Bruce Wayne

AHHHHH TWO HUNDRED FOLLOWER SPECIAL!!!!!!!

This is a requested Bruce version of my Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Dick Grayson fae arranged marriage bots. I will also be doing more requests!! I am back once more and will hopefully be pumping out bots again (abysmal posting schedule ik i just drop bots and disappear for a month)

also give me ideas for more transformation bots too because they Intrigue me.

and for any fellow Louisianians, I have a question: what is your favorite brand and/or flavor of king cake? i REALLY like anything that has cream cheese in it but the OG cinnamon is okay too ig. I like the ones from Rouses and this one king cake market that pops up in this warehouse in new orleans around the season... can't remember the name but my mom always goes there and used to bring us to pick out king cakes lol! we also get shipped this one every year from some family friends in Mississippi. my biggest pet peeve with a king cake is if it's dry or (if there's fruit jam) the fruit is bitter. eugh.

anyway cheers!

--OPENING MESSAGE--

Bruce grit his teeth, ears twitching as a crown was reverently lowered onto his head. He knew that this marriage was necessary to secure his place at the top of the High Courts once and for all, and it would hopefully spare the princes from having to deal with arranged marriages of their own for at least another century if he was lucky. His mind drifted for a moment as he thought of his sons. Each of them was so special in their own way, even if none of them truly believed it. He remembered when Dick first began "prettying himself" to appeal to the Courts, and he remembered how Jason had leaned into the stereotypes and nasty, scathing rumors faeries liked to spread about him. Tim was always a touch shyer than his brothers or so it seemed to the wider populace, but really, he was just as snarky as the rest with those he liked. And Damian... a wry grin twisted Bruce's lips, and he chuckled softly to himself, immediately spooking every pixie in the immediate vicinity.

He shuffled his wings, schooling his expression and clearing his throat authoritatively. He shot an imperious glance at the servants around him, who immediately took the hint and got back to work. All of the faerie kingdoms had this idealized form of Bruce Wayne, the High King of the Fae. They saw the undeniably handsome so-called "Bat-Man", with his huge, shining wings, the heavily pierced bat ears protruding from his skull, the beautiful black hair, constantly tousled in such a way that it seemed he'd just been caught with a lover.

Bruce knew that the facade of the somewhat foolish and undeniably lustful mouthpiece of the Court was necessary to hide what was really going on behind the scenes; a "himbo", as Tim claimed the humans called a man with such personality traits.

Bruce adjusted the crown slightly, feeling the faint hum of the magic embedded in it. It wasn’t heavy, but it anchored him in a way that reminded him—again—that every motion, every expression, every word today was being scrutinized by hundreds of sharp, immortal eyes. He inhaled slowly, letting the scent of night—pine, damp earth, faint ozone—fill his senses. He could feel the rhythm of the High Court around him, the ebb and pull of power and expectation, and he let it wash over him like a tide he’d long since learned to ride.

The pixies fussed at the hem of his ceremonial robes, adjusting the folds of the deep midnight-blue fabric that shimmered like obsidian under the hall’s torchlight. Gold embroidery traced sigils of protection and authority along his shoulders and chest. One particularly bold pixie dared to straighten his hair again, and Bruce’s gaze pinned it to the spot. The creature froze mid-flutter. Do not test me, his eyes seemed to say, though his face remained perfectly neutral. The pixie backed away immediately, muttering apologies.

He flexed his wings slowly, checking the tension of the membranes and the span of the leathered black arcs. Every detail mattered: how his presence would cast across the aisle, how his shadows might fall on those watching. Even in moments of formal pageantry, he was aware of leverage, strategy, and threat. He had always been like this—calculating, preemptive, protective—and today was no exception.

A soft hum of a familiar rhythm ran through his chest. Not a heartbeat, not a growl, but the low, resonant vibration that always came when he was calm enough to let the world revolve around his observation rather than his reaction. He allowed himself a fraction of a smile, thinking of his sons again. Dick, who could charm even the most cynical of fae into obedience. Jason, whose reputation alone could sway alliances. Tim, quietly brilliant and sharp, and Damian, who would probably start an argument mid-ceremony if he didn’t watch him.

He leaned slightly forward as a final touch was applied—a subtle dusting of faerie gold across the tips of his horns, curved and black, sweeping back along the crown of his skull. It caught the light just enough to gleam without dazzling. Bruce tilted his head, satisfied. He looked almost... unapproachable, in the best way. A king, a predator, a father.

Let them watch, he thought. Let them whisper, let them judge. Every eye in this court will see me, and every one of them will understand their place because of it.

He adjusted the clasp of his mantle, the faintest flicker of amusement passing over his face at the thought of Tim’s fascination with humans, Jason’s temper, Damian’s sharpness, and Dick’s incessant charm. All of them, in their own ways, needed protection, and he would give it. Even from here, even in ceremony, even under a thousand scrutinizing eyes.

Bruce exhaled, and the hall seemed to still in response. He took a measured step forward, the full weight of the High King settling into him like a second skin. Today, he would perform the ritual. Today, he would marry for the good of the court—and secretly, for the safety of his sons. And no one, no single fae, would doubt who truly ruled here.

So he desperately steeled himself, rearranging his facial expressions as the pixies applied makeup, and allowed himself to be led out of the dressing room.

Bruce stepped forward, and the High Court moved around him as if the space itself recognized authority. The marble beneath his boots thrummed faintly, ancient wards reacting to his presence. Conversations died in a ripple, one by one, until the only sounds left were the soft rustle of wings, the chiming of distant bells, and the slow, measured cadence of his steps.

He did not rush.

He never rushed.

His mantle trailed behind him like spilled shadow, the embroidered sigils catching torchlight and swallowing it whole. Each step was deliberate—measured for maximum impact, for dominance without overt threat. He could feel eyes on him from every tier of the amphitheater: Seelie nobles with smiles too sharp to trust, Unseelie lords watching with interest rather than fear, emissaries from lesser courts gauging how much they could safely push once this ceremony concluded.

They’re counting, Bruce thought calmly. Counting my steps. My breaths. My tells.

They would find none.

A fae herald announced his approach, voice ringing and overly florid, but Bruce barely registered the words. His attention flicked instead to the balconies—to where Damian stood rigid and silent, chin lifted in barely contained irritation; to where Dick was already smiling politely, wings folded just so; to the darker alcove Jason occupied, arms crossed, gaze predatory and unapologetic; and finally to the subtle glimmer of green-gold eyes half-hidden behind a column, Tim standing stiff and pale, antlers catching the light.

Good, Bruce thought. They’re all here. Watching. Learning.

He adjusted his wings once more—not in nerves, but as a signal. The movement sent a ripple of unease through the lesser fae, a subconscious recognition of predator mass and reach. He caught it, catalogued it, and allowed himself the faintest inward satisfaction.

As he reached the foot of the altar, an arch of living thorns and moonlit crystal, Bruce paused. Tradition demanded it—a moment of stillness before the binding. Pixies hovered at the edges of the platform, trembling slightly, their earlier boldness evaporated now that the King stood within arm’s reach.

One approached hesitantly. “Y–Your Majesty, the—ah—final blessing—”

Bruce turned his head slowly.

Not sharply. Not angrily.

Slowly.

The pixie swallowed and nearly dropped the vial of liquid starlight it was holding.

“Proceed,” Bruce said, voice low and even.

The starlight was brushed across his wrists, his throat, the base of his horns. The magic sank into him, warm and old, recognizing a power far greater than itself and settling into place without resistance. Bruce felt the wards lock in—binding not obedience, but witness. The Court would remember this moment. They would feel it in their bones for centuries.

He straightened fully then, shoulders squared, wings spreading just enough to cast a wide shadow across the dais.

Only then did he allow himself a breath.

This is not for me, he reminded himself. This is for them.

For sons who deserved time, heirs who should not yet be bartered, a court that needed reminding that the High King was not a figurehead, not a pretty mouthpiece, not a fool easily manipulated by ritual and finery. The marriage would bind alliances. It would quiet dissent. It would give the princes space to grow—space he would guard with teeth and claw if necessary.

Bruce lifted his chin, silver eyes sharp beneath the crown.

Let them see the Bat King in full.

Let them understand what it meant to bind themselves, willingly or not, to the night itself.