bruce wayne x sugar baby/trophy wife!reader headcanons!!!
•it starts off as him paying you in exchange for you being his plus one to all of his charity galas but eventually the line between platonic and romantic begins to blur
• you tell him that the strap on your purse broke a few days ago and the next morning a birkin bag shows up on your doorstep with a note
“they didn’t have your favorite color so i got you black. black goes with everything. -B”
• you’re immediately calling him because…
“bruce, do you know how much a birkin is!?!? i mean, don’t you have to have like a purchase history with Hermes to buy one of these??”
“calm down, sweetheart. i have more than enough money to replace one of your old purses. don’t worry about it.”
•finding out your boyfriend was batman was quite the shock
•wdym charming, billionaire, playboy bruce wayne lurks in the shadows of gotham at night, waiting to fight crime? no, definitely not your bruce!!
•the two of you are constantly sneaking away onto rooftops and balconies at galas and other events to get away from the noise and just enjoy each other
“brucie, c’mon!! if you don’t hurry up, mr. johnson and his wife will start talking your ear off again trying to invite you to a round of golf!”
•you last a mere 3 months before bruce gets the official ‘boyfriend’ title and another year before there’s a rock on your finger
Summary: You wake up in the middle of the night and go to the BatCave to check up on your husband through his comms. (wc: 2k)
Tags: Fluff. A bit of angst. So fluffy. Tooth-rotting sweet. Female!reader. Husband!Bruce. Batmom!reader. Dick is twelve years old. Dick isn’t Robin yet. No use of y/n. Soft!Bruce. Established relationship. Battinson.
Painting's description: Painted in 1872, Claude Monet's Impression, Sunrise depicts the misty port of Le Havre, France, at dawn. It is famous for its vibrant orange sun, which pierces through a hazy blue and gray atmosphere to reflect on the rippling water, while silhouetted boats and smokestacks emerge from the fog. The masterpiece is known not just for its subject, but for its revolutionary impact on art history.
Estimated value: between $250 and $400 million.
The worst thing that could have happened to you was to wake up in the middle of the night. When the bed was too cold, and your husband isn’t there to warm you right back up.
Waking up at 4:37 AM wasn't just a nuisance; it was a sensory disruption. You hated the specific chill of the master bedroom when it was empty—the way the expensive, high-thread-count sheets felt less like luxury and more like a cold marble slab.
You tossed and turned, your chest tightening. Dating the Batman had been an intellectual challenge; marrying him was an exercise in preservation. You hadn’t just married a man; you had legally bound yourself to a triptych. There was Bruce, the raw canvas. There was Bruce Wayne, the heavily varnished, superficial portrait presented to Gotham's high society. And there was the Batman—the dark, brutalist sculpture that demanded all of his shadow.
Living with all three was exhausting.
Giving up on sleep, you slid out of bed. You threw on a soft silk robe, though you didn't bother changing out of the ridiculous plush bunny slippers—the single, absurd piece of kitsch Bruce absolutely hated but secretly smiled at.
The hidden elevator ride down to the Batcave always felt like descending into a subterranean vault of stolen artifacts. The air down here smelled entirely of cold limestone, damp leather, and high-end server coolant. You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, your fingers moving across the master console with practiced, fluid precision. You knew the keystrokes by heart now.
When the massive monitors flickered to life, the primary feed displayed his line of sight.
You weren't looking at Bruce. You were looking at Gotham through his cowl. The city was rendered in harsh, high-contrast digital blacks and neon whites—a living chiaroscuro painting. The camera tilted slightly as he sat on the stone ledge of a cathedral, looking down at the fog-rolling streets. Nothing was happening. He was just watching. Monitoring the borders of his canvas.
You leaned against the cold metal desk, pressing the comms button.
"Hi, Batman," you murmured, your voice soft, cutting through the heavy hum of the cave's cooling fans.
On screen, the camera feed didn't jerk, but you caught the subtle, micro-fractional stabilization of his posture. He always reset his baseline when he heard your voice. Through the audio receiver, his breathing shifted, slowing down.
"What are you doing up?"
The cowl's vocal modulator rasped through the cave's high-end speakers. It was the heavy, gravelly baritone designed to strike terror into Gotham's criminal underworld—but after three years of marriage, you knew the exact frequency of the hidden cadence beneath it. It was a voice that made you hyper-aware of the bare skin of your legs against the cave's draft.
"Needed to check the alignment," you replied, leaning closer to the microphone, your tone small, intentionally stripping away the professional distance you usually kept. "Wanted to make sure my favorite piece wasn't damaged."
On the monitor, the digital horizon tilted slightly. A nod. Perfect, silent comprehension.
He didn't say I'm fine. He didn't say I miss you. As Batman, he was a man of minimalist composition. But the camera feed lingered on the empty sky for one long beat before he finally spoke
“How’s Dick doing?” his tone softens up a little when he brings up the kid you two had adopted. Dick Grayson. He was barely twelve years old, but he had the same look Batman had sometimes. That vengeance look.
“He’s sleeping. I didn’t check up on him before coming here.” You see how his head tilts and you know that’s a nod.
The feed remained still on the dark gothic skyline, the digital white noise of the comms the only sound filling the damp expanse of the cave. Even through the cold, synthetic filter of his cowl, you could hear the microscopic shift in his posture—the heavy, protective weight of a father balancing the darkness of Gotham against the fragile peace of his home.
"Go check on him," Bruce murmured, the gravel in his voice smoothing out, yielding to the quiet, exhausted father who worried about the ghosts haunting the boy down the hall. "He had... a rough afternoon."
You frowned slightly, leaning a hand on the edge of the sleek, cold console. "A rough afternoon? What happened?"
"A bird with a broken wing in the gardens," Bruce said quietly, his gaze on the screen panning slightly to the left, tracking the silent movement of a police cruiser miles below. "He spent three hours trying to build a splint for it. He wouldn't leave it. He wouldn't let me help, either."
A soft, bittersweet smile touched your lips. Dick was so incredibly stubborn, carrying a fierce, quiet intensity that mirrored the man currently crouching on a freezing stone ledge in the rain. They both wanted so desperately to fix everything that was broken, no matter how small.
"He's like you," you murmured into the microphone. "He doesn't know how to walk away from a tragedy."
"He needs to learn," Bruce replied, though the flat, minimalist delivery carried a rare trace of self-reckoning. "I don't want him to be like me."
You sigh, a quiet, knowing sound escaping your lips as you stare at the digital terminal for a fraction of a second too long. “I’ll go check on Dick, he’s probably still out cold. I’ll wait for you in bed, okay?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the modulator rumbles, carrying a thread of rare, private warmth.
Without another word, you sever the link. The elevator whisks you back up to the quiet, ancestral halls of Wayne Manor, where the cold brutalism of the cave yields to high-vaulted ceilings and heavy Persian rugs. You pad down the silent hallway to Dick’s room, pushing the door open just a crack.
Inside, the boy is splayed across his mattress like a living Jackson Pollock canvas—limbs thrown in chaotic, energetic vectors, practically dripping and splashing across the sheets. That was Dick Grayson’s version of sleep; even at rest, he was a burst of kinetic energy. He doesn't seem bothered by the weight of his dreams, and honestly, who would be at five in the morning? A small spike of affectionate jealousy pricks at your chest; he isn't the one keeping vigil over Gotham's protector tonight. You smile to yourself, pulling the door shut. Your little bird is safe, grounded in his nest.
When you return to the master bedroom, the heavy oak door clicks shut behind you, and there he is. Bruce is caught mid-motion, his broad shoulders tensed as he struggles with the stubborn latches of the remaining back plating. For a split second, he looks like a wild creature cornered by a sudden spotlight—vulnerable, stripped of his shadows.
“Need some help?” you ask softly, crossing the room.
You slip into the adjacent bathroom, returning with a warm, damp towel. Bruce lets you guide him to the edge of the bed. He sits, letting his heavy head drop slightly, completely yielding his formidable frame to your hands. He lets you in. You are the only person in the world he allows to touch him like this—to strip away the armor he built to keep the rest of humanity at bay.
You press the warm cloth to his temple, dabbing softly, carefully lifting the heavy black paint from his skin. You treat him with the same painstaking, reverent touch you use on the priceless masterpieces at the museum. In your mind, Bruce isn’t just a husband; he is a Monet—built from heavy, textured strokes of light and shadow, delicate under the surface, and utterly irreplaceable.
As the last of the greasepaint is wiped away, he leans forward. His hands rise to find your waist, his large, scarred fingers digging gently into the silk of your robe to pull you flush against him. When his lips find yours, the kiss is slow, heavy, and thick with unspoken gratitude. He tastes of dark espresso and the lingering cold of the Gotham night, a soft, grounding pull that makes your knees weak. His lips are your beautiful, inescapable perdition.
“Hi,” he murmured once he pulled away from you to look into your eyes. His light blue orbs were observing your face as if you were the only person in the world that mattered. He always made you feel like that. He flashes a small smile, not the one he uses when he’s on the cover of magazines, nor the one he uses when he talks to his associates. No. This kind of smile was only for you in intimate moments like this one. When he’s holding your body against his, and he smells like sweat, a bit metallic like blood, and inherently him. You press a kiss on his chest, bringing goosebumps on his arm. “Wanna watch the sunrise, sweetheart?”
You raised your eyebrow, looking at the covered windows of the master bedroom. The blackouts didn’t allow any light to come in, but he most likely knew what time the sun was coming up. It felt like his duty, somehow. You nod and let him guide you towards the large balcony in the living room. He opens the sliding window to let you step outside. The cool of dawn hits you immediately. He’s only wearing his sweats, hanging low on his hips and allowing all the scars on his torso to stay on display. You always told him you loved his scars, that they were his won battles.
As you hold onto the balcony railing, his warm arms embrace you from behind. His eyes are closed as he breathes your shampoo in, his warm chest against your covered back. He leans in, starting to kiss your neck and the sensitive joint of your neck and shoulder. The place where, according to him, you smelled the most you. Your hand curls around his arm and you tap him gently.
You’re going to miss the sunrise,” you whisper against his lips, a small, amused huff escaping you as you tilt your head back to accommodate the warm path of kisses he’s tracing down your jaw. It’s a beautifully transparent lie. You don’t care about the sky; you only care about the heavy, possessive way his arms are locked around your waist. And by the tight, unyielding grip of his hands, it’s clear the Dark Knight doesn’t care about the daylight either.
He nips teasingly at the crook of your shoulder—just enough pressure to make you gasp, but gentle enough to leave nothing but a warm sensation on your skin.
The first soft, orange rays of dawn begin to bleed over the horizon, cutting through the heavy Gotham mist. The sky above the distant harbor is finally waking up. You let out a soft, contented hum, looking past his shoulder at the view.
“It has the exact same palette,” you whisper, your fingers tangling in his damp, messy hair.
Bruce chuckles, the low sound rumbling directly against your spine. He presses a soft kiss to your cheek, his dark eyes turning to the window to watch the violet and orange paint the clouds. A knowing, incredibly soft smile touches his lips.
“You’re right, sweetheart,” he murmurs, his voice thick with sleep and affection. “Maybe Monet actually knew a thing or two about his colors.”
A bright giggle escapes you, warm and light in the quiet dawn. You turn in his embrace to face him, burying your hands in his chest. “Cheesy,” you tease, poking his chest.
Bruce just smiles, his eyes soft and entirely resting on you, his own perfect masterpiece.
bruce wayne x fem!reader — in which everyone gets it wrong, and you absolutely love it.
masterlist
in gotham, they call you the trophy wife.
bruce wayne’s latest indulgence. his mysterious european bride.
the woman who wears diamonds to galas and doesn’t know how to spell “wayne enterprises.”
you’ve read the headlines.
you’ve seen the gossip columns, the cheap magazines at the supermarket checkout that call you “another glittering conquest.”
and you think it’s hilarious.
because bruce, sitting across from you at breakfast with a three-day-old bruise on his jaw and the financial times spread open in front of him, looks like he’d rather fight bane again than attend another charity gala.
and you?
you could buy wayne enterprises twice over before lunch.
it started with the same rumor every transatlantic marriage sparks —
who married for money?
in gotham: you.
in europe: him.
you still have the clipping from Le Monde Société:
“American billionaire Bruce Wayne marries European heiress [Your Name], heiress to the [Your Family Name] fortune, in what sources close to the family are calling a ‘philanthropic gesture.’”
philanthropic.
as in: she took pity on him.
alfred, naturally, finds this all hysterical.
he reads you both the morning headlines while pouring coffee like a man delivering fine theater.
“The Gotham Gazette wonders if Mrs. Wayne’s accent is fake,” he says one morning.
“The Daily Mail asks if Mr. Wayne speaks French yet, or merely nods and looks handsome.”
bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. you sip your espresso, amused.
“what’s today’s count, alfred?” you ask.
“four articles calling you a gold-digger, two insisting you’re secretly divorced, and one… describing mr. wayne as your latest humanitarian project.”
bruce looks up. “what?”
alfred coughs delicately. “the european press, sir.”
you grin. “ah yes. le projet gotham.”
bruce gives you a look. “don’t start.”
“too late,” you say, smirking. “i think i’ll make shirts.”
in public, you play your role perfectly.
you touch his arm when cameras flash. you smile with soft lips and colder eyes.
you call him darling in that accent that drives gossip columnists mad — is it french? is it georgian? is it italian? nobody knows.
he plays along, because he’s bruce wayne, and if there’s anything he knows how to be, it’s a scandal wrapped in a suit.
he lets you lead him through rooms full of chandeliers and lies.
he lets you whisper jokes against his ear that make him smile in front of people who would sell their souls to see him slip.
and when the photographers scream “mrs. wayne! look here!” you tilt your chin up like a queen, fingers grazing his jaw just long enough for them to notice the way his breath catches.
it’s when the flashbulbs fade that the masks drop.
he watches you take off your jewelry like armor.
each ring, each earring, each diamond bracelet — gone. you unwind your hair. you walk barefoot across marble.
he leans in the doorway, tie undone, watching you quietly.
“they think i married you for your money,” you tease, pulling a pin from your hair.
“you didn’t?”
“oh, i did,” you say, smiling softly. “but not the kind they think.”
there’s a night when one of the tabloids runs a particularly vile piece — a full-page spread calling you ‘the next Mrs. Wayne to disappear into obscurity’.
alfred leaves it on the counter, face-down.
you find it anyway.
bruce starts to apologize — that it’s part of the deal, that it’s unfair, that he’s sorry —
but you just laugh.
“in monaco they wrote that you are my charity case,” you say, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “we are even now.”
“you read that one?”
“oh, everyone read that one. my mother framed it.”
he stares. “she what?”
“framed it. hung it in the hallway.” you grin. “said it’s the first time i did anything generous.”
he can’t help it. he starts to laugh. really laugh — the kind that breaks through the bruce wayne mask, the kind that sounds like light after years underground.
and you think, not for the first time, that all his wealth, all his tragedy, all his walls — they never stood a chance against the way you love to see him laugh.
there’s a gala the next week.
wayne enterprises hosting, of course.
the ballroom is glittering, and the press is already whispering before you even step out of the car.
she’s overdressed, someone mutters.
she’s showing off.
she’s playing the role.
and maybe you are.
because you wear your family’s emeralds, the ones older than gotham itself.
you wear a smile that could slice through glass.
you walk in with your hand on bruce’s arm like you’re introducing the world to your prize.
the whispers start — but this time, they don’t bother you.
they just make you laugh.
“you’re enjoying this,” bruce murmurs under his breath.
“immensely.”
“they think i’m your accessory.”
“you are,” you say sweetly. “my favorite one.”
alfred, standing off to the side with a tray of champagne, bites back a grin.
later, when it’s quiet again, bruce comes up behind you in the manor’s study.
his hands rest at your waist.
his voice low.
“you really don’t care what they say, do you?”
you tilt your head, thoughtful.
“in gotham they think i’m a trophy. in europe they think you are.”
you smile over your shoulder.
“but we know the truth, no?”
he presses a kiss to your shoulder. “which is?”
you turn to face him, eyes glinting.
“that we both won.”
the next morning, alfred leaves two clippings side by side on the breakfast table.
Gotham Gazette: “Mrs. Wayne spends lavishly while her husband rebuilds the city — how long until the bubble bursts?”
Le Figaro: “Heiress [Your Name] Wayne continues her philanthropic outreach in America — husband Bruce reportedly adapting well to foreign culture.”
bruce sighs.
you sip your coffee, serene.
“you’re taking this far too well,” he mutters.
“i’m simply a kind woman,” you say. “doing charity work.”
alfred snorts into his teapot.
in the end, no one in gotham ever learns the truth.
and no one in europe ever believes the lie.
but it doesn’t matter.
because in the privacy of your home — barefoot, hair down, coffee in hand — bruce looks at you the way men only do once in a lifetime.
and you?
you look at him like the most valuable thing you ever owned was never money, never status, never your name.
# BEING BRUCE WAYNE’S ❝SUGAR BABY❞ AND FALLING IN LOVE WITH HIM — HCs
warnings — slowburn. brief mentions of sex synopsis — being a broke college student that caught the attention of none other than bruce wayne a/n — this is the fluffy slowburn sfw version… the 18+ one is still in the works
──⟢ fear-is-truth — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.
you were a broke college student in your early twenties, juggling classes, part-time jobs, and an unrelenting mountain of bills. bruce wayne, freshly thirty, was already a household name—gotham’s elusive billionaire, playboy, and philanthropist.
you first crossed paths at a charity gala, where you were working as a server. you’d only seen bruce wayne in tabloids before, so when you caught him leaning against a marble pillar, watching you, you simply froze.
“you seem a little… distracted,” his eyes flicked to the tray you balanced expertly. “nervous, or just tired of all this nonsense?” you gave him a polite, weary smile. “neither. just trying to get through the night without spilling on anyone important. still got a paper to finish.”
his lips twitched in amusement, but he didn’t press further. at the end of the night, though, you found an obscene tip tucked beneath his empty glass—crisp hundred bills folded neatly, more money than you’d made all week.
weeks later, he appeared again—this time at a hole-in-the-wall café near campus where you worked part-time. it wasn’t his scene; he stuck out like a sore thumb in his tailored black coat, looking utterly out of place among the students.
he didn’t say much that first visit, just ordered black coffee and left another ridiculous tip. but he came back. again and again. sometimes he’d stay long enough for a brief conversation, other times he’d sit quietly in a corner, newspaper in hand. it wasn’t just the tips that stuck to you—it was the way he listened. bruce never made you feel small or dismissed your struggles, like so many others did.
when he first offered to help you financially, he did it with tact that left you room to preserve your pride. “you’re working too hard,” he said one evening. “let me take some of the weight off—just until things settle. consider it an investment in your future.” there was a sincerity in his voice that made it sound like a practical solution rather than a handout.
accepting his help wasn’t easy. you’d been so accustomed to clawing your way through life that the idea of someone else shouldering your burden felt unnatural. after days of hesitation, you finally agreed—but only on the condition that you’d pay him back one day. bruce had only nodded, though there was the faintest hint of a smirk, like he knew you never would.
he never made you feel indebted, though. if anything, he treated it like helping you was a privilege.
when your ancient car finally gave up, bruce didn’t even wait for you to ask for help. within the week, a sleek, brand-new model was delivered to your apartment, the keys tucked into an envelope with a simple note: you need something reliable. you tried to thank him, but he just waved it off. “just focus on getting where you need to go.”
your decrepit laptop, with its constant crashing and refusal to load anything on time, was next. one day, you came home to find a pristine, state-of-the-art model sitting on your desk, already set up and ready to use. you didn’t even have to ask.
bruce never demanded anything in return. the closest he came to asking for favours were the occasional lunches or dinners where he’d pick your brain about your studies, your ambitions, your dreams. he always seemed genuinely interested, never letting the conversation veer into anything too personal unless you led it there.
you realized over time that it wasn’t just the money, the gifts, or even the way he treated you like an equal—it was the steady presence he provided. bruce wasn’t there to fix your life or control it; he just wanted to make it a little easier. and somehow, that made all the difference.
when you stayed up late working on papers, bruce would sometimes settle on the couch nearby, a novel in his hands. he never intruded, but his quiet presence was a reminder that you weren’t alone. on particularly rough nights, he’d bring you a cup of tea without saying a word, setting it gently beside you before returning to his book.
on your birthday, he surprised you with a bouquet of your favourite flowers—something you’d mentioned in passing months ago—and a beautifully wrapped box containing a classic hermès birkin. the card attached to it read simply, “something to carry all those books in.”
his gifts were always thoughtful, never ostentatious in a way that would make you feel uneasy. designer coats, shoes, and bags—each impeccably tailored to your taste, yet discreet. the labels were always tucked away, hidden in folds and linings. they were things you could wear without being worried you’d get mugged. nothing about them screamed, “i have a sugar daddy.”
bruce never tried to “buy” your affection. you didn’t owe him anything—not in the transactional way most would expect. he just wanted to see you comfortable, to help you in ways that went beyond financial support. and, over time, you realized you cared for him too—not for what he could give you, but for who he was.
he had an uncanny ability to remember the smallest details about you. the way you took your coffee. the name of the professor whose lectures you dreaded. how the sound of rain on a window always calmed you. those little moments of attentiveness.
at first, bruce kept you at arm’s length emotionally, cautious about pulling you deeper into his complicated world. but as the months went by, as your late-night talks stretched into early mornings, it became clear that bruce didn’t see this as a favour or an obligation. he cared for you in a way that went far beyond surface-level kindness.
when you went through a bad breakup, he didn’t try to fix it or console you with empty platitudes. instead, he just wrapped his arms around you, letting you cry into his chest.
it wasn’t long before the line between benefactor and friend blurred entirely. he was no longer just footing your bills or buying you thoughtful gifts—bruce got greedy. he didn’t just want to take care of you financially; he wanted all of you.
one night, you were venting about your professors, frustration pouring out in a messy jumble of words. bruce listened intently, brow furrowed as he leaned back in his chair, giving you his undivided attention.
“you’re too nice to me,” you blurted, the words slipping out like a spew of vomit. before doubt could creep in, you leaned forward and kissed him. it was a kiss that changed everything—as you half expected him to gently push you away, his hand came up to cradle your face, deepening it.
the kiss led to one thing, then another, and before you knew it, you were tangled together in his sheets, lost in his kisses, his touch, his quiet attention to your every reaction. bruce wasn’t just passionate; he was thorough in a way that unraveled you completely—it was hands down the best sex you’d ever had.
when you woke up the next morning, still tangled in his arms, a wave of uncertainty hit you. maybe it was nerves or overthinking, but you couldn’t stop wondering if you’d crossed a line you shouldn’t have. sensing your unease, bruce kissed your shoulder, his lips warm and soft against your skin. “i hope you know this changes nothing… we’re fine.”
and just like that, you became his official “sugar baby.” not that the dynamic between you two changed drastically—it simply gave bruce an excuse to really spoil you.
the secrecy was part of the thrill, but also a necessity. bruce wasn’t ready to let the world know, and truthfully, you weren’t either. the thought of being reduced to a tabloid headline or a shallow label like “sugar baby” or “sugar daddy” felt like a betrayal of the genuine connection you’d built.
he started sending you to your favourite spa on weekends, claiming you deserved a break from all the stress. when you protested that it was too much, he just shrugged. “self-care is important,” he said, as though it was the simplest thing in the world.
your closet, which had been a collection of fast fashion and thrifted pieces, was slowly replaced with the row, max mara, burberry, and dior.
your jewelry collection grew as well. delicate van cleef & arpels bracelets, tiffany & co. pendants, and diamond-stud earrings from cartier found their way into your life. he gifted you a dainty rolex, understated yet stunning, with a cheeky note: “don’t be late to class.”
despite all of this, bruce was careful to ensure it never looked like you were “living large.” you stayed in your same modest apartment, though it was clear his influence was woven into the details: a state-of-the-art security system, upgrades to your furniture and appliances that made life a little easier.
dinners became a regular occurrence, whether it was a reservation at gotham’s most exclusive restaurant or an extravagant meal in his penthouse.
when you graduated, bruce was there, blending into the crowd in a simple black coat, inconspicuous among the sea of families and friends. you didn’t spot him at first—he wasn’t the type to draw attention when he didn’t want to—but when your eyes finally landed on his, he gave you the smallest of nods. after the ceremony, he approached you quietly, slipping a small velvet box into your hand. you opened it to reveal a key.
“what’s this for?” you asked, already overwhelmed, fingers trembling slightly. “your new apartment,” he replied simply. then, after a pause, “unless… you’d rather move in with me.”
from then on, everything changed. bruce wasn’t just your benefactor; he was your best friend, your confidant, and eventually, your lover.
CONSISTS OF ↬ Even Gotham’s most intimidating man melts around his daughter In public, he’s a billionaire, a tycoon, a legend... but at home and wherever she goes, he’s just dad.
── .✦ w. west. c. kent. d. grayson. j. todd. r. harper.
| navi. | masterlist. | dc masterlist. |
girl dad!bruce wayne who kept pacing the manor with her in his arms when she wouldn’t sleep, his deep voice rumbling as he read crime reports out loud until you finally laughed and handed him a fairy tale book instead.
girl dad!bruce wayne who shows up to events, press conferences, meetings, etc. with pink nail polish left over on his nails. He holds his composure the entire time and doesn't even flinch when someone mentions it, he simply replies with "My daughter wanted my wife and I to have matching nails with her." as if its normal for brooding Bruce Wayne's public persona to have sparkles on him.
girl dad!bruce wayne who was unexpectedly good at changing diapers, though you teased him about looking like he was disarming a bomb every single time.
girl dad!bruce wayne who set up a bassinet right in the cave next to his chair for nights when he couldn’t stand being too far away, even though you insisted she’d be fine upstairs.
girl dad!bruce wayne who still, even years later, sometimes watches her sleep with that same reverent look he had the first night he held her, like she’s the only proof he needs that there’s light in the world.
girl dad!bruce wayne who is the most intimidating man in Gotham by day, but sits cross legged on the nursery floor at night trying to build dollhouse furniture while telling your daughter about “structural integrity.”
girl dad!bruce wayne who has a way of making her feel like the most important person in the world, whether it’s by showing up to every school play in a suit or sneaking in to kiss her forehead after patrol.
girl dad!bruce wayne who lets her climb into your bed during thunderstorms, and though he’ll complain about “no room” with that dry tone, he’ll pull both of you closer until she falls asleep safe between you.
girl dad!bruce wayne who teaches her self-defense moves in the training room, but you catch him slowing down so she’ll win, and when you call him out on it, he just smirks.
girl dad!bruce wayne who becomes instantly softer the moment she tugs at his sleeve during a Wayne gala, crouching down in his expensive suit so she can whisper her “very important secrets” into his ear.
girl dad!bruce wayne who keeps his cool when reporters swarm him, but his daughter has him wrapped tight enough that he’ll cut an interview short if she hides behind his leg or says she’s tired.
girl dad!bruce wayne who is infamous among the paparazzi for always making sure she’s shielded by his frame — whether it’s his arm around her shoulders or his entire body angled to block the flashing lights.
girl dad!bruce wayne who lets her sit on his lap during Wayne Enterprises board meetings, even though half the room looks horrified when she scribbles on his paperwork with crayons. He just smirks and tells them her notes are better than most of theirs.
girl dad!bruce wayne who takes her to charity events where she’s inevitably the star, answering questions with a frankness that makes him bite back a laugh, and sometimes stealing the microphone before he can speak.
girl dad!bruce wayne who has no problem letting the world think he’s Gotham’s most intimidating man, but the second she waves at photographers or says “Daddy, smile! Say cheese!” he gives the press a rare, genuine grins they’d never catch otherwise.
another hc post because i was bored and can’t write anything these days 🍒 main masterlist || reader is mentioned to have hair in hal’s part
₊⊹ BRUCE WAYNE: He may not look like it but is a soft kisser. He kisses so tenderly that you forget you are making out with a human being, it starts feeling so comfortable, like he is made of cotton. But then his hands grab your waist and follow down to your hips, then you realize who you are making out with— which eventually makes you more excited and you wanna kiss him more. And once he gets comfortable with you and your relationship, he will kiss you any possible time.
₊⊹ DIANA OF THEMISCYRA: She likes hugging you while kissing. Her hands wrap around your waist and pull you to herself. She likes you kissing her first and then you taking all the control over the kiss because she loves it when you think you are the one in control— but you both know it’s actually her.
₊⊹ DICK GRAYSON: Dick does not have one specific kissing— he acts through emotions. He feels happy: softest kisses ever. He feels angry: Kisses so harsh they could even tear your skin apart. You two made up after a fight: Dives into your mouth as if you are the water that couldn’t touch his lips for months. He can be soft, tense, harsh, but all of the kisses are given with love.
₊⊹ HAL JORDAN: Sloppiest kisses, creates a mess. He will give you the best kiss but you will have to race his mouth to catch his moves. He is touchy while he kisses. His hands wanders around your body— but his favorite spot to be is in your hair. One is trapped and tangled in the locks of your hair while the other is holding your back. Your body must be pressed to his because how can he kiss you if not?? And if you two have a friends with benefits type of relationship, he will deny all the things he committed while kissing.
₊⊹ KARA ZOR-EL: Creates a mess, proud of what she creates. She would love kissing her significant other, but making out with them is another thing for her. She does it tenderly, with care and great excitement. She loves listening to your heartbeat as you make out. She doesn’t care about whether you are alone or not, she will peck your lips anytime.
₊⊹ ROY HARPER: Best kisses known to humanity. He will eat your lips out!! He hums when he kisses and his tongue is all over yours all the time. His intimacy is something you will get through time but once you’ve obtained it, you will see this side of him very often. He loves having you sit on his lap as you make out. He can initiate the kiss anywhere and it’d be with the same desire. He is just too good at this.
₊⊹ TALIA AL GHUL: She is a soft kisser. I honestly don’t think she has that much experience in kissing, but she kisses like she has because she is good at hiding her inexperience. She will care about you in ways nobody has ever had. With every gift, you will have make out sessions. She likes kissing your cheeks and leaving a lipstick mark there. Though, she will not let you swipe the mark off until the end of the day. She loves seeing the evidence of you belonging with her, and she with you.
₊⊹ ZATANNA ZATARA: Lucky kisses before and after every show. She loves kissing in bed, her hair in tangles and your bodies close together… She loves kissing in bath, bubbles around your bodies and warm water… She starts slow, gets fast and ends slowly. Zatanna gives magical kisses and she doesn’t even need to use her magic for it.
tbh clark would love being called kal-el by those closest to him. obviously my brain goes to poly!superbat, though.
warnings- smut 18+ only, unprotected p in v sex, rimming (m receiving), oral (f and m receiving)
rosy cheeks every time it slipped from your mouth. most often in these moments,
early mornings where he was still half-asleep. skin warm with lines from the blankets etched into his skin. sleepy eyes and hands always pulling himself towards you or bruce. he’d sigh in content, feeling the most at home he’s ever felt.
when he jolts awake from a nightmare with frantic eyes and a heaving chest. his first thought is to not wake either of you up. to go to the living room and just deal with it alone. but he regains his senses and ends up waking either you or bruce up, seeking comfort. without fail, whoever he leaves sleeping ends up waking up from all the movement anyways. you both tuck him in between you, if he isn’t already, and soothe him with gentle touches and reassuring words. whispers of his birth name and promises of your boundless love eventually lull him back to sleep. two sets of arms wrapped around his form. two hands that stroke his soft skin. two sets of lips that press long kisses to his hair, neck, shoulders, cheeks… everywhere.
while he’s cooking for you and bruce in the kitchen. either in his apartment or at the manor with alfred shoo’ed away. he moves with ease, flipping bacon and pancakes before either have time to burn, because when it’s his turn to cook it’s always breakfast for dinner. he has an apron on, likely a frilly “kiss the cook!” one that was definitely made to fit your size, not his. tongue between his teeth and whispering measurements to himself. every time, without fail, either you or bruce sneak up behind him to wrap you arms around his waist and sneak bites of food. you’ll nuzzle your face against his shoulder with a hum, “mmm, thanks kal-el”
you’re all getting ready for another gala. bruce goes to help clark tie his tie while you finish your hair. although clark has tied his own tie a million times, he shows no objection to letting bruce do the job for him. bruce takes time to run his fingers along the tie underneath clark’s collar to “make sure it’s not flipped”. the contact would have clark a little flustered already. but after he’s all set, bruce kisses him and whispers “you look so handsome, kal-el.”, and it renders him speechless.
when he’s hurt, his powers stripped from kryptonite or his body aches from a brutal combat. either in the hospital or the medical corner of the cave. you hover over him with tears in your eyes, hands shaky and lip wobbling. “kal-el.. honey, please.” you’d whimper. your hands move from his arms to his chest, up to his face, wherever you can touch him as if the feeling would suddenly heal him. bruce is just as unwell, but more quiet. in a nearby chair with his elbows on his knees, head in his hands.
but moooooooooost definitely in the bedroom. sorry i’m a horndog 4ever. lemme share some thoughts
-bruce railing clark while he eats you out. both of you telling him how good he is, how he’s such a sweetheart, “so good for us, kal-el..”
-you & bruce worshipping clark’s cock. “such a pretty cock, kal-el… so fucking hard for us.. look at you..” while he whines and squirms.
-missionary where clark is just fucking the life out of you while bruce watches. “oh- fuck! mm- kal! fuck, kal-el.. right there.”
-bruce rimming him while you suck him off. “taste so fucking good, kal. mmm.. this ass is fuckin’ mine, kal-el.”
-him and bruce DP’ing you. “bruce.. kal… shit, oh fuck you’re so deep.”
and finally, when he’s a little bit floaty and in subspace. shaky breathing and heavy eyes while you and bruce clean him up. “so good for us, kal-el..” “kal-el.. so perfect. all ours, hmm?” and sweet murmurs of his name while you hold him in the hot bath after 🤌🏼
summary: my personal miscellaneous hc's for the bat boys and their physical attributes (listed in height order) <3
note: possible cw's for body dysmorphia in jason's btw. A/N at the end <3
jason:
the tallest and bulkiest of the bunch. I see him as just a bit taller than 6'4, but not quite 6'5. he's probably 6'5 when he's wearing his big patrol boots though.
his height and muscle mass are all results of the lazarus pit. if he hadn't died and been thrown into the pit, he likely wouldn't have gotten any taller than 5'9. childhood malnutrition will do that to you.
he was ridiculously shredded when he first came out of the pit and was training with the league, mostly because he didn't have the diet or nutrition to keep up with his new mass. he looked shrink wrapped. his abs were always incredibly defined because of dehydration. once he starts taking better care of himself and starts actually eating enough calories to keep up with his size, he gets a nice layer of healthy fat over his torso. someone play big boy by SZA.
it took him a long time to learn how to feel comfortable in his new body after the pit, and but the body dysmorphia still creeps in every now and then. there are times when he still feels like a gangly, awkward 15 year old boy living in a grown bodybuilder's body. he ends up standing with a slouch most of the time until he gets more comfortable with his new stature. I will say that the first time jason realized he could look bruce directly in the eye without craning his neck like he needed to when he was younger, it gave him a panic attack so badly he wanted crawl out of his skin. he had a similar reaction when he realized how small his old robin suit used to be.
his hair was much curlier as a kid, but now as an adult it's more wavy. however, his hair does get significantly curlier when it's wet/humid/sweaty/etc. every time he takes his helmet off after patrol he needs to shake his hair out like a wet dog or else the helmet hair is out of control.
biceps and thighs the size of tree trunks. even if a shirt fits his torso with room to spare, the sleeves will still be tight around his biceps. for that reason, most of his workout shirts are either muscle tanks or just old shirts that he cut the sleeves off of.
his hands get very sweaty and clammy when he's nervous. he hates it because he thinks of it as one of his most obvious tells.
very prominent arm and hand veins. I don't see him as the type to wear a lot of jewelry, but he would look incredible with a few chunky signet rings.
I can see him with a maybe a couple cartilage piercings in his ears that he either did himself, lindsay lohan parent trap style, or he got them done in some sketchy 24 hour gotham piercing and tattoo shop.
speaking of tattoos, I don't think he'd realistically have any because any visible tattoos would make him too identifiable, but the idea of a tatted jason makes me bark like a rabid dog. jason with sleeves and hand tattoos... jason with back tattoos... jason with neck tattoos. I gotta stop myself here before I start foaming at the mouth.
bruce:
the second tallest and second bulkiest. just a hair shorter than jason at 6'3, but appears closer to 6'5 in the suit because of the reinforcements in the cowl and in his boots.
he has incredible posture. alfred wouldn't accept anything less from his young charge, but it was really cemented into him by the Tibetan monks. his posture makes him seem even taller than he actually is.
I imagine the wayne men as all being tall, but bruce had sporadic growth spurts between the ages of 14-19. by the time he started training with the league, he'd stopped growing in height, but continued to gain significant muscle mass throughout his training.
bruce's muscle is more dense and compact, where jason's is more visibly bulky. bruce has the kind of muscle that can be easily hidden if he's wearing a heavy coat or a suit jacket, but as soon as he sheds the extra layers of clothing, you can tell he's jacked.
Shoulders For Days. shoulders and broad chests are the defining feature of the wayne men. all of his suit jackets and coats have to be custom tailored to fit his shoulders without ripping through the seams. his traps and deltoids are crazy. a pull-up bar hates to see bruce wayne coming.
his hair doesn't have much wave to it, but a few loose strands will always fall forward into his face no matter how much gel or pomade he puts in it.
his knuckles are almost always bruised or cracked. when paparazzi catch photos of it, bruce tells them that he's picked up boxing as a hobby. in reality he's just out punching goons straight into the ICU every night. alfred has to nag him about putting some fancy hand cream on every night to keep his knuckles from splitting.
his hair started going grey at the temples in his late twenties. dick and jason used to make fun of him for it, so every 6 weeks or so he would dye it to match the rest of his hair. he gave up on that once he got into his mid thirties, though. then the public happily embraced bruce wayne's new silver fox status.
there are a lot of gossip articles or those “plastic surgeon reacts” type of videos discussing whether or not he’s had plastic surgery done. botox, fillers, face lifts, rhinoplasty, etc. photos comparing and analyzing his face from when he was 20 to his face at 40. what the public is sure was at least a $50,000 nose job and face lift is actually just several broken noses, a few skin grafts, and various dental procedures that have occurred during his time as the bat. the cowl has continued to be more and more reinforced over the years, but it doesn’t protect him from everything.
dick:
right in the middle in terms of height and muscle. he's 6'1 and change, but probably says he's 6'2 on his driver's license.
he's definitely leaner than bruce and jason, but his entire body is equally muscular (whereas I imagine bruce and jason having the most of their muscle around their torso/arms). his calves are just as impressive as his biceps. the control he has over his entire body is olympic gymnast-level. (look up pictures of male olympic gymnasts if you want dick grayson body references).
dick has the quintessential Pretty Boy Hair. his hair isn't nearly as curly as jason's is, but it has the perfect amount of wave and length to frame his face perfectly. he's constantly running his fingers through it to push his hair out of his face, but it always falls right back.
dick has the kind of facial features that make everyone jealous. the most beautiful lashes you've ever seen, brilliant gigawatt smile, perfectly placed dimples, naturally full lips, jawline carved from marble. his eyebrows are somehow always perfectly shaped and groomed, despite the fact that he does nothing to them.
his hands are surprisingly calloused and roughed up for a boy as pretty as he is. people shake his hand at a gala and expect to feel a hand that has never worked a day in its life, but they're met with the callouses of a blue collar worker. he had callouses on his hands at age 8 that adult men in their 40s didn't even have.
he was a very small child, but then he had a ridiculous growth spurt in his teens. he basically went from 5'7 to 5'11 in the span of a few months when he was 15. alfred was having to tailor all of his clothes every few weeks.
he tans very, very easily, but he rarely ever burns. when he was a kid he would spend hours and hours in the wayne manor pool during the summer and never once got a sunburn. trying to put sunscreen on a young dick grayson was like trying to bathe a feral cat. on the rare chance that he does burn, it always turns into the most natural flush across his nose and cheeks.
dick gives the best hugs in the world. a very enthusiastic hugger. he's always unnaturally warm (there's a reason bruce would never get dick to add pants to the robin uniform) and he always smells good. i imagine his signature cologne is some mix of citrus, woods, and sea salt that shouldn't really make sense together, but fits him so well.
he's the type of person that needs to physically exercise nerves or jitters out of his body. jumping up and down, shaking out his wrists/hands, rolling his shoulders, lunges, cracking his neck, etc. jumps and leaps and flips that he could do with his eyes closed, sometimes he still needs to hype himself up before his feet leave the ground.
damian:
damian doesn't ever end up as tall as bruce (something he is secretly very upset about), but he does end up at 6'0 on the dot.
he had sporadic growth spurts between the ages of 13-16, just like bruce did, but he was still only about 5'8 by the time he was entering his senior year of high school. it got to the point that his brothers joked that he'd probably stopped growing and was destined to forever be the littlest brother. much to their intense chagrin, damian grew nearly 4 inches between 12th grade and when he started his med school undergrad.
damian has the trademark pending Wayne Men Shoulders. I'm team "damian is practically the spitting image of talia," but you get one look at damian's shoulders and know he is a wayne. I see him developing more more of a swimmer's build once he gets older; broad shoulders, muscular back, but with a narrower waist and leaner muscles.
the craziest bedhead you've ever seen in your life. his hair has very little wave to it, but it is crazy dense and crazy thick (you will never see him with a receeding hairline). that's part of the reason he's gotta keep his hair upright and spiky with gel; otherwise he looks like he just stuck his finger in an electrical socket.
he gets freckles across his nose and cheekbones that only come out when he's been in the sun for a while, something he gets from talia. they will almost completely disappear from his face during the gotham winter, but one weekend spent on the kent farm with jon during the summer and damian comes back to the manor with a full face of freckles.
I can see damian having very expressive features when he's not trying to mask them. he has a really deep furrow in between his brows (something I imagine bruce having as well) that comes out when he's focusing really intently, or when he's brooding. speaking of brooding, damian has a very distinct pouty/grumpy face that he insists he does not have. the batbrows come out in full force, along with the eyebrow furrow, and his lips form a little pouty frown. it's amplified 10x when stands with his arms crossed. it's an expression that is somehow a mix of "grumpy little kid who was told they can't have ice cream for breakfast" and "crotchety old man sitting in a park waiting to feed birds."
with the exception of bruce's fancy watches, damian is the only one of the boys that I can actually see wearing jewelry on a regular basis. I imagine that a lot of the jewelry he wears are pieces that were once talia's, some of the few things of sentimental value he was allowed to have in the league. things like simple chain necklaces or beaded bracelets that he can hide with a long sleeve or a higher collar. maybe a few jeweled or signet rings. maybe he gets his earlobes or his helix pierced when he's older. the only piece of jewelry he has from bruce is one of thomas' old watches that bruce gives damian when he gets accepted into medical school.
very, very nice hands. the kind of hands that practically scream "i use a $100 hand cream and take care of my cuticles." talia was very strict with teaching him good grooming habits, and it definitely paid off. you'll never see damian with hang nails or chewed fingernails. once he gets into his med school residency program and is washing/sanitizing his hands 100 times a day, he experiences his first bout of chapped hands. he calls talia for advice and sure enough, a package appears at his doorstep within 24 hours with 6 different hand creams (shea butter, goats milk, glycerin, jojoba oil, etc) and multiple vials of homemade cuticle oil, along with a pair of cotton gloves to wear at night.
tim:
last, but certainly not least, tim is the smallest of all of the batboys. at 5'10, he's not short by any means, but he's the only one out of his brothers to not break 6'0.
I am sick and tired of the twinkified!tim agenda. tim was always going to be more lanky and thinner than the other bats, just genetically speaking, but he's doing the same training regimen and fighting the same goons the rest of the bats are fighting. by no means is he unfit or not muscular. in my head, tim's got the sleeper build locked down. if he's wearing baggy clothes or long sleeves, you'd think he's just a pretty typical skinny white dude, but the second he wears shorter sleeves or the bottom of his shirt rides up when he pulls a sweatshirt off, people around him are doing double takes.
tim is a really, really terrible knuckle cracker. and yes I am projecting this from myself. it's one of his little "brain break habits" that he does when he's pouring over a case and needs to reset his brain. and it doesn't just stop at his knuckles. he'll crack his spine, his neck, his elbows, his wrists. basically any joint that he's capable of cracking? sounds like a glow stick. he has been yelled at multiple times during stakeouts because they can hear him cracking his fingers over the coms.
I can see him having very, very faint freckles across his nose. they were probably more prominent when he was little, but have now faded to the point where you can really only see them if you're up close and personal. if he actually pulled himself away from a computer screen and spent more time outside in the sun, they might darken a bit.
tim very rarely smiles with his teeth. he used to when he was a kid, but then he got braces, and jack and janet didn't like the way family photos looked with timmy's mouthful of metal. even after he got his braces off, he still doesn't smile with his teeth. instead, he has two different closed mouth smiles. there's the "fancy gala press photo" smile that doesn't really reach his eyes, but was perfected by his parents before he reached double digits. then there's his actual smile, the one that his friends and family catch in candid pictures, where the force of his grin makes his eyes scrunch together and his long-hidden dimples emerge from hiding. look at this picture if u want to see what i'm talking about.
some of the worst posture you've ever witnessed in your life. no amount of ergonomic desk chairs or posture correcting braces can fix it. it's also his casual resting position. if he's sitting in a chair or on the couch, he's curled his legs up in front of him. if he's actually fallen asleep in his bed and not hunched over his desk, he's tucked himself into a ball, roly poly style. someone unshrimp him please, i'm begging you.
you may think olivia rodrigo wrote the line "i think that you're killer, with your floppy hair" about louis partridge. you'd be wrong. she actually wrote it about timothy jackson drake. my source? shhhh dude just trust me. bruce and alfred are always nagging him to get a haircut, because surely his hair is getting into his eyes? what they don't know is that his floppy hair is responsible for 70% of his rizz. (except for that fuckass bowl cut. baby timmy was in the trenches with that one).
his lips are always busted and cracked. it's partially because he chews on his lips when he's really focused or when he's stressed, and partially because of just plain ol' dehydration. it's gotten so bad that sometimes he doesn't even register how cracked and bloody his lips are until he drinks or eats something acidic or salty, and then he's Very Aware of it. get this man a glass of water and a burts bees please and thank you.
his hands and feet are Always cold. tim drake, anemia king. fuzzy socks are always a much appreciated gift for him, even if he usually ends up losing one and wearing them mismatched. if he's feeling particularly annoying he'll walk up behind his friends or his siblings and stick his freezing cold iceberg hands down the back collar of their shirt. this habit has gotten him dangerously close to impalement multiple times.
