#spice x reader

The clock ticked softly in the dimly lit bedroom, the sound almost deafening in the quiet. You were sitting on the edge of the bed, flipping absentmindedly through a book, though your mind barely registered the words. It had been days—weeks, really—since you had more than a fleeting moment with Bruce.

Wayne Enterprises, the city, Batman—they had all stolen his time. And you understood. You always did.

But that didn’t mean you didn’t miss him.

A soft creak of the door caught your attention, and before you could turn, a familiar warmth pressed against your back. Strong arms wrapped around you, pulling you into an embrace so tight, so desperate, that it knocked the breath from your lungs.

“Bruce—”

“Just let me hold you,” he murmured, his voice rough, almost hoarse. His face buried into the crook of your neck, and you felt his breath, warm and uneven against your skin.

You melted instantly, letting the book slip from your fingers as you leaned back into him. His grip tightened, as if afraid you’d slip away, as if you’d disappear like smoke between his fingers.

“I missed you,” he confessed, barely above a whisper. The words carried a weight that made your heart ache.

You reached up, threading your fingers through his dark hair, feeling the tension wound so tightly in his body. “I missed you too.”

He exhaled sharply, like he’d been holding that breath for days. His hands roamed gently, almost reverently, over your arms, your waist—like he was mapping you out again, committing you to memory, as if he hadn’t spent every night for years holding you in the rare moments he was home.

“I hate being away from you,” Bruce murmured, pressing a lingering kiss to the side of your neck. “I hate missing you like this.”

Your chest tightened at the raw honesty in his voice. Bruce didn’t say things like this often—he didn’t let himself—but right now, it felt like he was making up for every lost second.

You turned in his arms, cupping his face between your hands, forcing him to meet your gaze. His blue eyes were dark, heavy with exhaustion, longing, and something deeper—need.

“You’re here now,” you whispered. “That’s what matters.”

A flicker of something desperate passed through his eyes before he crashed his lips against yours, pouring every missed moment, every stolen night, into the kiss. It wasn’t gentle—it was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to pull you closer than physically possible.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he deepened the kiss, his hands gripping your waist like he’d never let go. When he finally broke away, his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged.

“I don’t want to waste another second,” Bruce murmured, brushing his lips against yours again, softer this time, like a silent promise.

You smiled against his mouth, your fingers tracing over his jaw. “Then don’t.”

Remmick’s reputation precedes him—rough around the edges, commanding, and unpredictable. You’d be lying if you said his presence didn’t send a shiver down your spine. Maybe it’s the way his intense gaze lingers a little too long or how his deep, gravelly voice makes even a simple greeting feel like a challenge.

Tonight, you’re alone in the safehouse, cleaning up and organizing supplies. The dim light flickers, shadows dancing across the worn walls. You’re humming softly when you hear the door creak open. You turn, heart pounding, only to see Remmick leaning against the frame, his eyes locked onto you like a predator sizing up his prey.

“Didn’t think anyone else was here,” he mutters, his voice low.

You smile sweetly, pushing a stray strand of your dark hair behind your ear. “Just me. Figured I’d tidy up a bit.”

His eyes rake over you, lingering just a second too long on the curve of your neck. “You always this good?” he asks, his tone almost mocking.

“Depends,” you reply, your voice softer, hinting at something unspoken. You swear you see his jaw tense.

He steps closer, the air thickening between you two. “You don’t fool me,” he says, reaching past you to grab a bottle of whiskey from the shelf. “That innocent act. It’s cute. But I know better.”

Your cheeks flush, but you tilt your head up, eyes meeting his defiantly. “Maybe I just like playing the part,” you murmur.

Remmick’s smirk is dangerously enticing. He sets the bottle down and moves closer, his hand grazing your hip. “Playing with fire, sweetheart.”

You bite your lip, looking up at him through your lashes. “Maybe I’m not afraid of getting burned.”

His hand slides to your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You think you can handle me?” His breath ghosts over your lips, and you shiver despite yourself.

Your hands find his chest, fingers tracing the muscles under his shirt. “I think you’re underestimating me,” you whisper.

He chuckles darkly. “Sweet girl. You’re gonna regret teasing me like that.”

Before you can respond, his mouth is on yours—rough, demanding, and impossibly intoxicating. You gasp, but your hands fist his shirt, pulling him closer as he pushes you back against the worn wooden table. The kiss is a clash of heat and want, and you can’t help but let out a breathy moan when his hands grip your hips harder.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and wild. “Still think you’re the one in charge here?”

You smirk, running your fingers through his hair. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

Remmick doesn’t waste another second. His lips trail down your neck, nipping at your skin just hard enough to leave a mark. You can feel his frustration mingling with desire—how you push his buttons just right. Your sweet, innocent act crumbles as you let out a soft, needy sound, and he growls in response, his hands sliding under your shirt.

“Thought you’d be quieter,” he teases, his voice husky.

Your fingers dig into his shoulders. “Only for you,” you admit, your voice barely above a whisper.

He pulls back, a wicked glint in his eyes. “You’re gonna wish you hadn’t said that.”

You don’t get the chance to respond before he’s capturing your lips again, more possessive this time. And as the night goes on, you realize just how dangerous it is to play with fire—especially when it’s with someone like Remmick.

A ghost in the night, a whisper of silk and shadow, a thief who slipped through Gotham’s streets like she owned them. But she was different from the criminals he hunted. She didn’t break bones, didn’t leave bodies in alleys. She took what she wanted and vanished, always just out of reach.

And that should have made it easy.

She should have been just another name on his list.

But she wasn’t.

She was a problem. A temptation.

A mistake waiting to happen.

“Careful, Bats,” her voice was a purr in the dark. “You keep catching me like this, and I’ll start thinking you like our little meetings.”

Bruce tightened his jaw, his grip firm where he had her wrist pinned against the brick wall. The stolen necklace dangled between them, glinting in the dim streetlight.

“You’re getting careless.” His voice was low, controlled. “Sloppy.”

She laughed, breathless but unbothered. “Or maybe I wanted you to catch me.”

His fingers curled just a little tighter around her wrist. Not enough to hurt, just enough to remind them both who held the upper hand. But did he, really?

She tilted her head, watching him, her gaze roaming over the sharp angles of his mask. “What’s wrong, Batman? Am I making you nervous?”

Bruce didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because she was.

He could feel the heat of her body through his suit, could smell the faint hint of something sweet on her skin—something expensive, indulgent, something that didn’t belong in the same world as crime. And yet here she was, defying his every rule, standing too close, pressing all the right buttons.

He should end this now.

Cuff her. Walk away.

But instead, he lingered.

“You think you’re untouchable,” he said, voice like gravel. “One day, that overconfidence is going to cost you.”

Her lips curled. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s a warning.”

“Mm.” She exhaled, her free hand trailing up his chest, barely brushing the armor, but enough to make something in him coil tight. “You give a lot of those. And yet, here I am.”

His pulse pounded in his ears.

This was wrong.

He knew better.

She was a criminal. A thief. A walking, breathing mistake wrapped in silk and shadows.

But God help him—he wanted her anyway.

He should have stayed away.

He told himself that every time he saw her name in the news, every time she left him another calling card in the form of stolen art, rare jewels, priceless artifacts that always found their way back just before the city noticed they were gone.

A game.

That’s what it was to her.

And maybe… maybe that was what made her so dangerous.

Because when he found her again—this time on the rooftop of some luxury high-rise, leaning against the ledge like she had all the time in the world—he didn’t stop himself from stepping closer.

“You’re predictable,” he said.

She grinned, twirling a stolen ring between her fingers. “And yet, you’re still here.”

He should take it back. The ring. His time. The power he was giving her just by standing here.

But he didn’t.

She took a step forward, and this time, he didn’t move back.

Didn’t stop her when she reached up, gloved fingers tracing the edge of his cowl.

“I wonder,” she murmured, “what would happen if I took this off.”

Bruce caught her wrist in an instant, but not before her fingers brushed his jaw.

Her breath hitched.

And so did his.

The air between them was charged, thick with something unspoken, something neither of them had the sense to stop.

“This isn’t a game,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

She searched his face, her smirk flickering for just a second. “Maybe not for you.”

He exhaled sharply. Damn her.

Damn the way she pulled at something inside him, something reckless, something that whispered let go.

But he couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

Because no matter how badly he wanted to—

Bruce Wayne didn’t make mistakes.

And she—

She was the biggest mistake of all.

The snowstorm hit faster than anyone expected. Joel cursed under his breath, wiping frost from his beard, while Tommy tried to radio back to Jackson with no luck. You had insisted on joining the patrol despite the weather warnings, and now the three of you were holed up in an old hunting cabin, snow piling high outside.

Joel and Tommy were both quiet—too quiet—eyes darting from you to each other. You couldn’t help but notice how their hands twitched when you shivered, as if they wanted to pull you closer, but neither did. Instead, they focused on starting a fire, giving you a chance to change out of your snow-soaked clothes.

You rummaged through a battered trunk in the corner, finding a worn flannel shirt that must have belonged to someone twice your size. Pulling it over your tank top and shorts, you couldn’t help but grin at how it swallowed you, the hem brushing your thighs.

When you walked back into the room, both Miller brothers glanced up, their eyes lingering on your bare legs and the way the shirt slipped off one shoulder. Joel looked away first, jaw clenching, while Tommy gave a low chuckle, trying to hide the way his gaze traced the line of your throat.

“Shirt’s a little big, sweetheart,” Tommy teased, but his voice was rougher than usual.

You shrugged, arms lifting just enough that the too-large armhole gaped, revealing a hint of the soft skin of your chest. Both men froze, eyes glued to the sight before you casually tugged the fabric back into place. You pretended not to notice, biting back a smirk.

“Better than freezing,” you shot back, settling near the fire. You stretched, the shirt lifting just enough to show the curve of your thigh. Tommy’s eyes darkened, and Joel cleared his throat, looking like he was two seconds away from bolting.

There was something thrilling about the way they looked at you—like they were trying to resist but couldn’t quite manage it. You knew your husband back in Jackson was the last person either of them would want to think about, but out here, snowed in and restless, it seemed like their restraint was wearing thin.

When you leaned back on your hands, the movement made the flannel ride up just a little more, and you caught Joel’s gaze fixed on the exposed skin before he quickly looked away, cheeks flushed under his scruffy beard.

“So… how long do you think we’ll be stuck here?” you asked, voice sweet and innocent, though your eyes lingered on Tommy’s tense shoulders.

He ran a hand through his hair, scoffing. “Hard to say. Could be all night.”

Your smile widened. “Guess we’ll have to find ways to keep warm, huh?”

Tommy choked on a laugh, and Joel shot him a glare that could’ve melted the snow outside.

“You always this damn reckless?” Joel muttered, but you caught the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Only when I’m with you two,” you teased, shifting closer to the fire, but not missing the way they exchanged a look—part frustration, part something darker and deeper.

Tommy was the first to break, moving to sit beside you, his thigh brushing yours. “Y’know,” he said, voice low and smooth, “it ain’t fair to go teasing like that.”

You looked up at him with wide, feigned-innocent eyes. “Teasing? I’m just trying to get comfortable.”

Joel grunted, sitting across from you, eyes flicking between you and his brother. “Ain’t sure you know what you’re doin’, darlin’,” he muttered.