#batman headcanon

[mqsoreshi]

Another headcannon:

Jason calls Dick "Duckie" from time to time. Some people think it's a mock of Nightwing's eagle symbol.

But the truth is, one day they were texting and Jason sent "Duckie" instead of "Dickie", and Dick liked the nickname so much that convinced Jason to call him like that. Dick's contact in Jason's phone is "Duckie 🦆"

[bats-and-the-birds]

Situation where Clark has formed a tentative working relationship with Batman, but somewhere in that time, Batman acquired Robin and, naturally, didn't tell him.

Clark finds out about Robin's existence when a ten year old Dick Grayson in full Robin gear breaks into his apartment at two in the morning and shakes him awake because Batman's missing and Alfred's away and Bruce taught him that, in the case of emergency, Superman was one of the only people he could trust. Bruce just didn't think to tell Clark that he was, by all means, his son's emergency contact.

Clark: -wakes up to a small boy that he's never seen or heard of before in a cape and a mask with lenses that reflect light like a cat's perched on the edge of his bed in a pitch black room-

Dick, calmly: Hey, Batman's -- stop screaming -- Batman's missing. I need help.

[eevee-the-cat]

Headcannon that Bruce hates when anyone cries but doesn’t know what to do about it so he just makes his kids a bowl of ice cream, awkwardly hands it to them, and hovers in a corner in the room after.

Dick used this to his advantage and now if he sees ice cream he has a Pavlov effect and tears up.

Jason rarely cried leading to him never making this connection fully.

Tim cries in his room and so Bruce cracks the door open and shoves it in then sits outside his door. Tim learned after the first three times he cried to check the floor every few minutes or else he’d have a bowl of melted ice cream because he wouldn’t notice.

Damian has no idea of this tradition. Not because he doesn’t cry, but because Bruce thinks he’d be offended if he tried.

[talekinesis]

Damian: *trying to comb his hair, getting increasingly frustrated because it's not laying straight*

Bruce: *gently pulling him closer to take over*

Bruce: Oh, you got my cowlicks. All seven of them.

Damian: I've always had trouble with my hair, and now im finding out that this is your fault >:(

Bruce: Hey if you're gonna blame anyone, it's probably your grandfather

Alfred: Actually, sir, it would be your mother

Bruce: You're kidding

Alfred: There is a reason she was very fond of hats

Damian: This bloodline is cursed.

Headcanon - Frustrating cowlicks run in the Wayne Family. Martha had them but it was less noticeable with her longer hair, but it's very noticeable with Bruce and Damian. Alfred had taught Bruce how to work with them at a young age, and now Bruce teaches Damian how to work with them and how he can style his hair around it (partially why he styles it so spiked and messy)

[idksomethinggay]

Tim: So Duke, you officially been at the manor a year, how are you liking it?

Duke: I’m finally settling in. I’m no longer worried Bruce is going to send me away.

Jason: I get that. I thought I was just some charity case. I was terrified that I would mess up and end up back on the streets. I stole a bunch of expensive looking things and kept them in a go bag. I was prepared.

Damien: I too feared being sent away. My grandfather would have been disappointed. I was prepared to fight to the death to prove my place in the family.

Dick: I was sleeping with a knife in my sock in case he sent me back juvie.

Cass: (signing) I feared disappointing him. I felt like I needed to earn my place here.

Steph: He couldn’t get rid of me if he tried. I am like glitter.

Tim: Same. I think he tried to kick me out like 6 times. I just laughed and walked past him.

Duke: Are we just going to ignore Dick’s knife comment?

[patientofarkhamasylum]

lazy day with husband!bruce headcanons 🖤

bruce wayne x fem!reader ⋆. fluff, smut (18+) .⋆ author's note: this ended up way longer than intended... i've been thinking about him way too much lately lol. extremely self-indulgent, sorry </3

The first thing you feel is his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer. Bruce buries his face in your neck, morning stubble scratching your skin. His hand slides under your (his) t-shirt so he can knead at your soft skin like a cat. It doesn't take long for you to feel his hardness against you, and when you press your ass back into him teasingly, he groans low in his throat and his grip tightens.

Soon you're having lazy, sideways morning sex with him curled around your back. He hooks your leg over his hip, opening you up just enough, and slides in slowly. Both of you sighing at the feeling. He's barely verbal this early. All you hear are soft grunts of your name and the rasp of his breath against your ear as you reach back to thread your fingers through his messy, dark hair. It's slow, perfect, and exactly what lazy mornings were made for.

When you push him onto his back and climb on top, that cocky Bruce Wayne smile appears immediately. "There she is. Take what you need, sweetheart." You set a slow pace, watching his eyes darken. The sun highlights his every scar, and you trace them while you ride him until he catches your wrist and kisses your palm. He only lets you take control for so long before he's sitting up, arms wrapped around you, and taking over the rhythm completely.

You collapse together, breathless and tangled in the sheets. His fingers trail up and down your spine, grounding himself in you. When his phone buzzes on the nightstand, he glances at it and tenses for a moment, then turns it over. It's a small but deliberate choice. He's staying here, with you, and that's a win.

You're still half-asleep when he carries you to the shower. He doesn't even give you a chance to protest, he simply lifts you like it's nothing and grins when you squeak. He strips slowly, knowing you're watching, and you definitely are. He starts by washing your hair and massaging your scalp until you're melting under his touch. Then his hands start to wander, and everything shifts.

Eventually, he has you pressed against the tile, your cheek cool against the smooth surface. One hand braces beside your head while the other pulls your hips back into him. This time, he fucks you hard, water cascading over your bodies. When he tugs your hair to tilt your head, his mouth finds the side of your throat, breath hot and desperate. You come first, moans of his name curling into the steam. By the time he follows, you're both shaking, panting, and soaked in every sense.

When you finally dry off and step out, two silk, midnight black robes are already laid out on the bed, each monogrammed. He helps you into yours and ties the belt with careful fingers.

Alfred has laid out an elegant brunch spread on one of the upstairs patios. There are flaky croissants, pain au chocolat, fresh berries with cream, smoked salmon with capers and cream cheese, fluffy scrambled eggs, avocado toast, pancakes drizzled in the perfect amount of maple syrup, french press coffee, and champagne mimosas. Bruce lounges beside you in his robe, your feet in his lap while he absently massages them. A black-and-white noir film plays on the outdoor screen—Double Indemnity or The Maltese Falcon, one of his favorites. Bruce is in his element, quietly pointing out camera angles and lighting choices, the way shadows frame each shot. You rarely see him so openly excited about anything and you treasure it.

You shift to rest your head on his shoulder, eyes half-lidded while he plays with your hair. His other hand finds yours, thumb brushing lightly against your knuckles. Alfred appears to refresh the drinks with his usual stoic expression, and you catch the slightest hint of amusement in his eyes when he takes in the scene. Bruce is actually relaxing for once.

About two movies later, you're in Bruce’s lap, not even pretending to watch the screen anymore. He kisses you lazily—champagne-sweet, unhurried—and lets his hands explore until the movie’s just background noise.

By afternoon, he gets that restless look. It's the one that usually means he's about to vanish into the Cave. But today, he just says, "Let's go somewhere. Wear that dress I like." You know exactly which one he's talking about: the little, slightly sheer floral sundress with the thin straps.

You come downstairs to find him waiting by the vintage Ferrari in dark jeans and a simple black button-up. He looks up, sees the way you've dolled up for him, and it takes everything in him to not take you right back up to bed. You do a little spin to tease him.

The drive out of Gotham is quiet. Bruce keeps one hand on the wheel, the other resting possessively on your thigh. The two of you visit some of your favorite quiet spots: the overlook where you watched your first sunset together, the old stone bridge where he first told you he loved you, and the wildflower field where he proposed. He doesn't say much at any of them, just holds your hand and lets you exist in these memories with him.

There's a charming boutique in one of the nicer outskirt towns, and and the owner greets Bruce like an old friend and pours him a glass of wine. Bruce sinks into a plush chair and nods toward the racks, the silent signal for you to try on whatever catches your eye. You should know by now that arguing is pointless. When he wants to buy you something, he will.

You model a cute top that shows just enough skin, jeans that hug your figure perfectly, an elegant gown for the next gala, and lingerie that makes his grip tighten on the wine glass. Each time you step out, his eyes rove over you with clear appreciation. Everything goes into the "yes" pile.

Back home, you both decide to cook, much to Alfred's barely concealed dismay. Bruce takes pasta duty while you handle the garlic bread, a simple division of labor that immediately goes sideways. He pulls you close while stirring the sauce, and suddenly it's everywhere. You flick some at his cheek and he gives you that look—half warning, half amusement—before catching you around the waist and kissing you The garlic bread burns because he won't stop distracting you, pressing up behind you with his lips on your neck and his hands under your dress. By the time you notice the smoke, you're both grinning, breathless, and the kitchen is a disaster. The pasta turns out pretty good though, and you eat at the island barefoot, legs tangled together, trading bites and sips of wine.

After, you head to the library, Bruce's favorite room. It has floor-to-ceiling books, leather furniture, and a fireplace. He lights it and you curl up together on the couch. You ask him to read and he picks a new mystery novel. His reading voice is different—quieter, more intimate. You're not following the plot, just listening while his fingers card through your hair.

Somewhere between chapters you shift to straddle his lap. The evening light makes his eyes impossibly blue and there's something raw in his expression. It's like he can't quite believe this is real, that he gets to have you. He makes love to you slow and deliberate on the couch, the late sunset painting patterns across your skin. Afterward you stay tangled together under a blanket, neither of you willing to move and break the moment.

His phone buzzes around 10 PM. Bruce stiffens immediately, his retreat starting before he even looks at the screen. It's Gordon, something about Crime Alley. Reality comes crashing down. He doesn't apologize—you both knew this was coming—but you can feel the regret in how he kisses your forehead, how his hand lingers on your cheek for a moment too long.

You follow him to the Cave because you always do. The ritual of helping him suit up is strangely calming. You check his gear and make sure everything's secure. Before the cowl goes on, he cups your face and kisses you softly. You've learned not to ask him to be safe because he can't promise that, but he can promise to try his hardest to make it back to you.

You watch the Batmobile disappear into the night and head back upstairs. You put on his t-shirt and slip into the too-big bed that smells like him. Your phone stays on the nightstand, volume up, just in case. You fall asleep thinking about all the ways Bruce Wayne shows you he loves you without saying it.

© 2025 patientofarkhamasylum. all rights reserved.

[lemonfizzyy]

I'd like to think Dick was vocal about hating Talia until Damian arrived and then all the recreational badmouthing of her ceased immediately.

Tim: "Hey, Dick, what happened to hating Talia? You haven't gone on a rant about her in a while."

Damian, looking at Dick: "What. What does that mean? You hate my mother?"

Dick: "What? No, of course not. Tim is mistaken. Aren't you, Tim?"

Tim: "No, I'm not. I-"

Dick, gritting teeth: "Aren't you, Tim?"

Tim: "......Yeah....?"

Dick: "See? He's got it mixed up. Talia is just the coolest. Now let's talk about something else."

[jasontoddscrowbars]

Pudding cups

Each Robin ate pudding cups differently.

Bruce would give the Robins chocolate vanilla pudding cups as rewards at the end of weekly patrols. Not the homemade stuff Alfred would make but the snackpak stuff in the plastic cups.

Chocolate layer, vanilla layer, chocolate.

Dick would aggressively stir the layers together. He had chaotic energy and everything had to morph as one giant sweet flavor. It gave him satisfaction to make as much of a mess as possible. He would then hand Bruce the spoon and just pour the pudding directly into his mouth squeezing it out of the cup.

Jason liked to stick the spoon straight down and the back in to get a perfect slice of all three layers. In the process of doing this, he would swipe the spoon against the side of the cup to make sure, each time, he would spoon up every last drop leaving nothing behind. At the end he would sit there meticulously scraping up the bottom.

Tim skims up layers from the top. He eats it painfully slow too. He takes the tiniest little even layer from the top, sucks on the spoon, and savors it. Bruce patiently waits for him while he eats it too. Finds the pace a nice change compared to the Dick who never tasted his.

Damian didn’t know what he was being handed. Bruce had to eat the first with him. Damian found the experience of eating the pudding with his father more fun than the pudding itself. Not long after, Dick joined them for these weekly moments. Damian wasn’t sure what to make of Dick eating his pudding cup. Then Tim joined and, well Tim was Tim. And when Jason came back, it was really rowdy. Damian wasn’t really all that big on the pudding cup, he liked Alfred’s better, but it didn’t taste all that horrible eating them with his brothers and father who were laughing like idiots. For once he was thankful Tim was so weird and ate so slow.