But the second you heard the front security panel ping and the quiet groan of your bedroom door creaking open…

You knew.

Your heart lifted even before your eyes opened.

He was home.

Bruce moved like a shadow — even when he was exhausted. Silent. Methodical. Heavy bootfalls padded into the room and stopped near the corner armchair. You peeked your eyes open just enough to see him shed the last remnants of the cowl, his black armor glinting faintly under the soft bedroom lighting.

His movements were tired tonight.

Slower.

But something in the slump of his shoulders, in the pause of his hands as they brushed through his thick black hair… felt off.

You stirred gently, sitting up, pulling the sheets around your chest.

He didn’t look up right away.

So you called to him.

“Hey… Bat-daddy.”

His head turned slightly, mouth twitching — just barely. A tired sound in his chest that could’ve been a chuckle.

“You should be asleep,” he said, voice rough from patrol. His tone always softened around you, even when it scraped like gravel.

“I was trying,” You exhaled, your brown eyes scanning his big figure. “But I knew you were coming home soon. You always get quiet when you’re limping.”

His brow rose. “I wasn’t limping.”

You crawl towards him on the bed, your plum colored nightie enhanced your soft curves. Your tummy grazing the mattress, your soft doughy legs kick behind you with your manicured toes in the air. You placed a hand on your cheek, your eyes gazing upon his tousled hair, bloody knuckles and chest.

“You were absolutely limping.”

He sighed and unlaced the final gauntlet with a low grunt.

Your eyes swept over him — his suit wrinkled with soot and movement, scuffed at the knees. His gloves, cracked in places. His jaw dusted with stubble, the smallest shadow of fatigue underneath those familiar sharp cheekbones.

But that wasn’t what caught your attention.

It was his hair.

When he leaned over to unclip his boots, the soft strands at the sides caught the light — and they weren’t black.

They were silver.

You blinked.

Not speckled. Not a single rogue strand like you’d teased him about years ago.

A *patch*. A streak. Stark and clear, gleaming like a whisper of time catching up to the myth.

Bruce looked up when he felt your silence.

And when he followed your gaze — he knew.

His shoulders stiffened.

“…I was going to cut it.”

You blinked, surprised. “Why?”

He didn’t answer immediately. His mouth worked slightly, as if searching for the words he wouldn’t let himself say. Instead, he sighed and turned toward the bathroom.

You were already climbing out of bed.

Bare feet hit the floor with a soft thud as you padded after him. The robe around your waist was silk — deep plum, nearly black in the low light. It shimmered slightly over your brown skin as you caught up to him, standing in the doorway of the master bathroom.

He stood at the sink, bracing his hands on either side of the marble, his head bowed.

You crossed the floor and gently reached up, fingers brushing into his hair.

He tensed.

Your hand paused.

And slowly… you threaded your fingers into the soft strands.

“You’re graying,” you whispered, lips barely moving.

“I know.”

You paused.

“And you’re bothered by it?”

He didn’t answer.

So you nudged him.

“Bruce.”

His eyes lifted to the mirror.

The expression on his face caught you by surprise — not embarrassment.

*Grief*.

“I’m getting older,” he muttered. “I know it. I feel it. I see it every night in the alleyway reflections. In the way the suit fits. The way it feels to come home.”

Your hand stayed in his hair, soft strokes grounding him.

“But I didn’t expect it to hit me like this.”

You blinked up at him. “Like what?”

He met your eyes in the mirror.

“I never thought I’d live long enough to gray.”

Your heart twisted.

There it was — the truth underneath it all. The thing only you ever got to see. He wasn’t upset about vanity. He was stunned by survival.

He never planned to grow old. Not in a cape. Not with scars on his ribs and silver in his hair. Not with you , warm in his bed waiting for him to come home.

And now that he was here… it scared him.

You wrap your soft arms around his solid waist. Your pudgy cheek squished against his scarred back. You squeeze him gently, inhaling his grief and his past differences of life. You see the stricken surprise and neither of you dared to say it but you and him both knew it.

He’s older than his father.

He never got to see him gray, and now.

He knew exactly what he looked like.

You squeeze him tightly, your soft lips peck the middle of his back.

“I think it looks sexy,” you said quietly.

Bruce blinked.

You let go and lift his heavy arm to stand in front of him, offered a soft sheepish smile. “Silver fox. Distinguished. Strong.”

He gave you a look in the mirror. “…Don’t say silver fox.”

You grinned. “Why not?”

“Because Clark will hear about it and never shut up.”

You bit your lip. “Oh… so this is about Clark?”

His jaw tightened. “…No.”

You tilted your head, a hand on top of your hip. “Bruce.”

“…Maybe.”

You blinked slowly. “Baby. He’s a Kryptonian.”

“That doesn’t mean his hair should stay perfect forever.”

“He’s literally solar powered.” You giggle as he lifts you from underneath your arms and places you on the cool marble.

“He should be the one graying. Saving everyone and cats lives.”

You stared at the slight pout forming at his lips. “…Are you competing with Superman over hair color?”

He scowled. “He’s not graying. I noticed it last week. He still looks thirty.”

You laughed softly, wrapping your arms around his neck. You place a chaste kiss to his lips and stare at his soft blue-grey eyes.

“You know what we’re gonna do baby?” you whispered. His warm callous hands squeezing your squishy sides.

He didn’t move.

You smiled.

“We’re gonna dye it.”

His brows lifted. “We—?”

“Yes. You’re gonna sit your tired Bat-butt down in that chair,” you said, pointing to the vanity mirror behind him, “and I’m gonna dye your hair while you sit there and grumble about it.”

He grunted, still half-scowling.

“You hate this idea,” you said gently.

“…I don’t like being fussed over.”

“You love it,” you corrected.

He didn’t reply.

But he did squeeze your waist once more before moving to the vanity room, his taut back stiff as he grumbled under his breath.

---

The vanity room felt warmer with him seated there — the intimidating, powerful force of Bruce Wayne reduced to a man in pajama pants and shirtless, arms crossed, jaw tight, trying very hard not to pout.

You stood behind him, a towel draped over his shoulders, a pair of gloves on your hands and a glass bowl of absurdly expensive salon-grade hair dye on the counter beside you. He didn’t ask what it cost.

You didn’t tell him.

“I can hear you thinking,” he muttered.

You smirked. “You always can.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You said that already.”

“I don’t like this towel.”

“It’s soft.”

“It’s lavender.”

“It’s the cleanest one.”

He made a low, irritated noise in his throat.

You bent over, kissed his cheek, and smiled against his skin. “You’ll survive.”

He exhaled slowly. “Possibly.”

With a careful touch, you dipped your gloved fingers into the dye, mixing it smoothly before combing through the thick strands at the top of his head. His hair was heavy and clean — still damp from the shower, where he'd scrubbed the city off his skin before stepping into your sanctuary.

You moved slowly, methodically.

The pads of your fingers massaged the dye into his scalp, section by section. You kept the pressure gentle, both soothing and precise — treating him less like a patient and more like a man you loved. And he was loved. Even if he didn’t know how to sit still and receive it.

The first few minutes, his jaw stayed tight. Shoulders stiff. Back straight like he was on a mission.

But eventually…

He softened.

You saw it happen in the mirror — the tension bleeding out of his arms. His eyelids lowered slightly, his mouth no longer set in a line. His breathing slowed, deeper now.

“This is nice,” you whispered, still parting and brushing through his hair.

He gave a reluctant sound.

“Say it,” you teased.

He didn’t respond.

“Bruce…”

A beat.

“It’s nice,” he finally muttered.

You giggled softly, leaning down and pressing your chin against the top of his head. “Knew you’d like it.”

He gave a small grunt. “Don’t get used to it.”

“You say that every time I lotion your back.”

“…I don’t like people touching my back.”

“And yet you fall asleep every time I do.”

He scowled.

You worked the last of the dye into the silver near his temples. It was almost heartbreaking — the way it shimmered before being swallowed by black. Like painting over time itself.

You stepped back and stripped the gloves from your hands, then carefully wrapped a towel over his head.

Bruce watched you in the mirror the entire time.

You’d changed into his gotham university shirt after he stop grumbling under his breath— the gray one he always reached for in the drawer when folding laundry, pretending he wasn’t picking favorites. It clung to you now in all the places he secretly admired when you weren’t looking — the gentle curves of your hips, the softness of your arms, the fullness of your chest.

You turned to rinse your hands in the sink.

And felt his gaze on you like a magnet.

“I know that look,” you said over your shoulder.

He grunted. “You wear it on purpose.”

You smiled.

Then — suddenly — two strong arms slipped around your waist and lifted you off your feet.

“Bruce!”

“I’m not sitting alone while this sets.”

“Let me dry my—”

Too late.

He carried you back to the stool, settled himself down, and tucked you neatly into his lap, silk and all. Your back pressed to his chest, his arms locking around your middle. The towel still rested around his hair, but his focus had shifted entirely.

You were where he wanted you — in his arms, soft and warm, grounding his thunderous thoughts.

“…You feel small tonight,” he murmured against your shoulder. “I could sense it.”

You blinked into his chest. “Is that a bad thing?”

“No.”

He pressed a kiss to your shoulder blade.

“It means I can hold all of you.”

You melted into him without thinking.

His hand came up to cup your jaw, guiding your face toward his — and his kiss was warm, full, claiming. It pulled at the seams of your tiredness, letting you fall into him like nightfall into silence.

When he pulled back, his eyes searched yours.

“You’re not going anywhere. Right?”

The question was so soft… so unlike him.

You stroked his cheek, then the stubbled edge of his jaw.

“I’m not going anywhere, Bruce.”

He nodded slowly, still watching you like he didn’t believe he deserved that answer.

Then his tone shifted — a grumble, low and teasing.

“You owe me.”

“For what?”

“For letting you turn me into a hair model.”

You smirked. “You’re barely letting me touch your hair.”

“I’m letting you.”

“Mmhm.”

“And now,” he growled, tugging you closer, “I’m demanding payment.”

You raised an eyebrow. “What kind of payment?”

He pressed another kiss to your cheek.

Then another to your shoulder.

“Three kisses,” he said, his voice a touch hoarse against your ear causing a shiver up your spine. “No—five.”

You wiggled in his lap, giggling softly. “That escalated quickly.”

“You were bouncing on the bed yesterday. I get five.”

You turned in his lap and kissed him once, slow and deliberate.

Then a second, just beneath his jaw.

A third at the corner of his mouth.

He was already breathing heavier, his arms tightening around you, like letting go might undo him.

You smiled. “Three.”

He narrowed his eyes.

You laughed, “Okay, fine—four!”

But he’d already pulled you in again, deepening the kiss into something you felt all the way down to your toes.

---

**One Hour Later…**

You peeled off the towel, drying the edges of his hair with a soft cloth, and combed through the now jet-black strands with gentle fingers.

He looked in the mirror again.

Stared.

“…Huh.”

You smiled. “See?”

He grunted. “Still looks fake.”

You scoffed whipping your hands on the towel. “It’s your natural color baby.”

“It feels fake.”

You hugged him from behind, resting your cheek on his shoulder.

“You can go gray next time,” you whispered.

“…Maybe.”

You kissed his temple. “But only if you let me touch it.”

He smirked faintly. “I let you touch everything else.”

You both laughed.

And when you walked back to bed — hand in hand — Bruce tugged you in like always, wrapping himself around you like a man who’d spent too many years empty, too many nights cold.

But tonight?

He slept with his face pressed into your bonnet clad curls, a faint smile on his lips.

Because the gray would come back.

But so would you.

Always.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

The Watchtower’s observation deck was quiet, the way Bruce liked it.

He stepped onto the platform just after 7:40 AM Earth time, still sore from patrol, still brooding over the news conference he had to skip because someone tried to rob Gotham National in a clown mask.

Coffee in hand, steps steady, cloak trailing, Bruce made it halfway to the console when—

“Didn’t think I’d ever see the day,” Clark’s voice rumbled low from behind the mission table. “You actually did it.”

Bruce paused, spine straightening.

Clark didn’t even look up at first. Just took a quiet sip of his own mug — black, like Bruce’s — and leaned back in his chair with that maddeningly calm energy of his.

“…Did what?” Bruce said flatly.

Clark finally raised his head. One dark brow lifted.

“The dye job,” he said simply.

Bruce didn’t respond.

Clark tilted his head, studying him. “It’s darker than usual.”

Bruce grunted.

“I mean, I’ve seen you come back from patrol covered in soot, blood, and God knows what—but this? This is definitely not ‘accidental camouflage.’”

Bruce took a long sip. “You're imagining things.”

Clark let out a quiet scoff. “C’mon, Bruce. I’ve got vision so sharp I can see atoms split. You really think I wouldn’t notice a fresh coat of raven black on your head?”

Bruce turned his glare on him.

Clark didn’t flinch. He never did.

He just leaned forward a little, voice lower now. “You’ve been greying for a while. Thought you were gonna let it ride.”

“I was.”

“What changed?”

Bruce hesitated.

Clark didn’t press. Just took another slow drink. Let the silence stretch. The way only a man who wasn’t afraid of Bruce Wayne could.

“…She did it,” Bruce muttered finally.

Clark looked up.

“Your wife?” he asked, voice quieter now. Not teasing—just confirming.

Bruce gave a sharp nod.

Clark’s mouth twitched, but he didn’t smirk.

Instead, he said, “She take her time with it?”

Bruce paused.

“…Yeah.”

Clark looked down at his coffee and smiled to himself. “That’s good. She’s good for you.”

Bruce didn’t reply.

A moment passed.

Then—

“She said I looked like a silver fox.”

Clark huffed once. More air than laugh. But there was humor behind it.

“She’s not wrong,” he said, voice gruff but amused. “But I get it. I’d be bitter too if Lois ever called me that.”

“She said Clark’s not graying yet,” Bruce muttered, almost like a threat.

Clark blinked, then turned his head. “Are we competing now?”

Bruce took another sip.

Clark grunted. “Alright. Fine. For the record, I don’t dye it.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I didn’t say I liked it.”

“You look thirty.”

“You act seventy.”

Bruce gave him a look.

Clark held up a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay.”

Another long pause.

Clark finally sat forward, watching Bruce with something that felt quieter. Not smug. Not playful.

Something almost brotherly.

“You know… you don’t have to hide it,” he said. “The grey. The age. You’ve earned all of it.”

Bruce was quiet.

Clark added, “But if letting her touch your hair makes you feel like you can breathe for five minutes? I say let her.”

Bruce looked at him.

And for the first time that morning—he didn’t scowl.

Clark took a sip. “Just, maybe wipe the lipstick off next time.”

Bruce blinked. “What?”

Clark motioned loosely to his jaw.

Bruce swiped a hand over it.

It came back with a faint red smudge.

Clark looked amused. “You really came to the Watchtower with a kiss mark on your face?”

“…I was tired.”

“She’s got you whipped, old man.”

Bruce turned to leave.

Clark raised his mug. “Tell her it looks good, though.”

Bruce paused at the door.

Didn’t turn.

But he could almost hear the faint smile in his voice when he muttered:

“…She already knows.”

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚. 𐦍༘⋆ ‧₊˚❀༉ ‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

A/N: This was so cute. I love bruce and clark vibe! I hope we get that in movies! My baby deserves to get older he’s been through so much 🥺

@aurorab-0-realis

@aim-formyheart

@gwenthewolfuniverse

@deadpoolsoci3ty

@caps-babybear

The batkids see you as their second parent and constantly join you when you make fun of his age all the time, calling him old man or grandpa and imitating those old man grunts. Bruce usually ignores it until one night where you call him grandpa and everyone chimes in with their own insults.

“oh yeah? I’ll show you what this grandpa can do” in trying to prove his point he picks you up first before picking up the babies of the family, cassandra and damian. This causes a chain reaction as the rest of the children gather and start piling onto Bruce, who seems to be doing just fine holding all of you. That is until Dick and Jason join in on the fun, climbing on top of Bruce wherever they fit. You can feel the strain on Bruce but as stubborn as ever he denies it, until he sets all of you down before taking a step and grabbing his lower back with a strangled yelp.

The old man had pulled a muscle and had to be carried by you, Dick and Jason to drag him onto the couch. Where you all climbed onto his back, pretending to give him a madsage while telling him that it's for his own benefit as he grumbles an excuse that if he stretched before he would’ve been fine.

Requests are open via messaging for Battinson

My Masterlist for Battinson x Reader here

Warnings: Angst, Victim Blaming, Nonconsenual encounter

Word Count: 4,000 words (ik but its a slow burn)

Summary : Bruce sends Y/N into the Iceberg Lounge for some information watching through her camera eye contact lenses but quickly regrets his neglect of her after a certain client cuffs Y/N to him in an attempt to make a pass at her. This results in a jealous Bruce who has yet to assert himself romantically with Y/N.

A/N: I knew I wasn’t alone after watching The Batman with Robert Pattinson and I couldn’t stop think about it in the two weeks since I saw it. Gonna see it again this weekend, but chile anyways he was just such a sexy mf that it got me literally feral. I was looking on tumblr for some x reader oneshots for late night reading but I couldn’t find any? Thus, this is for the rest of you who are in need for some angst in this unfortunate drought. This one shot is based around the eye contact lenses Batman used with Selena. Reminder: this is an x reader but also this takes inspiration from Selena’s work at the club in the movie. (ALSO: I made this an x fem reader but please replace her/she with whatever you want in your mind) Enjoy :)

“Stop touching them” he commanded Y/N.

She shut her eyes tightly and blinked repeatedly thinking it would alleviate the uncomfortable feeling the contact lenses left her eyes feeling, almost as if she had an eyelash stuck in it. 

“Are you sure no one can see them!?” she whined.

“Not unless you keep twitching like that” he replied dryly.

“Well they’re hurting me already, how am I supposed to last the night?” she snapped in frustration, leaning over the table.

“Look at me” he called, nudging her chin with his fingers to move her face towards him. 

She complied begrudgingly in letting him lift her chin up, however, she tried anything to avoid making eye contact because if she did she wouldn’t be able to keep down a blush. 

It didn’t last long though. Maybe in being in such close proximity to him, with the heat of his eyes lingering on her face. Or maybe it was his cologne which she didn’t really notice he had on until now… but either way, she couldn’t help but flash her eyes to him as he wanted. 

The way he looked down at her through his cowl with hooded eyes shrouded in black is what made her tense up. 

He looked so good like that

Her acknowledgment of that fact alone is what made it even even worse as that above all is what caused all the blood to rush to her face. Meeting his eyes, Y/N grit her teeth in hopes that it could potentially save her face from becoming red, but to no avail. His normally dead eyes had something else in them when looking at her like this, almost as if he was entertained. Observing this, Y/N wondered if it was seeing her face red like this that was making his eyes light up. On the other hand, his lips didn’t give any impression that he was feeling one way or another. 

‘He probably gets off at seeing me so moldable under his touch like this’ Y/N she thought to herself. But that thought too caused her face to turn evidently redder.

“Looks good” he muttered, dropping her chin from his touch without care. Y/N turned her head to the ground trying to save her the embarrassment of blushing.

He had a habit of doing things like that which always left her confused. She just couldn’t get a read on him nor tell what he was thinking. On the other hand, it felt like every time he looked at her he could read her like a book. It was unfair and frustrating

As Bruce turned coldly towards the computer where he would be watching this whole ordeal, she bit her lip looking down as if to swallow her pride.

Bruce adjusted the pearl necklace he'd designed for you and bent to kiss the back of your neck tenderly.

"I love you," he rumbled softly, feeling his heart twist. It was something he'd said to very few people in his life. Not since his parents died. Something he'd never said to a woman in his bed.

"Bruce you don't have to-"

"I do have to," he murmured, "You've been telling me you love me in your sleep."He bent his head and kissed the back of your neck again, winding a loose lock of your hair tenderly around his finger.

"I didn't know," you murmur, looking away.

"I know," he laughed softly. "But I thought you should know. I'm having decidedly complicated feelings about things."

"Oh?"

He hummed and slid his hands around your waist, hugging you against his chest. You're reassuringly warm and solid under his hands. Not the ethereal daydream you looked like. "Absolutely labyrinthine."

"Does that make me the Minotaur?" you ask, half turning in his arms to look at him.

"The ball of twine, I think," he murmured, tilting your chin up and kissing you softly. "You might be the answer to the puzzle." He kissed you again, sliding a hand up to cup your breast, ghosting his thumb over your nipple slowly.

"Don't we have dinner reservations? And wouldn't I be Ariadne?" you breathe, biting your lip.

↬ bruce wayne x reader

↬ warnings: mention of death and torture

↬ words: 1.8k

↬ sorry for any mistakes english isn't my language, but i tried. and if you can, let me know what you think.

❝you fooled me with your kisses

you cheated and you schemed

heaven knows how you lied to me

you're not the way you seemed❞

-- (you're the) devil in disguise, elvis presley

It was nothing but a lie.

Your relationship with Bruce Wayne was a real lie and just didn't see that fact who didn't want to. You took little effort to demonstrate otherwise.

You met at one of the gala parties where the billionaire had seen everyone with his illustrious presence. Bruce had your attention captured by you with your angelic manner and grace and intelligence too, which he recognized after the conversations you exchanged. The following week, you went out together to get to know each other better. And in just under two months, you had broken through the wall that Bruce Wayne had built around your heart.

The comments were inevitable after your relationship became public knowledge. People said many things, one of them was that you didn't really love him, that it was all a game of interests for fame and money. Many judged his courtship without even knowing you right. And some of the rumors weren't wrong anyway.

You didn't really love Bruce Wayne.

No, you didn't get involved in a relationship because of money, far from it, you were part of the League of Assassins and you were supposed to do a big act to prove your loyalty. So you went to great lengths to think of something big and came to a conclusion, you were going to kill Batman.

You believed that the best way to get the bat out of your way was to approach, not the bat itself, but who it was behind the mask. Like a virus that kills its host from the inside out. You've always been a smart girl, so it wasn't hard to put two and two together and associate Bruce Wayne with Batman, especially after comparing the number of Gotham hero's sidekicks with the number of the billionaire's children.

The bonus of your work was not only gaining the trust of Bruce, but also of Alfred and all of his children. Well, almost everyone. Damian never trusted you and because of that, he was the only stumbling block in your path.

No one understood this implication that Damian had with you, but taking into account the boy's personality, the residents of Wayne Manor just ignored it and focused on not letting you feel intimidated by the boy. After all, no matter what Damian said, you were sweet and kind Y/n, you would never hurt anyone, especially them.

But you knew it was only a matter of time before Damian finally discovered your true intentions, and so you have to put your plan into action, and fast.

All your attempts to put your plan into action were thwarted and interrupted by the green-eyed boy. And for a measly second you considered getting Damian out of your way, but you knew his parentage within the League and that would only get you into trouble, so that soon became a discarded alternative. You just needed a little more patience and believed that you would find the ideal moment.

And apparently, it had arrived. The boys were out and Alfred was busy in some room in the mansion. It was late, and Bruce was still solving some things in the batcave, alone. There was no way anyone could stop you from carrying out your plan.

You made your way from the bedroom to the batcave calmly and silently, remembering every moment spent there. As much as you didn't love Bruce, you'd have to admit that you have a good time at Wayne Manor. Bruce and the boys could be anything anyone could imagine, but they were good people who needed affection and someone to keep them from falling into total darkness, and they got that with you. Despite everything, you cared for them and were always there for them, but it was all to strengthen your good girl pose, so you looked like an angel in their lives, wasn't it? Hell, even Dick had accidentally called you mom. Everyone warmed to you quickly and it was noticeable even to those watching from the outside.

It was a shame knowing that after this day, they would hate you.

"Still awake, Y/n?"

You are awakened from your thoughts by a little voice that every time it spoke to you it was either to insult you or it was to disturb you and now, it was probably the second case.

"I was just going to call your dad to sleep, Damian. You know if we let him he'll stay overnight in the cave and if I remember correctly he has a business meeting tomorrow." You say, turning to look at the boy who was standing behind you, giving him a gentle smile.

"I see, I know. But can I tell you something? You lie badly, especially to someone who wants to join the League of Assassins." You can watch the small smile appear on Wayne's lips as your slowly fades. Cursed be the son of Talia Al Ghul.

"So, you knew. And what are you going to do? Run and tell your father that you were right about me this whole time?" If there's one thing you've learned since you were a little girl, it's not to show it when you're intimidated by someone, so you held your ground, and for God's sake, he was a 12-year-old brat.

A 12-year-old brat who was raised to become an assassin.

"No." Okay, this one you didn't expect.

"Why?"

"Because I think you're perfect for the League."

As soon as you entered the batcave, you soon had the vision of Bruce sitting in front of the computer with his back to you. A more than common scene for anyone in the Mansion.

You took a deep breath before starting to slowly walk towards him.

"I thought you had already gone to sleep." Said Bruce as soon as he noticed your presence, still focused on what he was doing on the batcomputer screen.

"I couldn't, the bed gets colder without you around." You take your hands to your boyfriend's tense shoulders, which were carrying all the stress of the last patrol, starting to massage. In a few seconds you could feel the man's shoulders relax a little under his touch.

"And you would never miss the perfect opportunity, would you?"

You let out a sigh before answering. "Oh, you know." But of course he knew, no matter how careful you had been, he would figure it out, this is Batman after all.

"I found out about a month ago." Bruce still hadn't even turned around to look at you, his eyes were still focused on the computer screen and you were still with the massage on your shoulders. Anyone entering the cave at this very moment would see nothing more than a couple moments between you. And that's what Alfred thought, he had gone down to the batcave to talk to the boss, but as soon as he entered and saw you there with your boyfriend, he decided to let you guys have a moment just for you. God, how he was going to regret this later.

"And why didn't you do anything about it?"

"I was hoping maybe you'd change your mind, or I just didn't want to accept that one of the people I loved most came into my life to try to kill me." As much as Bruce tried to hide it, you could hear the hurt tone in his voice.

"Ah, Bruce. I'm sorry to have to tell you this." You turned the swivel chair Bruce was sitting on so that he was facing you. "But you should have killed me when you had the chance." Taking your dagger out of the waistband of your pants as you spoke, you drove the sharp object straight into Wayne's stomach. You walked away and started walking through the batcave as soon as you removed the dagger, seeing the man fall to the ground. "It's true what they say, love makes people weak. What are your last words, baby?" You asked as you got closer to Bruce and crouched down so that he could look into his face, the last he would see before death, at least that's what you expected.

"When I found out your true intentions, my heart didn't break into a hundred pieces, it didn't break into a thousand pieces, not even a million. My heart broke into countless pieces. And I tried Yn, I tried to find each piece and put them in place, but then I realized that I would never find the biggest piece if I walked away from you, the piece that held my heart together. Because that piece was you."

You realized what he was trying to do, Bruce wanted to make you regret it. He wanted to say nice words to mess with your head and make you go back on your choices. But he wouldn't make it, you spent incredible moments inside that mansion and despite that, you didn't hesitate at any moment to continue with your goals and it wouldn't be now, at this point in the championship, that you would give up everything.

"I really want to hate her right now, but I can't." Bruce continued. "You're a part of me and even after everything, I still care about you. And even though I said I wish you a painful death, I secretly hope that you get everything you've ever wanted. Because I really love you when I hate you."

You don't say anything for a few seconds, the fallen man's words still being processed in your head, but you are distracted from them by the sound of clapping coming from behind you.

"Honestly? That was pathetic even for you, Dad." Turning toward the sound of the voice, you can see Damian stepping out of the shadows. "She really has a big effect on you."

"Damian?" Said Bruce.

"Tsk, Yn get it over with."

"Are you going back to the League?"

"I was raised to become a murderer, I can't live with your stupid rules dad."

"You know Bruce, Damian warned you about me, he warned you all from the beginning and you ignored him like you always do. You should listen to your children more darling, maybe if you did, you wouldn't be in this situation." You get up and walk to stand beside Damian, who hands you his katana. "Now enough talk, I've waited a long time for this moment, so now I'm going to enjoy it."

That night, the only sound present inside the Mansion was Bruce's long-suffering screams. You made a point of giving him a slow, painful death, a death caused by someone worthy of joining the League of Assassins, and Damian Wayne was there to prove it.

Summary: a very short fluffy little drabble. the Batman stumbles into your apartment after being poisoned.

Warnings: a mention of choking but kinda just angsty fluff inspired by our favorite new invention of Bruce Wayne’s: those fucking contact lenses and all the cheesy fic’s they have inspired that I love

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𝒔𝒚𝒏𝒐𝒑𝒔𝒊𝒔: 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒖𝒑 𝒇𝒓𝒐𝒎 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑩𝒓𝒖𝒄𝒆 𝒃𝒆𝒂𝒖𝒕𝒊𝒇𝒖𝒍 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒏𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝒀𝒐𝒖 𝒇𝒊𝒏𝒅 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒉𝒖𝒔𝒃𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒕𝒕𝒆𝒎𝒑𝒕𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒃𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒌𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒃𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒌𝒊𝒅𝒔 𝒘𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒖𝒑. 𝑹𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕. 𝑩𝒆𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆.

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Bruce wasn’t in the big kitchen. Not the main one where Alfred reigned like a culinary general.

No, you found him in the other kitchen—the one tucked in the East wing like a forgotten secret, mostly unused unless Alfred was off or the kids were in one of their snack-hunting moods. The moment you padded barefoot into the space, wrapped in one of Bruce’s oversized button-ups, your nose twitched.

Something was burning.

You stopped in the doorway.

There he was.

Tall and broad, his back to you, shirtless beneath his burgundy silk robe that hung open just enough to be dangerous. A pair of dark slacks clung to his hips, low and effortless. His shoulders rippled as he struggled to flip something in the pan with a spatula that definitely wasn’t the right tool.

The poor pancake he’d been manhandling hit the counter with a splap.

“Damn it,” Bruce muttered under his breath.

You couldn’t help the little giggle that escaped your lips.

He turned slightly, caught. “You’re laughing at me,” he said, completely deadpan.

“Nooo,” you lied, stepping inside. “I’m admiring your effort. That poor pancake didn’t stand a chance.”

Bruce gave you a flat look as you tiptoed beside him and peeked into the pan. It wasn’t entirely ruined, but it was certainly uneven and leaning on the extra crispy side. He set the spatula down with a sigh. “Alfred makes this look easy.”

“That’s because Alfred is a wizard,” you said gently, reaching for the mixing bowl. “Here—let me.”

Bruce stepped back, but not far. His chest brushed your shoulder as you reached for the ladle.

“You’re up early,” he murmured, voice low.

“I followed the smell of smoke and testosterone,” you teased.

Bruce huffed a soft laugh. “Guilty on both counts.”

You started ladling a fresh scoop of batter into the pan and guided it gently in a circle. As the pancake started to sizzle, Bruce’s arms slid around your soft waist from behind, something solid sliding in between his shirt and your bottom.

“Bruce…”

“Hm?” he hummed innocently, his mouth just above your ear, stubble brushing your neck.

“We are not doing this over an open flame,” you whispered, face flushed.

“I’m just holding you.” His voice was too smooth. “Admiring my pretty wife. My shy little girl.”

You inhaled sharply, fingers tightening on the spatula.

“I mean it,” he said quietly. “You don’t even realize how adorable you are in my shirt, trying to save breakfast. I want to take a bite out of you.”

“Bruce,” you warned again, heart thudding.

He slid his hands a little lower, fingertips brushing over your hips. “Relax. The kids aren’t up yet.”

“Yet,” you whispered, shivering as his hands found the hem of the shirt and slid just barely beneath it. His fingers were rough and warm against your thighs.

“I missed you the second you left the bed,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just below your ear. “I kept thinking about how you felt last night. How soft you got for me.”

Your breath hitched.

You wanted to protest, to scold him for turning you into goo before 9 AM—but the truth was, the second he touched you, all your nerves melted. All your doubt, all the little voices that said you weren’t allowed to be soft—they vanished when Bruce held you like this.

Still, you managed a weak, “You’re impossible.”

“You’re irresistible,” he countered, nuzzling the back of your neck.

The pancake in the pan started to bubble.

“Bruce,” you squeaked, elbowing him lightly. “We’re gonna burn breakfast again.”

He chuckled and stepped back, hands raised in surrender, though the look in his eyes was nothing short of predatory.

“Fine. You win. This round.”

You flipped the pancake neatly and turned to face him—his robe still parted, his chest bare, his hair slightly tousled like some kind of dangerously sexy dad-model.

Your eyes flicked down, then quickly up again.

Bruce noticed.

His smirk was slow. “You’re staring.”

“Am not.”

“You are.”

“Your chest is right there, Bruce.”

“I could close the robe,” he offered dryly. “But you do seem to enjoy the view.”

You opened your mouth to respond, but no words came out. Instead, a flush crept over your face.

Bruce stepped in close again, his hands returning to your waist, gentler this time, less teasing. “You really are my favorite thing in this whole manor,” he said softly, the humor giving way to something far more tender. “Even when you’re nervous. Especially when you’re nervous.”

Your throat tightened. “You make it hard to stay guarded.”

“Good,” he whispered, brushing his lips against your cheek. “Because I don’t want your walls. I want you. All of you. Even the flustered bits. Especially the ones that still think they need to hide.”

You melted again, helpless against the way he always seemed to know what part of you needed holding most.

The moment was warm, sacred, and silent… until a little voice echoed from down the hall:

“WHY DOES IT SMELL LIKE SOMETHING DIED IN HERE?”

You both froze.

Bruce groaned. “And that would be Jason.”

You stifled a laugh, quickly flipping the pancake onto a plate and sliding the skillet off the burner. “Think we’ve got five minutes before they start raiding the fridge.”

“Then I’ll make them count,” Bruce said, leaning in and stealing a deep, lazy kiss that made your toes curl.

By the time you pulled back, your knees were weak and your cheeks were pink, but the smile on your face was wide and true.

You weren’t hiding anymore.

You didn’t need to.

Not with him.

Not in this kitchen, not in this moment, not ever again.

Because Daddy knew every bit of you—

And he wanted all of it.

••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••

By the time the rest of the house stirred awake, you and Bruce had barely managed to finish plating the pancakes. He’d insisted on flipping the last one, and somehow it came out less symmetrical than his first attempt—but you let him have his moment. Mostly because he was looking at you like you’d personally invented mornings and sunshine and maple syrup.

You were still recovering from that kiss—the one he gave you before Jason’s voice interrupted. The one that made you weak in the knees and a little dazed while you stirred the batter like a woman possessed.

Now, the kids were awake. And there was no hiding.

The sound of socked feet skidding across tile warned you before Jason actually appeared.

He burst through the kitchen door with his usual dramatic flair, shirt half-tucked and hair wild. “WHO let Bruce near the stove?”

You tried to suppress your grin as Jason opened the fridge like he was searching for treasure.

“Jason,” Bruce said, arching a brow, “good morning.”

“Morning? No. No. I just walked into a war crime. Is that a pancake or a charcoal frisbee?” Jason picked one up with a fork and shook his head. “Alfred is gonna cry when he sees this.”

“Eat it,” Bruce said calmly.

“Or what?” Jason challenged, grinning. “You’ll ground me?”

Bruce gave him the look.

Jason immediately sat down and began eating. “...Delicious. Best pancake I’ve ever had. So fluffy.”

You snorted and tried to hide your smile behind your coffee mug.

Unfortunately, Tim walked in next, followed by Dick and Damian not long after—and they were even less subtle.

Tim blinked. “Wait… why are you both in the east kitchen? Something’s off…”

Dick narrowed his eyes like a bloodhound. “Is that Bruce’s robe? And your shirt? Wait. Did you cook?”

You tensed.

Bruce just raised his coffee to his lips.

“OH MY GOD,” Dick yelled, pointing between the two of you. “You two totally did the thing. This is the ‘I just cooked breakfast because we got handsy in the pantry’ walk of shame!”

You nearly choked on your coffee.

“Richard!” you sputtered.

“I mean—look at you!” he said, grinning and scandalized. “She’s in your shirt, Bruce, and you’re smiling. Smiling!”

“I smile,” Bruce said, not smiling at all.

“No, no, that’s your ‘I’m about to kill a man’ face. This—” he gestured broadly at Bruce’s face, “—is a smugly satisfied married man face. And I don’t want to know what happened in this kitchen, but I do want to know if it’s safe to eat these pancakes.”

“They’re not that bad,” you mumbled, now fully red in the face.

Tim bit into one and made a face. “I love you both, but we need Alfred.”

Damian walked in last, eyeing the entire room with judgment. He glanced at the pancakes, then at you and Bruce, then—most damning—at Bruce’s hand still resting a little too low on your waist.

“I’m never eating again,” he muttered and turned on his heel. “You’re both disgusting.”

“I told you we should’ve locked the door,” you whispered to Bruce.

“I told you we had five minutes,” he countered, completely unfazed.

You tried to busy yourself by wiping the counter, your cheeks burning as the kids argued and bickered around you. But you felt Bruce’s hand brush yours beneath the edge of the counter, his pinky hooking around yours.

You peeked up at him.

He was looking at you like you were the only thing in the room.

“Still mine,” he murmured quietly, low enough that only you could hear.

You swallowed. “Still yours.”

He leaned in and kissed your temple. “Good girl.”

You visibly melted.

Jason looked up from his plate and froze. “Oh God. You’re doing that thing again.”

“What thing?” you asked, too fast.

“That thing where Bruce calls you something gross and you look like you’re gonna melt into a puddle. I’m gonna hurl.”

Bruce sipped his coffee calmly. “You’re grounded.”

“For what?!”

“Talking.”

You snorted and nudged Bruce with your hip, biting your lip to hide your grin.

The teasing didn’t stop. Dick started humming a “just got lucky” song. Tim tried to steal the last pancake. Damian refused to eat in protest. Jason was halfway through a monologue about how the two of you were the reason he needs therapy when Bruce stood up, pulled you into his chest in front of everyone, and kissed you right on the mouth.

Soft.

Deep.

Slow.

You gasped.

The kitchen exploded.

“NO—”

“UNCALLED FOR—”

“I’M LEAVING THE COUNTRY—”

You giggled breathlessly, eyes wide as Bruce pulled back just slightly, smirking like the devil.

“You were still blushing,” he whispered. “Had to remind them you’re mine.”

You hit his chest lightly, flustered beyond belief.

But you didn’t pull away.

Because in this chaotic, messy kitchen—half pancakes, half protest—you felt completely wrapped in love.

In Bruce.

In your Daddy.

And for once, even surrounded by chaos, you didn’t feel like hiding.

You felt home.

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THE CHAOS LOL

Warnings: Pre-established relationship; Gender Neutral Y/N; ANGST; fluff; allusion to oral but not at all a smut; barley sexual content

Word Count: 1.4 k

Summary : On a Sunday night in Y/N and Bruce watching tv, Y/N is curling up with their cat and clearly not paying much attention which makes him more jealous than he’d like to admit. Y/N tired to tease Bruce into forgiving their lack of attention, but the tables turn quickly as they learn what a lack of attention can feel like through Bruce’s silent treatment.

My Battinson Masterlist

You partially laid on your end of the couch with your cat curled up on your chest. You smiled down at her, practically petting her to death. Pet owners would know that feeling when you’re looking at your pet who is so cute you have the urge to squeeze them, but know the animal’s limitations you revert to petting them all about. It was a Sunday night in your apartment and you and Bruce were watching tv... but in a way... that wasn’t really what was going on. After all, you were watching your cat purr on your chest and Bruce was watching you watch your cat purr on your chest. 

Bruce was fresh out of the shower slumped on the coach with a manspread going on about his legs after a short night of his escapades. Sundays were often like this, just the two of you together in your apartment.

Content with the warm snuggles from your cat, you flashed your eyes over to Bruce who you realized was looking at you, and whether he knew it or not, he had this certain look on his face while looking at you and that damn cat, almost like he was jealous at the attention you were giving it.

“You wish this was you huh?” you stated aloud, motioning to the cat. His eyes snapped up from the furry animal to you.

“What?” he asked, a smirk hinting at his lip.

You almost burst out laughing. Smiling harder at him before you continue.

“You look a little jealous there Bruce...” you laugh. Bruce only rolls his eyes.

“I’m not jealous of an animal Y/N” he mumbled, that light smirk on his lips recoiling as his eyes reverted back to the tv, crossing his arms.

Maybe he wasn’t jealous, but he sure looked good with that sourpuss look on his face.

You lifted the cat off from your chest and onto the ground. Bruce observed this out of the corner of his eyes as you then proceeded to turn to him.

“Was I neglecting you just now baby? Are you mad at me?” you asked in that voice of yours, leaning into him as if to tease him. He avoided your gaze, focusing his eyesight on the tv.

“No” he deadpanned, continuing to stare forward.

You couldn’t help but smirk. You reached out your hand to his chin to turn his head to meet your gaze. He complied easily at your touch, meeting your eyes. Staring at them you could see he was slightly upset.

“Aww, Bruce, you are mad at me!” you exclaimed playfully, causing him to turn his head back forward, this time not denying it.

“What can I do to make it up to you, huh?” you comfort, leaning in closer. 

He continues with his silent treatment which only pushed you to provoke a response out of him even more.

You sighed, swinging your leg over the other side of his torso to straddle him now. He flashed his eyes up to you and then back to the tv, playing with the remote as if he was more interested in what was on.

“Tell me what I can do to make it better baby” you beg, leaning forward to his lips but pausing just before to see if he would meet you halfway. 

Bruce tries his hardest to remain as still as possible under your stare to give the impression that he was unaffected by your advances, but it was his puppy eyes flashing from the tv to you that let you know he wanted more.

Your stomach tensed from butterflies at this look in his eyes. It was similar to that feeling of when you wanted to squeeze a cute animal but you couldn’t for fears of hurting it. But this was Bruce, and your tight embraces for looking as he did wouldn’t hurt him.

You proceeded to meet his lips, encouraged in that his lips were quick to responded. You love how he melted under your touch, his soft spot letting you get away with almost anything. You loved how he was so shy when you were the one in control.

You broke the kiss just dying to see how badly he wanted more from you, leaning back slightly to admire your work you couldn’t help but feel so full of yourself. Bruce tried to lean up for another kiss, so desperate for more. You had the protector of Gotham pinned under you, leaning up for another token of affection from you. You couldn’t help but snicker at the sight, causing him to quickly realize his mistake in giving into his wants. Almost embarrassed, he recovered to that passive look on his face, gritting his teeth as his attention turned back to the tv.

“Oh come on Bruce i’m just laughing at how cute you are” you whined with that smirk still on your face. Nevertheless, Bruce didn’t dare look back at you again in spite. 

“Okay... I see how it is” you chide before leaning down into the crook of his neck to plant a kiss. You felt under your lips how he swallowed to push down the feelings said kisses were leaving him with. This only encouraged you more as you barely scraped your teeth against his neck. You noticed how his shoulders raised ever so slightly as if he was about to shudder. You watched as his face remained so Bruce Wayne style sourpuss, but his body was fidgeting ever so slightly at all you were doing for it. So drunk off his reaction, you really were leaving hickies now, saliva all along his neck creating goosebumps.

The cologne he sprayed after his shower, the one he knew you especially loved, only made you want him more. And still, Bruce was fighting to give you any reaction. The silent treatment continued.

You rolled your eyes as you looked up at his face, deciding to take this to the next level to really make thing difficult for him. You had a light smile about your face before your hand slid slowly down his chest and over his torso and back up again, your head laying on his shoulder, looking down at the sight.

Taking things up another notched, you slipped your hand under his shirt, feeling up to his toned chest and then down to his abs.

You sank off the couch, swiping your tongue across his torso which you exposed by lifting up his shirt. Although he still refused to meet your eye contact, it was clear amongst that sourpuss face of his that this was having an effect just feeling it.

Partially frustrated that he wasn’t giving in, you prepared the cherry on top to this performance as your hand found its way to his crotch. With on quick palm of it, you moved his leg to include you in between them, on your knees of the floor.

Interestingly he didn’t try to fight that off.

Looking up at him now, he was still staring at the tv

but not for long.

Your fingers slipped under the waistline of his sweatpants and tugged them to give away his black briefs. Although he was fighting for his face to remain unchanged, it was clear from the bulge of his briefs that it was getting to him in the intended way.

You gave him another palm through his briefs, having fun there for a moment before you were ready to proceed.

Looking up at him as you tugged the briefs down now, Bruce clicked the button of the remote to change the channel.

Your eyes furrowed as your mouth lingered so close to his length, and here he was changing the channel on the tv.

You scoffed in annoyance, rising from your position on the floor to leave, having enough of his dismissive antics.

You didn’t even make it another step before Bruce grabbed your wrist and pulled you back onto the couch, falling onto him.

“See how it feels?” he fully smirked this time, cocky at your frustration with him.

 You narrowed your eyes at him before he pulled you onto his lips again harshly, slipping his tongue in.

He was trying to show you how it felt to not be the object of his attention clearly... and god was it educational.

You dont deny a moan to escaped from your mouth, satisfied at Bruce’s control. Eagerly, you decided to straddle his exposed torso, one hand running up it greedily just to feel the toned curves.