# SEVEN SMACKS
⤿ BRUCE WAYNE was a stubborn and fiercely independent man, which meant that his children were too. Unfortunately for you, that meant that scolding one of them was practically a moment to scold both.
!! fluff. wife!reader. batmom!reader. LITTLE DAMIAN. domestic bruce sorta. established relationship. do NOT ask about the timeline or logistics of bruce's custody of damian. implied damian is talia's bc shes perf but interpret it however you want. bruce being a menace. reader is also a menace. so is damian. no one save bruce bc he's right where he wants to be. ENJOY.
The manor was quiet in the way it only ever was right before trouble.
You stood in the middle of the sitting room with your arms crossed, trying very hard to look like a united parental front while the small, stubborn hurricane you both loved very much sat on the edge of the couch, chin tilted up in defiance.
Across from him stood your husband, the formidable, terrifying, brooding legend of Bruce Wayne.
At the moment, however, he looked less like Gotham’s Dark Knight, and more like a man who had just been given news about his son at school and didn't know what the hell to do with it.
“Do you want to explain,” you began calmly, “why your teacher called to inform us that you refused to participate in group work because — and I quote — ‘I work better alone’?”
The small boy crossed his arms. “Because it’s true.”
Bruce nodded at that, his arms crossed as he flicked his gaze from his son to you, as if waiting to see how you would respond to such a factual statement. Instead, you just slowly turned your head toward your husband.
He cleared his throat. “It is… sometimes true.”
Smack.
Your palm landed lightly against the back of his head.
Bruce blinked in stunned betrayal.
“Not helping,” you said sweetly through a tight lipped smile.
Damian’s eyes widened. “Mother, did you just hit Batman?”
You pointed at him, your eyes slowly leaving your husband's to meet your son's. “I hit your father. Don’t get ideas.”
Bruce straightened, rubbing the back of his head with a wounded expression that made Alfred close his eyes to compose himself. “I was simply suggesting that independence is an.. admirable trait.”
“Independence is admirable,” you agreed. “Being uncooperative and telling your teacher that ‘authority is a suggestion’ is not.”
There was a beat of silence, one that was only broken by Bruce's cough. You had been expecting some sort of back up from him, but you should've known better considering all of the behavioral issues Damian's teacher mentioned... were ones Bruce still exhibited.
Smack.
“I did not say that,” Bruce defended quickly, his eyes narrowing in a lighthearted way.
“You didn’t have to. It’s written all over your DNA.”
Damian looked between you both, clearly weighing his options. “She said I had to apologize.”
“And?” you prompted, hoping to god he didn't say what the brooding man besides you always did.
“I don’t think I was wrong.”
God damnit. Bruce opened his mouth, but you didn't even have to look at him this time.
Smack.
“I didn’t say anything!” He defended, his hand coming to try and catch yours but you quickly turned it into a sharply pointed finger that was jutting in his direction.
“You were about to.”
He pressed his lips together to hold back a smile, eyes narrowing slightly, but he wisely chose to stay silent.
You crouched in front of your son so you were eye level. His little jaw was set in the exact same stubborn angle you saw every time Bruce argued with Lucius about safety protocols.
“Sweetheart,” you uttered gently, brushing a piece of hair off his forehead, “being right isn’t the only thing that matters. Sometimes we apologize because we were disrespectful, not because we were incorrect.”
He frowned. “But she was wrong.”
“Maybe,” you allowed. “But you still can’t roll your eyes and say you’ll ‘handle it yourself.’”
Bruce shifted behind you, taking a deep and audible breath through his nose. You knew what that meant. You shot your hand back without turning.
Smack.
“That one was preemptive,” you informed him.
He stared at you. “I'm being disciplined in my own home.”
“Yes,” you agreed calmly. “You are.”
Damian’s defiance started to crack, mostly because watching his father get smacked repeatedly was far more entertaining than the lecture.
“But Dad works alone,” he tried.
Bruce looked hopeful at that, because he did work alone. Surely you couldn't find a way to turn that into a lecture directed at him! But then, you stood up slowly, and he knew it was coming.
“Oh, I’m so glad you brought that up,” you said, smiling in a way that made both of them tense. “Tell me, my darling husband, how many times has working alone ended with you injured, unconscious, or brooding dramatically on a rooftop instead of asking for help?”
Bruce folded his arms. “That is not relevant.”
“It’s extremely relevant.”
You turned back to your son. “Your father is brilliant. Brave. Capable. And a man that is absolutely worth looking up to.”
Bruce’s chest puffed slightly with pride, this was a statement he could wholeheartedly agree with.
“But, he's also,” you continued, and Bruce's eyebrow shot up, “so stubborn he once tried to reset his own dislocated shoulder because he ‘had it handled.’”
The boy's eyes widened and shot to his father. He was conflicted, that sounded impressive, made him respect his father's resilience even more... but your tone suggested he shouldn't feel that way
Bruce looked offended. “It was handled.”
“You passed out.”
“That was momentary.”
You didn’t even need to look this time.
Smack.
Alfred’s faint, traitorous chuckle echoed from the hallway all the while your son tried very hard not to smile.
You softened your voice. “We don’t punish you because you’re strong-willed. We love that about you. We just want you to learn when to bend a little.”
He looked down at his shoes. “I don’t like when people tell me what to do.”
Bruce nodded very solemnly.
Smack.
“I was agreeing with you.”
“I know.” You shrugged, shooting him a wink over your shoulder.
You crouched to sit besides your son, pulling him gently into your side. After a moment of resistance, he melted into you, small arms wrapping around your waist.
Bruce’s expression softened immediately, no longer did he have a playful irritation creased into his brow, he now was simply admiring the gentle sight in front of him.
“Your dad,” you practically whispered, glancing at Bruce with fond exasperation, “has made a whole career out of not liking being told what to do.”
“That’s not entirely-...”
Kick.
He huffed.
“But,” you continued, stroking your son’s hair, “he also learned that he can’t do everything alone. He has people. Family. A team.”
Bruce looked at you then, something warm replacing the mock irritation.
“And that’s not weakness,” you shook your head, tilting Damian's round face so he would look at you. “It’s strength.”
Your son peeked up at Bruce. “So I still have to apologize?”
Bruce hesitated, his eyes flicking towards you briefly. All he needed to see was your raised eyebrow and he was nodding sternly.
“I think that apologizing would demonstrate maturity,” Your husband agreed all too quickly.
You smiled approvingly.
“No smacking?” he mumbled cautiously.
“Not if you keep that up.”
Damian groaned dramatically but nodded. “Fine. I will apologize.”
“Good,” you hummed, pressing a kiss to his temple. “And maybe next time, try saying ‘I disagree’ instead of ‘I’ll handle it.’”
He considered. “May I still handle it?”
“In your head? Absolutely.”
Bruce gave him a subtle thumbs-up behind your back, which you caught in the reflection of the window.
Smack.
“Unbelievable,” Bruce grumbled, rubbing the back of his head and his arm where he had been brutally assaulted by your flurry of smacks.
Your son let out a small laugh, finally dissolving the last of the tension.
You stood and offered him your hand. “Go wash up for dinner.”
He slid off the couch and ran toward the hall, calling, “I fear you are in trouble, father.”
“I am not in trouble,” Bruce called after him, yet, when you turned slowly once your son was our of earshot, he immediately straightened. “Hypothetically.”
You stepped closer, lowering your voice. “You realize he learned half of that from watching you.”
Bruce tilted his head. “He learned confidence.”
“He learned dramatic silence and brooding eye contact.”
“That's an intimidation strategy.”
“It is not useful in second grade.”
Bruce tried not to smile at that, which was too obvious to a well trained eye like yours.
You poked his chest. “You are supposed to back me up.”
“I was backing you up.”
“You were validating him.”
Bruce leaned down slightly, lowering his voice to that gravelly murmur that had once terrified criminals and now mostly annoyed you when he used it for comedic effect. “I happen to admire stubbornness.”
“I know,” you said. “You married it.”
There was a pause, then his lips pulled into a boyish smile. You tried to keep up the frustrated look, but at the sight of his grin you couldn't help but smile yourself.
He reached for your waist. “You hit me six times.”
“Eight, if we're counting the kick,” you corrected.
He huffed a quiet laugh. “I face down supervillains regularly.”
“And yet,” you said sweetly, tapping his forehead lightly, “this is what keeps you in line.”
He caught your hand before you could pull it away, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “You enjoy this.”
“Oh hell yeah I do.”
From the hallway came a small voice. “I can still hear you.”
Bruce cleared his throat, instantly shifting into overly serious father mode. “Wash your hands properly!”
“Yes, Father.”
You shook your head, smiling as you leaned into your husband’s side.
“He’s just like you,” you murmured.
Bruce wrapped an arm around you, resting his chin briefly against your hair. “He’s better.”
You looked up at him, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity. You knew Bruce wasn't the egotistical maniac that the public made him out to be, but you also knew he wasn't necessarily this humble.
“He has you,” Bruce added simply. That was all it took for your expression to completely soften, the teasing melting into something warmer.
“Don’t get sentimental,” you warned gently, your arms coming to wrap around him.
He smirked. “Would you hit me again?”
“Without hesitation.”
He laughed quietly, the sound low and rare and entirely yours.
Down the hall, little footsteps pounded again.
“Mother, Father... do I have to apologize tomorrow or can I email?”
You and Bruce answered at the same time. “Tomorrow.” The boy groaned and you both could hear his little footsteps fade off down the hallway.
Bruce glanced at you. “See? Unified.”
You narrowed your eyes playfully. “Keep talking.”
He held up his hands in surrender.
And somewhere in the manor, Alfred allowed himself a small, satisfied smile, because Gotham’s most stubborn vigilante had finally met the only force strong enough to keep him — and his equally stubborn children — in check.
← MLIST. ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2026.
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