#wayne x reader

[reveuchet]

Bruce Wayne as your arranged marriage husband means endless shopping budget but a man who disappears every night— only coming back to sleep.

Feeling the dip beside you on the bed, you rotate your head slightly to see his back filled with deep wounds. Some healed while some others are a raging red. You always notice but never ask how he always comes home at the dead of night, always with new gashes that constitutes his whole back.

Every time you ask, it's a look of shame that graces his face and one of sympathy that comes from the estranged butler, Alfred. There's a hint of secrecy between the two that you've always been curious since the wedding. They were always chatting silently with each other when you "weren't" paying attention.

It's the day that you go to call him downstairs that you discover the Batcave.

"Fucking bitch," you whisper underneath your breath.

"[Name]..." he says. "I can explain—"

"You're Batman?"

cont.

[pomegranatelifethis]

The Weight of Forgotten Things

You're late again.

Not that it matters. First period is calculus, and Mr. Henderson stopped calling on you weeks ago. He's learned that waking you up only leads to awkward silence and the uncomfortable realization that you haven't retained a single word of his lecture. It's easier for everyone if you just sleep through it.

The coffee shop on the corner of Dixon and Park is your usual stop. It's small, cramped, and the espresso tastes like burnt rubber, but it's open at six in the morning and the barista doesn't ask questions when you pay in crumpled singles and loose change.

The bell above the door chimes as you push inside. The warmth hits you immediately, a stark contrast to Gotham's bitter November air. You're still pulling your headphones down around your neck when you notice him.

He's sitting in the corner booth—the one you usually take when you're planning to skip entirely and need somewhere to kill a few hours. Dark hair. Sharp jawline. Expensive-looking coat that probably costs more than three months of your father's rent. He's staring at his laptop, but something about the way he holds himself feels... aware. Like he's paying attention to everything in the room without looking at any of it.

You've never seen him here before.

Gotham is full of strangers, though. You don't think much of it.

"The usual?" The barista—Nina, her name tag reads, though you've never actually introduced yourself—is already reaching for the smallest cup size.

"Yeah. Thanks."

You pay, pocket the receipt out of habit (your father checks them sometimes, makes sure you're not "wasting his money"), and move to the pickup counter. Your phone buzzes. You don't check it. You already know what it says.

Where are you?

Or: You better not have left.

Or: I needed those dishes done before I left for work.

The messages blur together after a while.

"Order for—" Nina pauses, glancing at the cup, then at you with a slightly apologetic smile. She never writes your name down. You never give it. "—coffee."

You take it with a quiet thank-you and turn toward the door.

That's when you feel it.

The weight of someone's attention, pressing against the space between your shoulder blades like a physical touch. You glance back instinctively, and your eyes meet his.

The stranger in the corner booth.

He's looking directly at you now. Not at his laptop. Not pretending. Just... looking.

His expression is unreadable. Not hostile, not friendly. Something else entirely. Something that makes your stomach twist in a way you don't understand.

You look away first.

The bell chimes again as you push outside, and the cold hits you like a slap. You pull your jacket tighter—thin, secondhand, doing almost nothing against the wind—and start walking in the direction of school.

You don't look back.

But the feeling stays with you.

The strange, uncomfortable sense that whoever that man was, he wasn't just looking at you.

He was looking for you.

.....

You fall asleep in third period.

It's English this time, and Mrs. Delgado is reading aloud from The Great Gatsby. Her voice is soft, rhythmic, almost hypnotic. The classroom is warm. Your head feels heavy.

You tell yourself you'll just rest your eyes for a minute.

Then the dream comes.

It's dark.

You're small. Everything is too big. The walls stretch up forever, and the hallway is long, longer than it should be. Your socks make no sound against the floor as you walk.

You're looking for something.

No—someone.

"Bruce?"

Your voice is tiny. It echoes.

Somewhere ahead, there's a door. It's cracked open, and warm light spills through the gap. You hear voices inside. Low. Calm. Safe.

You reach for the handle—

"Hey. Hey."

Someone is shaking your shoulder.

You jerk awake, gasping softly, your heart pounding in your chest. The classroom swims back into focus. Mrs. Delgado is still reading. No one is looking at you except the girl sitting next to you—Casey, you think her name is.

"You okay?" she whispers. "You were like... whimpering or something."

"I'm fine," you mutter, scrubbing a hand over your face.

She doesn't look convinced, but she turns back to her book anyway.

Your hands are shaking.

It's just a dream. You've had it before. Variations of it, anyway. The big house. The long hallways. The feeling of searching for someone you can't name.

You tell yourself it doesn't mean anything.

But your chest still feels tight.

The day drags.

You sit through history, chemistry, lunch. You don't eat—your stomach feels wrong, twisty and uncertain. Your phone buzzes twice. You silence it without looking.

By the time the final bell rings, you're exhausted in a way that goes beyond sleeplessness. It's the kind of tired that lives in your bones.

You take the long way home.

It's not because you want to. It's because the longer you're gone, the less time you have to spend in that house. Your mother will be angry either way. At least this way, you get another twenty minutes of space.

You're two blocks from the apartment when you see him again.

The man from the coffee shop.

He's standing across the street, half-hidden in the shadow of a building. Same coat. Same posture. And he's watching you.

Your stomach drops.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen on the sidewalk. People brush past you, annoyed, but you barely notice. Your heart is pounding again, but this time it's not from a dream.

He doesn't move. Doesn't wave. Doesn't smile.

He just... watches.

You turn and walk faster.

By the time you reach your building and glance back over your shoulder, he's gone.

That night, you can't sleep.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the muffled sounds of your father's television through the thin walls. Your mother went to bed an hour ago. The bruise on your arm from this morning still aches.

You should be used to this by now.

But tonight, your mind won't settle.

You keep thinking about the man in the coffee shop. The way he looked at you. The way he was there again, hours later, watching from across the street.

You don't know why, but it didn't feel like a threat.

It felt like recognition.

Like he knew you.

And that, somehow, is worse.

You close your eyes and try to sleep.

The dream comes again.

"Bruce?"

The door is open now. You step inside.

There's a piano in the corner. Someone is playing it—a woman with kind eyes and gentle hands. She's smiling at someone beside her.

A man. Tall. Warm.

They're both looking at you.

"Come here, sweetheart," the woman says.

You run to her. She lifts you onto the bench beside her, and you feel safe. So safe.

Then the music stops.

The room goes dark.

And someone is screaming.

You wake up crying.

You don't know why.

[latedeparture]

◌ ࣪ ⊹ 𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐃 ! 𝓓amian 𝓦ayne texts

⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x gn!reader

꒰ 🗡️ ꒱ includes 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 text post + headcanons at the bottom,, sfw ,, established relationship

۪ ᘞ ˙

Damian texts like a forty-year-old lawyer. Every message is fully punctuated, capitalized, and grammatically immaculate. He uses complete sentences even when it’s just “Yes.” or “I see.” He’ll correct your grammar too, “It’s you’re, not your. I refuse to let illiteracy plague my partner.”

Never abbreviates. No “u,” no “lol,” no “idk.” The most casual thing he ever sends is “hm.” If you text him something like “wyd” he’ll respond, “I presume you meant to ask what I am doing. The answer is training.”

He truly believes texting shorthand is “a symptom of intellectual decay.”

Texts like he’s filing a report. Even when talking about normal things, his tone reads like a mission log: “Arrived home. Alfred insists I remove my boots at the door. I complied.”/ “Patrol concluded. Two muggers apprehended. Minimal resistance. Catwoman interfered—again.” —- He could be texting about dinner plans and still sound like he’s briefing the Justice League.

You can practically hear the “tch.” Anytime something mildly irritates him, or even if you tease him, he’ll send: “Tch.” or “Tsk.” or “Tt.” You’ve learned to read their emotional scale.

“Tch.” = slightly annoyed, but fine.

“Tsk.” = unimpressed, maybe rolling his eyes.

“Tt.” = someone’s about to get a lecture.

Weirdly literal. You’ll send him a joke and he’ll respond with: “That’s not logically possible.” or “Why would anyone find that humorous?” He does not understand memes. Send him a grumpy cat meme and he’ll ask, “Why is the animal upset? Has it been mistreated?”

POSTED 11/13/2025.

𓎢𓎟  ⸝⸝  masterlist  .ᐟ  𝜗𝜚

latedeparture ©️

[kryptidfiles]

Batfam x Nanny/Catwoman!Reader hired because the manor has somehow become even more unmanageable than usual and Alfred is tired of watching everyone pretend they don’t need help

Nanny/Catwoman!Reader who can't keep her double-life under skin-tight-leather wraps for long because when Batman starts crossing paths with a seemingly harmless thief, he realizes the woman he's been trusting in his home for months laughs the same way 😭

‼️ I've been made aware the character Fran Fine and the actress is a major Zionist! I've since removed her images! If I am to ever pursue this idea, I would never frame the reader character anywhere remotely close to her. I'm so sorry, no excuse to my ignorance!

Nanny/Catwoman!Reader who loves the kids, gossips with Alfred, and is immune to the Wayne intimidation factor

[fleurisole]

Mother Figure | Batfamily. Bruce Wayne x Reader

summary: Bruce offers you the promise he made a long time ago. To marry him and become his wife. Later he eventually adopts Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian and Barbara. All of a loving family, until one sibling in particular finally finds himself right at home. 

ps English isn't my first language, so i apologize for small errors.

How it started:

Dick was the very first to be adopted into the family, and Bruce took him under his wing almost immediately. At the time, you hesitated with the idea—it was a significant change, especially considering Bruce had never truly experienced a childhood himself. Not after witnessing both his parents death. 

On one night, just as you were about to make yourself something to eat, a sharp knock echoed from your front door. You called out, “Coming!” without thinking much of it—until you opened the door and found your childhood friend standing there. A soft gasp as soon as you met him at the door. “Bruce… Why so late?” 

Bruce looked worn down. His hair was damp, his clothes disheveled, and he hadn’t been sleeping—anyone could tell. He stepped inside without a word. The silence wasn’t unusual, but something about him that night made you more anxious than usual. You caught yourself gently chewing at your fingernails as you offered him a cup of hot coffee. He took it without protest and followed you to the living room.

You both sat in silence, the television murmuring in the background, while rain continued to pour steadily against the windows—Gotham’s lullaby.

You hadn’t realized how much silence it would take to finally notice the small, quiet details of life—until Bruce’s hand brushed gently against your leg. A sigh escaped him, heavy and worn. A part of you wanted to lean in, to hold him, but you chose instead to respect his space. “You remember when we used to talk about building a family someday?” he asked softly, his eyes fixed on the coffee mug cradled in his hands.

You gave a small nod.

“That if we were still single by our twenties, we’d… arrange a marriage.”

Your gaze met his then. Of course you remembered. It was just a few months ago, right before Christmas. The snow had been falling in thick, quiet sheets. You’d been a wreck—your partner of three years had left you without warning. You’d ended up at the gates of Wayne Manor, a mess of heartbreak and numbness, and Bruce had found you there. From that night on, he promised to protect you—from the world, from yourself, from whatever darkness came.

“Yes…” you said, your voice low. You remembered every word.

Even so, it had taken time for you to believe he truly meant it. But now, as he sat beside you, his touch lingering and his words hanging in the air, you understood.

Tonight, he did.

Then, without a word, Bruce slowly lowered one knee to the floor. His hand reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small box. Your breath caught the moment he opened it—a delicate, glimmering ring nestled inside, catching the light in the most breathtaking way.

You gasped, not just from shock, but from the sheer beauty of it. Words failed you. Both hands flew to your face as tears welled in your eyes, spilling over as you choked out a soft response—barely audible, but clear enough. You nodded, again and again, unable to stop yourself from smiling through the tears.

Bruce’s smile was gentle, full of quiet certainty. He took your hand with care, sliding the ring onto your finger. It fit perfectly—of course it did. He had planned everything.

And in that moment, as he leaned in to kiss you, it felt like the beginning of the perfect marriage.

Becoming the Mother of the BatFamily: 

It wasn’t an easy life to step into. Being part of the Wayne legacy meant your relationship would never stay private for long. News would spread across Gotham in an instant, with journalists camping outside the manor, desperate for even the smallest detail. The attention was relentless. So much so that Bruce insisted you stay within the manor unless he said otherwise—his way of protecting you from any danger.

Surprisingly, you felt a strange relief in his caution. It allowed you to breathe, to settle into the rhythm of your new life—not just as Bruce’s wife, but as a soon-to-be mother. And in that quiet sanctuary, far from the flashing cameras and murmurs of the city, you finally began to embrace the peace you never thought possible.

Of course Bruce knew the Joker would taken a twisted interest in you. It was exactly the kind of danger he anticipated—which meant there was always someone from his team discreetly patrolling the manor grounds. Whether it was one of his own or some cutting-edge tech only Wayne Industries could produce, Bruce made sure every precaution was in place.

Letting the Joker get to you was never an option—not with everything else at stake. Not when he also had to protect Dick, Jason, Tim, Barbara, and Damian. You weren’t just his wife. You were part of the family now. And nothing in Gotham was more important to Bruce than keeping that family safe.

Out of all the kids, Dick took the quickest liking to you. Barbara followed not far behind, then Tim, Damian—and of course, Jason in his own way. But it was Dick who made the effort feel effortless. He’d often join you in the kitchen, cheerful and attentive, and every morning your lips curved into a soft smile when he was the first to rise for training with Bruce, only to wander in and quietly start helping you with the dishes.

“Let me help you,” he’d insist, already rolling up his sleeves.

You would open your mouth to gently decline—only to be cut off by the familiar warmth of Bruce’s arms wrapping around you from behind. A silent reminder that you weren’t alone anymore. You were his. 

Bruce’s firm arms wrapped around your waist as he leaned in, nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck. It was gestures like this—quiet, tender, and unspoken—that you cherished most about him. He wasn’t flashy, never one to boast or show off. But when he chose to be affectionate, he made sure there was no mistaking it.

“Geez... Love you, Mom,” Jason’s voice suddenly cut through the moment, catching you off guard. “But can you at least get a room?”

You let out a startled gasp, half laughing, while Bruce remained entirely unfazed. If anything, his grip tightened, and his teeth brushed teasingly against your skin, dangerously close to leaving a mark. You let out a soft whine, half protest, half thrill, and reached down to tap his hand.

“Bruce,” you warned gently. He groaned in reply, shaking his head like a stubborn child. “Jason’s grumpy all the time…” he muttered against your neck, refusing to let go.

“Well perhaps I am grumpy for a good reason!” Jason complains as he steals a warm pancake from the plate. “Mom is our mother you know? I know you like showing her off but damn. This early.” 

And then it clicked. Your eyes widened at the unfamiliar words Jason was suddenly using. Not just you, but everyone had never heard him speak like this—at least not until now. Tim couldn’t resist teasing his brother, “You’re going to make her cry,” he said, nudging Jason’s arm. He didn’t actually mean it, but the moment the words left his mouth, he felt guilty. Poor thing, just a naive boy, Tim thought, chuckling as he swiped a pancake from his sibling. Dick’s laughter echoed softly in the background.

Jason noticed, though. When your gaze lifted, now free from Bruce’s grip as you handed him a coffee, you leaned in to kiss his cheek, smiling softly. You mimicked Tim’s teasing tone, using the exact same words to nudge Jason further. On the other side, completely oblivious to the playful exchange, Bruce added, “Yeah, J. Be a little nicer to your mother.” You nudged your husband’s side gently before giving your arm a playful slap, chuckling as he did.

Jason groaned, his lips forming a soft, yet annoyed pout. “I wasn’t trying to be mean! I just said, 'get a room,' geez. If we can’t–” But before he could finish, you walked behind him, setting a plate of pancakes, eggs, and bacon beside him. You kissed his cheek, and now he was just plain confused. “It’s not that what you said wasn’t reasonable,” you said with a smile, “but rather the fact that you finally acknowledged the family.” Now it was his turn to blush. He looked around at everyone, all smiling at him, with Bruce nodding proudly in the background.

“And it only took him 22 years to finally call her 'mom,’” Bruce teased, though deep down, you understood why Jason had never said it before. After all these years, he was still that hurt boy, longing to find a family of his own, to be loved by both a father and a mother.

Jason looked back at you and Bruce, rolling his eyes but mirroring the same smile that made his words sound less convincing. “Yeah, yeah, I love her just as much as you do, jackass.” With that, everyone moved in to embrace him. A huff escaped his mouth, and he groaned, “Alright, alright! I love y’all. Can I get a little breather here?”

And even though there was a slight annoyance in his tone, it was the loving gazes of his parents and siblings that made him realize, for the first time, he truly felt at home.

[createasc3ne]

patched up ♡

summary: helping wayne after a fight again..

warning: fluff basically it

based on this rec

The sound of knocking woke you up, you check the clock, 1am. You look back at the window and see Wayne. He’s bruised and beat up as he keeps knocking on your window insistently. Finally you get up and run over to unlock your window as you puah the curtains away to let him crawl through. Your hands instantly find your way to cup his face as you turn his jaw to look at the black eye and cuts he had down his cheek.

“It’s late, what are you doing here all beat up?” You question, continuing to inspect his face.

“I just wanted to see you, check if you were okay and all.” He muttered as he pulled your wrists away gently. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine, look at you.” You reply as you pull him to sit on your bed.

As you’re running to your bathroom for medical supplies he glances at your desk, looking at your homework. When you come back he looks back at you, his eyes following your hairs movement, wanting to reach out and play with it before you place an alcohol wipe to his cheek.

“This might hurt, just squeeze my bed or something” You tell him as you clean up his face.

“You don’t have to do this you know? I just wanting to pass by..” He mumbled as he tried ignoring the burning sensation on his cheekbone.

“Shut up, let me help you”

He listens and lets you clean him up, he looks down at your necklace that had your name hanging over your chest. His hand runs down the chain and stops at your name. You look down to his hand and smile.

“My dad got me that.. Its cute, huh?” You whisper as you get back to putting a bandaid under his eye, your fingers lingering on his cheek to look up at his eyes.

His voice rasps quietly as he answers, “Looks good on you..” He whispers as he lets go of it and looks back up to you.

Slowly pulling your hands away you get back to putting your things away as he stares at you, his hands practically itching to touch you again. You go back to your bathroom to put the things back under your sink, he follows. As you’re getting up he looks down at you. He guides you to lean back on the sink slowly as his hands hold your waist. He touched you as if he was scared to break you, you just looked so small and perfect to him. You smile, pulling his shoulders down to meet your height.

“Thank you. For patching me up, even though I didn’t need it.” He muttered out as he stared down at your hair, your eyes, lips.

“No problem.” You whisper back as you run your hand up to cup his cheek, avoiding any tender spots that’d hurt him.

He bit back as smile as he locked eyes with you, his hands gripping your waist a little harder, still gentle.

“You’re nice to me, y/n. I don’t know why, but thank you again..” He whispered as he leaned into your touch.

You pulled him into a hug as he melted into you. His face pressing into your shoulder as he breathed you in. His jaw clenching as he hugged you tighter. His hands grabbing onto your silk tank top, scared you’d disappear any second.

“I love you, y/n.”

Your eyes widen but you try playing off the shock that gave you. He pressed into you more as the embrace lasted longer.

“I love you, Wayne.”

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[sylustration]

So I started Playing Scarlett Hollow....I need to replay it like 80 times till I find all of waynes seen....

[fbfh]

I tried SO HARD to be normal about this but you know what? No! I am NOT normal about most things and ESPECIALLY about this so let’s fuckin talk about it or whateva. (or like. see for yourself??)

Wayne. Wayne McCullough. Fucking WAYNE. That crazy fool that will come to your house. Now you might be wondering, op, what the fuck is a Wayne? THIS. THIS IS A FUCKING WAYNE. 

There is SO FUCKING MUCH I could say about Wayne, and I’ll get it all out of my system eventually, but let’s start out with the obvious. This man is a fucking LEGEND. A rap sheet as long as his mangled right arm, probably been fingerprinted for as long as he’s been finger painting. His first word was fucker. Wayne is a man of action. A man of few words who would rather just beat someone’s face in with whatever the nearest object is (or the hammer he keeps on him. Or his nunchucks. Or his other nunchucks. or-) for hurting someone or trying to hurt someone in any capacity. It’s just the natural course of action. Why use lot word when few word do trick, but in Wayne’s case the few word that does the trick is subtly baiting the asshole into throwing the first punch -technically the first several - so that whatever the fuck he does after that is self defense. 

You know the whole if he wanted to he would thing??? WAYNE DOES. AND HE DOES. Wayne actually cannot look directly at you most of the time. He literally can’t. He just cannot process how beautiful you are in the most raw and original meaning of the word. You look like how good things smell. Wayne wants to metaphorically bury his nose in you and breathe you in until he chokes. He thinks he’d like it too. And guess what? You NEVER have to ask him for a goddamn thing. Wayne doesn’t always have practice when it comes to showing you how he feels about you in a romantic context. He doesn’t really know how to be a boyfriend yet. But good GOD he has all the right fucking instincts. Don’t be surprised if the first morning you spend together, regardless of if you had sex or just crashed at the same place, you wake up to find coffee and cereal, maybe a granola bar or something. Hell, he’ll break out leftover takeout from last night if that’s what’s on hand. But he sets it up for you. He goes outside and picks a couple of those little flowers that grow on curbs and in sidewalk cracks, the ones that are really small and probably weeds, but are still flowers regardless. He puts them in water, either in a comically too large beer bottle for such small flowers or in a plastic novelty shot glass he found lying around somewhere. 

There’s no big flashy good morning my darling, your handsome lover made you breakfast in bed, no loud declaration. There’s just Wayne standing there and watching you like he’s trying to tell if you approve or not. He looks like a little kid giving their first schoolyard crush a hand made valentine with a little lollipop taped inside and a notecard that says you’re so sweet, I’m dumdum for you! Wayne wants to please you. And if he doesn’t, he’ll keep trying until he figures out how to. He is NOT afraid to claw his way through two feet of solid steel if it means getting to see your face. 

HE’S SUCH A LITTLE FUCKIN WEIRDO TOO. Do you know anything about Conan the Barbarian, where to get those huge beef jerky sticks, or metal music?? “...no?” WELL YOU’RE GOING TO!!!!!! Wayne is just. He’s a little freak. And you MATCH HIS FREAK to a degree neither of you knew was possible. It doesn’t matter if you’ve never moshed a day in your life, or ever had the desire to before now. Wayne goes out of his way to dance in a room full of people at some party or event because some guy at the gas station said girls or romantic partners or whoever you are to him like it when guys dance with them, so now he’s dancing. He’s dancing awkwardly and terribly, like a clumsy rendition of saturday night fever in the pit of a punk concert. And he doesn’t really care if he’s good or not, he cares about the fact that it’s you that he’s doing this for. He’s so fucking sincere and earnest and shameless. You point him in a direction and he’ll floor it. He’ll floor it like he’s in a stolen gold ‘79 Trans Am or whateva.

Yes he WILL try to court you like a bird. Boystrous dances. Bringing you things. Getting you anything you might mention even SLIGHTLY wanting or needing. And guess what???? You cannot stand to see him be the only one dancing like that for more than a few seconds before you’re joining him. It doesn’t matter if you’re good or not either. You’re matching his freak. You’re accepting his bird-like courting rituals. Wayne will choke down 3 or 4 cups of coffee so vile he thinks he’d rather drink actual drain fluid, and he’ll do it with a smile in his eyes because he gets to drink coffee WITH YOU.

He’s so goddamn smart and just. He’s preoccupied with you. He’s enamored. He loves you. And once he realizes that feeling he gets around you is love, he’ll also realize that his feelings for you that hit him like a pick up truck t-boning a stolen gold ‘79 trans am are EXACTLY the same as they’ve always been. That he’s been In Love with you, that he’s Loved You the whole time. He hasn’t known you without loving you for a minute. He’ll be waiting patiently for you to find that out at your own pace, too. But you’ll probably spend most of that time trying to figure out why the FUCK he looks so hot beaten up and covered in blood. He should not look that hot covered in blood. You should not be turned on by watching him simultaneously beat someone’s ass and get his own ass beat. What the fuck is wrong with you.