cheriies

♡ ≡ cheriies ☆ 20 Y/O . . . #1 simp → She/her ꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ づ I love my husband @Fuzion-x

[calico-cheriies]

Howdy ;3

Welcome to my blog, this is where I write about my latest infatuations ♡ ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

→ Here is my Masterlist

I only write x readers and I do both sfw and nsfw. I do not take requests currently :3 but I enjoy reading suggestions and advice!

Have a good day everyone!♡

*All the dividers/banners is credited to @enchanthings and @dividers-are-us*

[spookdnerves]

I need these guys to get their own comic run

[gloomycatz]

hi! what do u think of tim drake with a breeding kink 👀

i think you have a big beautiful and CORRECT brain anon

if it’s bf!tim he will beg you to let him cum inside. whether you’re taking birth control or not, doesn’t matter. he wants to feel you raw and he loves the risk of getting you pregnant. plus he’s already planned out what would happen if you did get pregnant, so don’t you worry you’re taken care of <3

bsf!tim is a whole different can of worms, he’s a lot more desperate and isn’t afraid to toe the boundary line. every time he’s close to cumming he’ll beg you to let him finish. however his self control is limited. he can only go enough times pulling out right as he’s about to cum. there will definitely be times when he cums inside you on accident or even on purpose because he can’t take it anymore. apologizes profusely yet will keep fucking his cum back into you until there’s a white ring around his cock.

every version of tim loses his mind watching it spill out of you. starts to get hard again just from the sight alone.

and there are two outcomes.

he’ll either push his cum back into you with his fingers and tell you to keep it there until he says otherwise or he’ll lick it out of you and make you cum again on his tongue one more time <3 depends entirely on his mood.

[rugbin]

Dinner at the Diner

[hotleafjuice08]

Mikey on his midnight snack run.

POV: You are a bottle inside a vending machine, and Mikey is staring you down.

___

These illustrations were made by me for Chapter 4 of my Reader × Mikey fanfic :D

If you also wanna check that out, here is the AO3 link: Day To Midnight

[idiasofficialwife]

I Got Pregnant Through Medical Malpractice and Now I Have to Hide it From Batman (and His Robins)

CHAPTER 4

Description: As if being born into the Wayne family wasn’t enough, life decided to keep piling it on. And just when you thought things couldn’t get any more mentally taxing? You’re pregnant. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Not planned, obviously. Not even remotely. More like some state-of-the-art, Jane the Virgin bullshit—courtesy of a mess-up at a women’s clinic.

Because, of course, that would happen to you! It’s completely on brand with your streak of luck.

Now, with Wayne Enterprises already weighing heavily on your shoulders, you’re stuck trying to hide a whole pregnancy from the press…and from your disturbingly perceptive, overprotective family.

Honestly, the public finding out might be the least of your problems. You don’t even want to think about how Bruce Wayne will react. His only daughter, single and pregnant at 22?

You’re going to need some divine intervention to keep you from losing your mind.

Batfamily x Pregnant!Jane The Virgin Inspired!Reader

**Transferred over from AO3 under the same username!**

---

Sunlight filtered through the gaps in your curtains in long golden strips, stretching across the floor and up the side of your couch where you had fallen asleep sometime during your breakdown. Your neck ached from the awkward angle, your mascara had fully migrated beneath your eyes overnight, and the mess you made had never been cleaned up, leaving your apartment looking like a crime scene.

For several blissful seconds, you simply stared at the ceiling in silence. That was, until you remembered yesterday's events. The realization hit you with enough force to give you a migraine.

“No…” You whispered hoarsely into the empty apartment, as though denying it hard enough might somehow alter reality itself. Unfortunately, no such thing occurred. 

With a groan, you dragged yourself upright and immediately regretted it when nausea rolled unpleasantly through your stomach. You stopped halfway off the couch, pressing a hand against your mouth as your entire body shuddered in disgust. “Ngh, you have got to be kidding me.”

Slowly, you stood and made your way toward the kitchen, your mind aching with the pain from yesterday’s events. 

Everything hurt, and you weren’t quite sure if it was because you were so physically (and mentally) exhausted or if it was a symptom of the the pregnancy. 

You stared blankly inside the fridge for a full minute before concluding that nothing looked remotely good to you. The leftover pasta looked disgusting, the fruit had brown spots, and the yogurt seemed to have curdled.

Eventually, you settled on dry crackers purely because they seemed least likely to make you vomit.

Leaning against the counter while chewing miserably, your eyes drooped, half-lidded with exhaustion as your thoughts drifted unwillingly toward the night before. The crying had helped in the same way ripping stitches helped a wound: temporarily relieving pressure while making everything ache worse afterward.

Your laptop still sat closed on the couch, and you tried not to look at it, knowing which tabs were still open on it. 

Instead, you grabbed your phone and opened your emails, fully intending to distract yourself with work before your brain could wander off.

Unfortunately, the reprieve you were looking for was for naught, because sitting at the very top of your inbox was an email from Bruce titled:

"Gala Preparation Schedule"

Staring at it, you frowned before slowly opening it.

Inside was a neatly organized itinerary outlining the next several weeks leading up to the Gotham Foundation Winter Gala. Dress fittings, outlines of what press was granted access to, charity meetings, public announcements, interviews, etc. You felt your eye twitch.

Attached beneath the schedule was a message from your father.

Bruce W: You’ll be accompanying me for most appearances. Lucius believes public confidence in the company will benefit from stronger family visibility this quarter.

There was a pause before the next sentence.

Bruce W: Make sure you’re sleeping properly.

Warmth flickered briefly in your chest before being immediately replaced by horror as you reopened the schedule. ‘There’s so much shit to get done!’

You scrolled further.

Three charity dinners.

Two interviews.

One fundraiser.

At least two public appearances (outside the office).

The list continues on until—oh god. The worst of it all:

Gown fitting: Friday, 3 PM.

You went completely still. Your gaze slowly lowered toward your stomach, then back to the email…then down again.

“Oh, hell no.”

A fitting meant having your body remeasured from head to toe and tailored specifically for you. This poses two issues:

Although you aren’t showing much, your circumference has increased. The tailors at the shop will know something’s up immediately. After all, your entire family has been frequenting the store for years!

By the time you get to wear the stinkin' dress, you’ll have grown in size! It won’t fit you by the time the charity gala takes place!

You grabbed your phone so quickly that you nearly dropped it, then immediately texted Madison for a reschedule.

You rubbed at your eyes tiredly before forcing yourself upright. You still had work to do.

 You felt the silence of the apartment deepen around you—an inescapable truth lingering in the back of your mind.  If your situation weren’t so time-sensitive, you don’t know if you ever would. 

Alas, that is not the case. 

So, like the big girl you are, you got up and got ready for the day. 

---

There have been only two instances in your life when you have felt genuine fear about not knowing what comes next. 

The first was when your mother passed—you were ten. She was the one who raised you, and when she was gone, you knew your father would take you in. But what would that look like? How would the public perceive you? How could you live without your rock? That, on the other hand, was unfathomable. 

The second was when Jason—your best friend, your closest companion, your brother—died at the hands of the Joker. You were fifteen. You were angry, scared, and devastated beyond recognition. You urged your father to murder the son-of-a-bitch, but when he refused, you were afraid. You were scared of yourself and the lengths you would go to in order to take revenge. You were terrified of living a life where Jason would not exist. You were scared of what—who—death would take next. 

You take comfort and pride in your ability to plan ahead—perhaps it’s why Bruce put you in charge of managing Wayne Industries. You’re smart, calculated, and detail-oriented. The fear of not knowing what comes next is foreign.

This is the third time you’ve feared the unknown. But, unlike the others, instead of death plaguing your mind, it’s life. 

How would this go? Would you keep the child, or put it up for adoption? Would you pursue the pregnancy, or terminate it before it’s too late? Would you tell your family, or would you keep this hidden until it’s impossible? 

Will you survive this, or will you become a shell of yourself? 

Yes, in this moment, you’re afraid. Terrified. But you’ll get over it, won’t you? You always do. 

But this isn’t like those other times. This time, you're on your own. This time, you’re the only one affected. This time, it’s on you. You can’t keep relying on the others. You’re an adult now.

Your family already has so much going on. Bruce is ruling over Gotham, Dick is living his best life in Blüdhaven, and Jason—your sweet, sweet Jason—has finally built a stable second life for himself. You refuse to be the one to ruin this for any of them. 

You can’t tell Damian, of all people. He’s just a child. A horrifically smug, intelligent little shit child, but a child nonetheless. The same goes with Tim.

That begs the question: ’ Am I seriously so alone in this?’ You think to yourself as you sit in your office chair. The thought was…sad.

Over the past hour, while you should have been signing off on paperwork, you’ve found yourself zoning out. Ever since yesterday's revelation, you’ve felt like you’re existing in your own time and space. It’s as though you’ve been enclosed in an invisible box, permanently slowing you down. It’s a terrible feeling. 

Just as you were going to finally lock in and get to work, your phone dinged. 

Barbs: Hey, feel like grabbing lunch?

---

Barbara chose a small café only a few blocks from Wayne Tower. She’s heard many-a-tale of your heavy workload, so she thought that eating somewhere nearby would make things easier when meeting up. You appreciated the sentiment—more importantly, you appreciated the fact that she had chosen somewhere peaceful.

The restaurant wasn't particularly crowded for the lunch hour. A few office workers occupied tables near the windows, and somewhere behind the counter, a coffee machine hissed loudly enough to drown out most conversations. The atmosphere was nice.

Barbara seemed to notice your off-kilter mood immediately. As soon as she slid into the seat across from you, she tilted her head slightly and studied your face. “Hey, busy-bee.”

You glanced up from your menu. “Hello to you too.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Rough week?”

You surprised yourself by giggling at her words. 

Week. God, if only it had been a week! 

The waitress appeared before you could answer, asking for drink orders. Barbara requested an iced tea. You asked for water after spending an embarrassingly long time staring at the menu and realizing that most other beverages contained caffeine.

Once the waitress left, silence settled comfortably between you.

Ordinarily, you enjoyed that about Barbara. Unlike most members of your family, she didn't seem compelled to fill every moment with conversation. She was perfectly content allowing silence to exist.

“Okay,” Barbara said after a few moments.

Your eyes lifted. “Okay, what?”

“I've known you for years.” She folded her arms across the table. “Something is wrong.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. Like the older sister she is, Barbara's expression softened.

“You don't have to tell me if you don't want to.”

That should have made you feel better. Instead, you felt guilt.

For nearly twenty-four hours, every conversation had required effort. Every interaction demanded that you monitor your words, your facial expressions, and your behavior. You couldn't tell Madison. You couldn't tell Bruce. You couldn't tell Dick or Jason or Tim.

You couldn't tell anyone. You had been fine with that. Some things are better left unsaid. But now, the weight of keeping it to yourself was unbearable. 

You looked down at the table, at your hands, and at the condensation gathering around your glass of water. You looked everywhere except Barbara. 

“I'm pregnant.” The words left your mouth so quickly that for a moment you weren't entirely convinced you'd actually spoken them. It was only when Barbara froze that you realized that you had, in fact, spoken aloud. 

Heat rushed to your face instantly, eyes fogging red-hot with tears. You had not intended to say it—you were better than that. You’ve never been one to let information slip out on a whim. But, of course, you supposed this was a special circumstance. 

“I'm sorry,” you said immediately, the words tumbling over one another before you could stop them. “I wasn't planning on saying that. I don't know why I just said that. I shouldn’t have said anything.” With your words, your voice cracked humiliatingly. You breathed in deeply, sitting upright and folding your hands over your lap. “I’m sorry.”

When no response came, you risked a glance upward.

To her credit, she wasn't staring at you like you'd grown a second head. She simply looked surprised. Very, very surprised.

The silence stretched, and you hated it.  “You aren't going to say anything?” Your brows furrowed, feeling irrationally angry at her lack of words. You just opened yourself up to her, and she had nothing to say? ‘It was a mistake coming out here.’

Barbara blinked. “I was giving you room to continue.”

“...Oh.” You looked back down at the table. “Right.”

Neither of you spoke for several seconds.

Then, because your dignity had already left the building (there was no point trying to recover it), the rest followed.

“I found out yesterday,” you admitted. “I went in for a routine appointment, and they told me I was nearly finished with my first trimester. I've never had sex. I'm currently investigating the clinic for malpractice. I haven't told my family. I haven't decided what I'm going to do. And every time I think about it for too long, I feel like I'm about to throw up.” The words rushed out so quickly that you barely paused for air. “Barbie, I’m scared.”

By the time you finished speaking, you felt better. 

Barbara listened without interrupting. She didn't ask questions, nor did she immediately offer solutions. She simply sat there, absorbing everything you had said. You hadn't realized how desperately you just needed an ear to listen to your woes.

Finally, she reached across the table and placed a hand over yours.

The gesture was simple, but after the last twenty-four hours, it nearly broke you.

“You were going to carry this, all by yourself? Without telling anyone?” She looked distraught, her green eyes glossed with concern. 

You swallowed. “It's my problem, not anyone else’s. I don't know why I’m telling you at all…I’m sorry.”

Barbara's brows pulled together immediately. “No,” she said gently. “You don't.” The concern in her voice hit harder than you expected. 

“Huh?” You said dumbly. 

“You don’t have to go through this alone. You shouldn’t, sweetheart.” Reaching across the table, her hand cupped your cheek, turning your face just enough to face her. Green eyes clashing with yours, she watched idly as you finally accepted the onslaught of tears. One by one, they slid down your face, and like a child, you began to weep. 

“Sweetie…” She pulled away from her side of the table, wheeled over to you, and embraced you in a hug. 

For a long moment, Barbara simply held you. She didn't rush to speak, nor did she offer empty reassurances or tell you everything would be okay. Instead, she let you cry until the worst of it had passed.

By the time your tears finally subsided, you had buried your face into her shoulder and thoroughly soaked a portion of her jacket.  You pulled away first, hastily wiping at your face with a napkin as though doing so could erase the fact that you'd just dissolved into tears in the middle of public. “Sorry,” you whispered.

Barbara glanced down at the shoulder of her jacket. “You know,” she said thoughtfully, “this was my favorite blazer.”

Your head snapped up immediately. “Oh, my God. I really, really am sorry. I hope I didn’t stain it.”

“It’s not, I was just teasing you.”

“You absolutely are not.”

A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Maybe a little.”

You groaned and dropped your face into your hands.

The waitress chose that exact moment to arrive with your food. She delivered the plates a little awkwardly (she had witnessed your emotional collapse firsthand). That said, she was making the professional decision not to acknowledge it. You appreciated that.

The two of you sat quietly for a moment after she left. You stared down at your meal without much interest while Barbara stirred her drink absentmindedly. It wasn't uncomfortable silence. In fact, it was probably the first comfortable silence you'd experienced since yesterday.

When Barbara finally spoke again, her voice remained gentle. “Can I ask you something?” You nodded.

“Has the clinic contacted you?”

The question caught you off guard enough that you looked up immediately. “What do you mean?”

“Since yesterday.”

You frowned. “No.”

Barbara tilted her head slightly. “No calls?”

You shook your head. “No emails either.”

“No messages from administration?”

“Nothing.”

A flash of worry crossed her face so quickly that most might have missed it. You caught it just in time. Though, the thought of her looking (even more) unsettled left your tummy twisting with anxiety. Am I missing something?’ You thought anxiously, refraining from biting at your manicured nails. “What?”

Barbara leaned back slightly in her chair, folding her hands together as she considered her words. “I’m trying not to make assumptions,” she said carefully, “but if this was genuinely an accident, somebody should be panicking right now.”

You stared at her. “What?”

Her expression didn't change. “Think about it. Why haven't you gotten an apology notice? It's been over 24 hours.”

Slowly, dread began to creep into your chest.

“You aren't some anonymous patient. You're Bruce Wayne's daughter. You're the public face of Wayne Enterprises. If a clinic made a mistake serious enough to result in an unplanned pregnancy, there would be immediate internal investigations, emergency meetings, legal consultations—something. Meaning, you would have been contacted by now”

You felt yourself go still.

She was right.

Fuck, she was right!

Yesterday had been such a whirlwind that you'd never stopped to consider what should have happened afterward. You'd been so focused on the pregnancy itself that everything beyond it had faded into the background. Looking at it now, however, the lack of communication felt wrong.

A mistake this severe wasn't something a clinic could quietly sweep under the rug and hope nobody noticed. Someone should have contacted you. Someone should have been apologizing. Someone should have been trying to explain what happened, regardless of the bullshit answer! 

Instead, there had been nothing.

The realization sent a chill down your spine. “You think they're hiding something.”

Barbara immediately shook her head. “I think we don't know enough yet to say that.” Her gaze met yours steadily. “What I do think is that you need information.”

You sighed and rubbed your temple. “That's easier said than done.”

“That may be true, but you can still get a hustle on.”

“Fair.”

A faint smile appeared on Barbara's face before she continued. “Do you have copies of your records?”

You blinked. “My records?”

“Medical records—your test results from your clinical check-in, the appointment notes, and the consent forms.”

You stared at her. “No.”

Barbara stared back. “You didn't request anything?”

“Barbie, I spent the last twenty-four hours trying not to launch myself into Gotham Harbor.”

“Fair point.”

“Thank you.”

She rolled her eyes affectionately. “What you need right now isn't answers,” she said. “It's facts. Request everything. Every report they've created, every note that's been written, every form you've signed. If somebody made a mistake, it'll help establish a timeline. If somebody didn't make a mistake...” She hesitated briefly. “Then we'll deal with that when we get there.”

The casual inclusion of the word ‘we’ nearly made you cry all over again.

Barbara either didn't notice or was kind enough to pretend she hadn't.

You stared down at your plate, tracing a finger along the edge of your glass while her words settled in your mind. Information, records, timelines, evidence.

Those were things you understood, and those were things you very much could do.

For the first time since yesterday, the situation felt marginally less impossible.

Barbara's expression softened. “Have you thought about what you want to do?”

The question hung between you.

You had known it would eventually come. In fact, you'd spent most of last night trying to figure out the answer to that question yourself. 

Yesterday, when you'd first gotten home, the choice had seemed obvious. Or at least you'd convinced yourself it was. You had opened your laptop fully prepared to research every available option, determined to approach the situation logically and efficiently, the same way you approached every other crisis in your life.

But the longer you'd sat there, the harder it had become.

Because every possibility seemed permanent.

Every choice seemed capable of altering the course of your entire future.

And for perhaps the first time in your life, there wasn't a clear answer waiting to be found at the end of a spreadsheet or strategic plan.

You swallowed. “I don't know.”

The admission felt pathetic. You hated uncertainty, you hated indecision, and you absolutely hated not having a plan.

Barbara, however, looked entirely unsurprised. “You found out yesterday,” she said quietly. “You're allowed not to know.”

You let out a shaky laugh. “Tell that to my anxiety.”

“I would,” she replied, “but I don't think it'd listen.”

A reluctant smile pulled at your lips. 

Then, more seriously, Barbara reached across the table and squeezed your hand. “You don't have to decide today.”

The words struck something deep inside your chest.

Because for the last twenty-four hours, every thought had carried the same desperate urgency. Decide, fix it, figure it out, solve the problem before it grows bigger!

Yet sitting here now, listening to Barbara speak, you realized how absurd that expectation had been. You had learned that your life was changing less than a day ago, so maybe it was okay not to have all the answers yet. Maybe, it was enough to take the next step.

Request the records. Wait for the investigation. Breathe.

For now, that would have to be enough.

[idiasofficialwife]

I Got Pregnant Through Medical Malpractice and Now I Have to Hide it From Batman (and His Robins)

CHAPTER 3

Description: As if being born into the Wayne family wasn’t enough, life decided to keep piling it on. And just when you thought things couldn’t get any more mentally taxing? You’re pregnant. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Not planned, obviously. Not even remotely. More like some state-of-the-art, Jane the Virgin bullshit—courtesy of a mess-up at a women’s clinic.

Because, of course, that would happen to you! It’s completely on brand with your streak of luck.

Now, with Wayne Enterprises already weighing heavily on your shoulders, you’re stuck trying to hide a whole pregnancy from the press…and from your disturbingly perceptive, overprotective family.

Honestly, the public finding out might be the least of your problems. You don’t even want to think about how Bruce Wayne will react. His only daughter, single and pregnant at 22?

You’re going to need some divine intervention to keep you from losing your mind.

Batfamily x Pregnant!Jane The Virgin Inspired!Reader

**Transferred over from AO3 under the same username!**

WARNING: heavy angst, mentions of pregnancy termination

---

By the time you got home, you felt the closest to death you ever had. 

Standing in the foyer of your apartment, you stared ahead blankly. Even after the door shut behind you with a quiet “click”, you allowed the silence to envelop you whole. 

The silence felt so strange after the day. Every hour, from 6 in the morning to near midnight, was filled with noise: the traffic outside, the clinic buzzing, and overlapping conversations at the office and at dinner. 

But now there was nothing. There were no distractions. There was only you.

Slowly, your purse slipped from your shoulder and hit the floor with a dull thud. Your heels quickly followed after, smacking the wall when you kicked them off. You threw your phone next. Then your dignity, apparently.

Because before you fully realized what was happening, you had crossed the room, buried your face into the nearest couch cushion, and let out a scream, muffled and horrifically distorted from the raw anger and emotion that built up in your throat. If any of your neighbors heard it, they would probably call emergency services.

You lifted your head long enough to inhale, then screamed again, and again, and again, until you felt white-hot tears streaming down your face. The hiccups that left your throat were nothing short of raw and unfiltered. “Why…why?” 

You rolled on your back, staring at the ceiling with bloodshot eyes. Tears continued to stream down your face in waves, but the audible sobs that had followed it died down. Then, again, there was silence.

You think back to how small your voice sounded in your cries. You sounded exhausted. You felt exhausted. 

You dragged both hands down your face, the weight of today resting heavily on your entire body. 

Pregnant. You. Not some celebrity, not a friend, but you were pregnant. Any bodily autonomy you had, stolen from right under you. 

You paced for several minutes after that, arms folded tightly across your chest while your thoughts crashed into one another at full speed. Every possibility seemed to create ten more possibilities, and every solution somehow created six more problems. 

You would have to hire a specialized lawyer, set up an investigation into the clinic, and figure out how to break the news to your family. 

But…did you have to tell them anything? You could keep the entire situation quiet and hire a trusted private detective who couldn’t be tipped off. This way, no one from the outside would have to get involved. No one would know…except you.

You bit your lip, eyes drifting to your personal computer. 

The only way you could keep the entire situation under wraps was to thoroughly look into your options. The only way you could keep everything a secret was…

You pulled your personal computer close, hugging it to your chest as you took a breath. You worried that, once you opened it and surveyed your options, your life would be changed forever. From this point on, what you choose to do—what you choose to look at—will change the course of your life. You don't know if you’re ready for that. You don’t know if you ever will be, realistically. 

Which is why you should rip the band-aid off now. 

You stared at your reflection in the dark computer screen for several long moments before finally opening it. The startup light illuminated your face just enough for you to catch a glimpse of your face: puffy eyes, tear-stained cheeks, mascara smudged beneath your lashes. You looked awful, which, in all fairness, felt appropriate given the circumstances.

Swallowing thickly, you adjusted your position on the couch and pulled your knees closer to your chest as the homepage loaded. Once the screen fully appeared, your fingers hovered over the keyboard. Then they stopped.

What exactly were you supposed to search?

That sounded ridiculous even in your own head, but genuinely—how were you supposed to approach this? You'd spent years handling public appearances, shareholder disputes, press disasters, and the occasional Wayne family catastrophe, but nowhere in your life experience had anyone prepared you for this. Slowly, your fingers lowered to the keyboard.

pregnancy options after an accidental pregnancy|

You stared at the words for several seconds after typing them. Then your brows furrowed, ‘no, that doesn’t feel right.’

Your fingers immediately moved to erase the sentence. Accidental implied carelessness. It implied some sort of mutual choice gone wrong; a broken condom, poor timing, a failed plan. It implied participation, that somewhere along the line, you had made a decision that simply hadn't gone according to plan. This wasn't that.

Your jaw tightened as you deleted the entire search.

For several long moments, the search bar sat empty while you stared at it. Then, more carefully this time, you typed:

pregnancy options after medical malpractice|

The search results appeared almost instantly. Legal websites filled the page alongside medical resources, support forums, articles, and enough information to make your head hurt before you'd even read a single sentence. Your eyes skimmed over words and phrases without truly processing them.

Support.

Investigations.

Parental rights.

Adoption.

Parenting.

Termination.

Your gaze lingered there for a moment longer than anywhere else.

Not because the word itself shocked you, or because you felt guilty for thinking about it. Realistically speaking, of course, your mind went there. You were twenty-two years old, single, and entirely unprepared for any of this. Less than twenty-four hours ago, pregnancy had not even existed as a possibility in your mind. Now, suddenly, every path in front of you seemed split into a dozen others, and every choice felt frightening.

Thinking about your options wasn't selfish. It wasn't heartless, and it certainly wasn't wrong. If anything, considering every possibility felt like the first practical thing you'd done all day. For the first time since leaving that clinic, this wasn't about panic or shock or trying to survive the next five minutes. This was about figuring out what happened and deciding what came next.

Still, your hand hovered uncertainly over the trackpad, eyes scanning over the screen again.

Termination, adoption, parenting. Your heart was stricken in your chest, and you could feel the bile rising in your throat. The words on your screen weren't simply…words, anymore. Those are futures—your future. 

You tried, for a moment, to picture one clearly. You imagined cameras flashing at galas while reporters swarmed outside Wayne Tower. Bruce and Dick flocking to you, shielding you away from the lights, trying their damndest to protect you. You, hiding your stomach behind a coat…

You tried to imagine a crib sitting in a room somewhere. Tiny shoes by a doorway, doctor appointments that aren't yours filling your schedule, birthdays…

Just as quickly, your mind slammed into a wall.

Because every image felt wrong, as if you were trying to imagine someone else's future instead of your own.

The laptop shut with more force than you intended, the sound echoing around the apartment.

You stared at it, then at your hands, then down at yourself.

And something hot and ugly twisted sharply in your chest because this wasn't fair. ‘This isn't fair. This isn’t fair, this isn’t fair.’ That thought came with enough force to make your eyes sting all over again. None of this was fucking fair.

You hadn't made a reckless decision. You hadn't chosen this! You hadn't even been given the chance to choose. Someone else had made a mistake—someone else had violated something deeply personal—and now somehow you were the one left sitting alone in your apartment trying to figure out how to rebuild your life around it.

Before you even realized what you were doing, your hand closed around the nearest throw pillow and hurled it across the room. It struck the opposite wall and dropped harmlessly to the floor, but it didn't help. If anything, it made the pressure building in your chest feel worse.

Another pillow followed.

Then a blanket.

Then a magazine.

It was only when the vase crashed into pieces that you screamed. 

“I didn't ask for this!” you shouted, your voice cracking hard enough to hurt your throat.

The words echoed back at you from the empty apartment, and suddenly that silence from earlier no longer felt peaceful. It felt unbearable.

“I didn't do anything!” you yelled again, tears blurring your vision as your breathing became uneven. “I didn't even—I didn't—” Your voice broke entirely.

Because that was the worst part. You hadn't even gotten the chance.

Nobody had asked you, and damn well nobody warned you. Nobody had given you the opportunity to say no.

Slowly, your knees gave out beneath you. You sank onto the carpet and pressed your hands over your face as another wave of tears hit, stronger than before. There was no family dinner now, no work, no distractions, and no one around to force yourself together for. There was only you.

And for the first time all day, there was nothing left to do except fall apart.

[idiasofficialwife]

I Got Pregnant Through Medical Malpractice and Now I Have to Hide it From Batman (and His Robins)

CHAPTER 2

Description: As if being born into the Wayne family wasn’t enough, life decided to keep piling it on. And just when you thought things couldn’t get any more mentally taxing? You’re pregnant. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Not planned, obviously. Not even remotely. More like some state-of-the-art, Jane the Virgin bullshit—courtesy of a mess-up at a women’s clinic.

Because, of course, that would happen to you! It’s completely on brand with your streak of luck.

Now, with Wayne Enterprises already weighing heavily on your shoulders, you’re stuck trying to hide a whole pregnancy from the press…and from your disturbingly perceptive, overprotective family.

Honestly, the public finding out might be the least of your problems. You don’t even want to think about how Bruce Wayne will react. His only daughter, single and pregnant at 22?

You’re going to need some divine intervention to keep you from losing your mind.

Batfamily x Pregnant!Jane The Virgin Inspired!Reader

**Transferred over from AO3 under the same username!**

---

Unfortunately for you, the universe wasn’t done humiliating you yet.

Because, despite the fact that your life had very abruptly transformed into a medical disaster, Wayne Enterprises still expected you to clock in and function normally. Cruel, really.

By the time the car pulled up to Wayne Tower, you had managed to shove roughly seventy percent of your panic into a tiny mental compartment. It wasn’t a perfect solution, considering the remaining thirty percent was actively clawing at the walls of your brain, but it was enough to get you through the front doors without visibly unraveling. 

The lobby buzzed with its usual busy bees the second you stepped inside. Employees hurried across marble floors clutching coffees and tablets, security greeted you warmly, and somewhere nearby, you could overhear someone arguing over quarterly projections.

Normal. Everything was painfully, horrifically normal.

“Good afternoon, Miss Wayne!” A voice called out to you.

You smiled automatically at the receptionist. “Afternoon, Claire.”

The woman paused mid-sip of her coffee. “...Are you alright?”

You stilled, surprised that she clocked you so fast. “What?”

“You just look a little pinched.”

“Oh.” You laughed lightly, waving a dismissive hand. “Board meetings. You know how it is.”

Claire visibly relaxed. “God, tell me about it.”

‘Crisis avoided!’

You briskly made your way toward the elevator, only to stop short the second the scent of coffee drifted past you. The smell caused your stomach to lurch violently. 

A nearby employee glanced at you with concern as you stared at the innocent paper cup in his hand as if it disgusted you. 

You had consumed enough espresso over the years that it's probably made its way into your bloodstream. It's practically your own special blood type by now. There was no universe in which the smell alone should’ve made you feel moments away from death. Although you suppose the nausea, combined with your stress, would result in a recipe for disaster.

The employee blinked awkwardly. “…Miss Wayne?”

You snapped back to reality. “Mm? Oh, I apologize. It's been a long day. Just thinking I could use a cup myself.”

Then, before your body could further embarrass you in public, you stepped into the elevator and aggressively pressed the close-door button like there was no tomorrow..

The second the doors shut, you leaned back against the wall and groaned quietly.

This was bad. This was actually, genuinely bad.

You pulled your phone out again despite knowing full well you shouldn’t. Looking up pregnancy symptoms while allegedly trying to hide a pregnancy from the rest of the world felt like tempting fate, but unfortunately, curiosity and self-destruction had always been close friends of yours.

You typed quickly.

ten weeks pregnant symptoms

Immediately, several horrifying bullet points appeared on your screen.

Nausea.

Fatigue.

Food aversions.

Mood swings.

Frequent urination—

“Oh, you have got to be fucking kidding me.”

The elevator doors opened onto your floor just in time for your assistant to hear that last part. Madison blinked at you from behind her tablet. “…Should I come back later?”

You straightened so quickly you nearly gave yourself whiplash. “Nope. Everything’s fine.”

Her expression said she did not believe you at all. Because, unfortunately, Madison had worked for you long enough to recognize the signs of a spiral. Judging by the cautious look in her eyes, she was probably trying to determine whether this was a “I need a day off” or a “call 911” type of emergency. Little did she know, it was a bit of both for you.

“Right,” she said slowly, tucking a blonde hair behind her ear. “Well…your three o’clock meeting has been moved to four, Mr. Fox wants those acquisition reports signed before tomorrow morning, and your brother called the office twice.”

You stilled. “…Which one?”

“Mr. Todd.”

‘Oh, fantastic.’ “Did he say what he wanted?”

Madison glanced down at her notes. “His exact words were—and I quote—‘Tell Princess to answer her damn phone before I start assuming she’s dead in a ditch somewhere.’”

Despite yourself, warmth flickered briefly in your chest. Jason’s version of affection truly was something special. You sighed, rubbing your temple. “Did you tell him I was alive?”

“I told him you were in a meeting.”

“And?”

“He said it sounded like bullshit.”

“Smart man.”

Madison snorted softly before handing over your tablet. “You also have dinner with your family tonight.”

The reminder hit like a gunshot.

Right. Dinner. That was something you forgot about momentarily. A welcome reprieve, really, but it did no good for your anxiety—especially now, considering you never did ask why dinner was taking place. It was on such short notice as well…but that's a problem for future you! 

You accepted the tablet numbly. “Unfortunately, yes.”

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “You sure you’re okay?”

‘No. Absolutely not.’

But how could you tell her that? Tell her that you were secretly pregnant under what should be medically impossible circumstances, your family was unknowingly minutes away from becoming the greatest threat to your normalcy, and the smell of coffee now inspired genuine fear within you (not so much as you were afraid of the sweet nectar itself, but what it could mean if someone found you gagging).

So outwardly, you simply smiled.

“I’m wonderful,” you lied. 

---

The more you think about it, the stranger the entire situation feels. Wayne Manor looked exactly the same as it had that morning, but the circumstances you’re in are completely different. At least, it feels that way.

You stared out the window as the gates slowly opened, half-expecting some sort of dramatic shift in scenery to match the inner turmoil you felt. Perhaps lightning would strike the roof? Or maybe the sky would darken ominously? At the very least, you felt the universe owed you some visible acknowledgment that, yeah, not everything was alright.

Instead, there was nothing.

Just the same driveway, the same stone steps, and the same obscenely large manor waiting at the top of the hill.

You stepped out of the car and adjusted your purse on your shoulder before staring up at the house for a long moment. The realization came to you suddenly—and with concerning sincerity—that you could still leave.

You’re twenty-two years old, a grown woman, and the face of Wayne Enterprises. If you wanted to get back into the car and tell your driver to keep going until Gotham was a distant memory in the rearview mirror, nobody could technically stop you.

Granted, your family would freak the fuck out. You could see it already: Dick calling dozens of times in under an hour, the tracking of your location, Jason breaking into your home under the assumption you'd been kidnapped…

Still, the option existed.

Unfortunately, before you could seriously entertain the idea of disappearing entirely, the front doors swung open.

“Bug!”

Your eyes widened.

You barely had enough time to turn before Dick practically barreled down the front steps and wrapped his arms around you. The force of it nearly knocked the air out of your lungs. Regardless, the gesture was comforting. 

“Hey to you too,” you wheezed, patting him on the back for a ‘time out’. 

Dick immediately pulled back just enough to look at you, and you felt a tiny spike of panic shoot through your chest.

Dick and his damn eyes. He looked at you in that awful, innocent older sibling way. His expression softened slightly, and his eyes narrowed just enough to give away the fact that he was assessing you. “Bug,” he said slowly, “have you been sleeping?”

Relief crashed through you so violently that your knees nearly gave out. 

‘He’s just concerned.’

You let out a quiet laugh and waved him off. “Not particularly.” Which wasn't a lie—work always kept you on your toes. The fact that you were the only Wayne dedicated to the enterprise as a full-time job, without “night shifts” added to your workload. Not that anyone in the family knew that. 

Dick frowned immediately. “You work too much.”

You stared at him dubiously. Because this was a man who had spent years surviving on little sleep, protein bars, and what you assumed was divine favor—because he managed to do it all while still being the ‘golden child’. “The hypocrisy here is astounding.” You deadpanned.

Dick grinned shamelessly, clearly having no intention of acknowledging you.

Before you could continue, an arm suddenly dropped around your shoulders.

“Princess.” You nearly jumped outta your skin hearing the sudden voice.

Jason stood beside you, looking deeply unimpressed (probably because you were talking with Dick, but that's an issue for another time). That said, you’ve grown fond of his poker face. You know that, though he may look scary, he’s not actually that bad. He’s just a big ol’ teddy bear.

“You gonna start answering your phone now,” he said, “or should I start puttin' up missing person posters?”

Giggling, warmth flickered briefly in your chest despite the anxiety. “Aww,” you said sweetly. “You were worried.”

Jason looked offended (embarrassed) by the accusation.

“I wasn't worried.”

“You called my office twice.”

“I was merely seeing if you were doing your job and not lollygagging.”

“You threatened my assistant.”

“She threatened me first.”

“Firstly, no, she didn’t. Secondly, she told me you called her a government drone!"

“Only because she was being about as helpful as a dog in a kitchen.” A silence lingered, but the two of you quickly burst into giggles because of the ridiculousness of it all. It felt nice. A sort of normalcy, you could say. 

By all means, it wasn’t perfect (normal and ‘Wayne' had never particularly belonged in the same sentence), but it was familiar enough to settle the uneasiness inside your chest. 

‘Maybe I’ll make it out tonight without a hitch!’ 

Then Jason frowned. It happened subtly at first. His eyes narrowed slightly, and his expression shifted almost imperceptibly. “…You look pale.”

‘Shit! Spoke too soon!’

Immediately, the warmth vanished. It left that slow, awful sinking sensation that settled heavily in your stomach again.

Suddenly, you became a little too aware of everything. Your face, your posture, your expression—were you acting strange? God, you were probably acting strange. Were you making a face? Straighten yourself out, woman! “Long day,” you replied, sniffling your nose.

Jason kept staring. You smiled. Jason continued staring. You smiled harder.  The staring continued until he looked mildly perturbed. “…Why are you smiling like that?”

‘Abort mission. Abort mission immediately. Abort abort abort abort!!!!!’

Thankfully, salvation arrived in the form of Damian opening the front doors and staring at all of you with visible disappointment. “Are all of you planning on standing outside indefinitely?” he asked flatly. “Father is waiting.”

Ah, wonderful, the firing squad had assembled.

---

‘Alright, well, dinner seems to be running as smoothly as it can.’ You thought happily, sipping at a glass of water as you watched Dick and Jason bicker. 

Conversation drifted easily around the table while Alfred served dinner, and everyone slipped into the familiar rhythms. Dick talked about Blüdhaven. Jason had argued with Damian over something so ridiculous that you lost track midway through (something about being a little suck-up to Bruce?). Bruce, on the other hand, listened in silence, seemingly enjoying himself. Tim seemed sleepy, as usual—he always did get the least amount of sleep out of the entire family. 

You should have felt relaxed, you really should have. Instead, every passing minute made your anxiety worse. It felt as though a ticking time bomb were about to blow inside your brain cavity. 

Biting your lip unnoticeably, your fingers tapped away at your lap. Your knee bounced, up and down, up and down, up and down, over and over again. 

Nobody had noticed. How had nobody noticed? Not Dick, not Jason, not Damian, and not even Tim! Well, at least you had thought so.

The thought had barely crossed your mind before you glanced up—and immediately regretted it when you locked eyes with Tim, who was staring dead at you. 

Not speaking, not eating, juuuuust staring. Like a lil weirdo.

You froze.

Tim blinked once. “…Why are you staring at me?”

Your heart stopped. ‘ME? Staring at HIM?’ “I'm not.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m not. You were looking at me first!”

Tim slowly lowered his fork. “Okay.”

You stared at him. Okay? What exactly did that mean? Okay, he believed you? Okay, he didn't care? Why the hell were teen boys so complicated!? 

‘I hope I don't have a boy.’  NO. Not right now! Why would you think that now, of all times!? 

You sighed, trying to distract yourself from your brain's train of thought. Unfortunately, that was when you looked down at your plate…and realized Alfred had served salmon.

You stared at the fish. The fish, thankfully, did not stare back. That would have made this infinitely worse.

Still, staring at the meat felt wrong—deeply wrong. The smell hit you first, and before you could stop yourself, your stomach rolled unpleasantly. You quietly set your fork down, the loss of appetite plaguing you. ‘If the symptoms were this bad before, how did I not connect the dots?’ 

Unfortunately, Dick noticed. “Bug?”

You looked up far too quickly. “Mm?”

“Aren't you eating?”

You looked at Dick, then at your plate, then around the table—and suddenly every single person was looking at you.

Your chest tightened, and you swore to God you could feel your heartbeat in your throat.

‘Don't panic.’ You smiled. “The meeting I was in earlier had a plate of white-chocolate macadamia nut cookies. I had too many, and I feel a little sick from it all.” ‘Bullshit, but they should be able to believe it.’

The men around the table glanced at each other before all of them shrugged and went back to eating. ‘Oh, thank you, thank you! Thank you for believing me!’ You let out a sigh of relief internally. 

Damian stared at you harshly, however. “You didn’t eat the entire plate, did you?” 

You blinked a little in surprise. “What? No, of course I didn’t. There were, like, thirty of them.”

The 13-year-old narrowed his gaze. “That didn’t stop you from scarfing down 14 of them at one time, like some rabid, raging beast. Let us not forget the ordure dilemma that plagued you for days after.” 

Your face flushed scarlet as you stood up abruptly to yell at him. “DAMIAN!” You growled, yearning to leap over the dining table to strangle him. 

Jason HOWLED in laughter, coughing and crying as he reveled in your torment. Dick and Tim, although they did their best to hide it, hid behind their napkins to laugh at your anguish. Even Alfred, of all people, egged Damian on! “Yes, it was quite the dire situation, Young Miss.”

You sank into your seat, hands covering your fuming face. “Oh god…that was forever ago, just leave me be!” You wanted to just curl up in a ball and never be seen again!

A chuckle came from your left, and you turned to see your father laughing behind his hand. Your seething gaze seemed to freeze him in his tracks, however, as he turned to clear his throat and readjust his tie. “Ahem, well, anyhow,” a lingering smirk plastered his face, “Tell me, daughter, how have you been doing?”

Realistically speaking, the question was harmless. It wasn’t often Bruce asked you that, but when he did, it was usually awkwardly. Maybe occasionally through Alfred (acting as an unwilling middleman). More often than not, Bruce would ask and get embarrassed. Even after all these years, he’s still emotionally detached.

Under normal circumstances, you would've answered without a second thought.

Unfortunately, today was not normal circumstances.

Because, ‘how have you been?’ Suddenly felt less like a question and more like a game of roulette: you have a plethora of ways to answer, but any of them could be wrong. Any of them could be what shoots you in the foot. 

You lowered your hands from your face slowly and offered him a smile. Not too quickly, not too brightly. You think it's probably the most honest smile you’ve given anyone since 11 that morning, “I've been fine.”

Bruce looked at you.

You looked at Bruce.

Bruce continued looking at you.

..

‘Oh, Hera, this family needs to learn how to blink and stop staring!’

“What?” you finally asked.

Your father tilted his head slightly. “You seem tired.”

Across the table, Jason snorted. “Took you long enough.”

Dick frowned immediately. “Hey.”

“What?” Jason asked defensively, scoffing. “I'm right.”

“You do look tired,” Tim added absentmindedly, still staring down at his plate as though he wasn't actively participating in your downfall. You turned toward him slowly.

‘He cannot be talking.’

“Oh my God,” you muttered, dropping your fork onto your plate with a quiet clatter. “Everyone's been asking me that today. Do I really look that bad?”

“No,” Dick answered immediately.

“Yes,” Jason said at the exact same time.

Your gaze shifted toward Bruce, who hesitated. Your eyes narrowed. To your absolute horror, he gave a “so-so” wave of his hand, cringing.  “You do look a little pale.”

“I hate all of you.”

Jason barked out another laugh, “So what, Princess? Just get some sleep, and you’ll be fine. It's not the end of the world.”

It was irritating, honestly. You’ve spent the entire day waiting for disaster to strike, and somehow these idiots kept distracting you from the root of the problem. If they continue like this, you might forget to stay on guard.

Bruce eventually set down his utensils, shifting in his seat. Anyone outside of the family would assume he was just relaxing. But, unfortunately, everyone in this room had spent years learning his tells. The conversation slowly died down, waiting for the big man to say something.

He folded his hands together and glanced around the table before speaking. “I asked everyone to come tonight because there was something I wanted to discuss.”

Immediately, your stance straightened. You looked around the table, only to find faces just as confused as you were. ‘Okay, good, nobody else knows either.’

Bruce continued.

“Wayne Enterprises’ outreach branch finalized the charity agreements this afternoon. The annual Gotham Foundation Winter Gala will be held at the end of the month.”

Silence.

You wanted to cup your face in your hands and cry. As one of the eldest children, you had to set an example, so you refrained. That didn’t stop your thoughts, however.

‘No. Noooooo! NOOOOOOO’  

The Gotham Foundation Gala wasn't some casual social event where you smiled politely and slipped out after an hour. No, the Gotham Foundation Gala was the event. It was where everyone from everywhere came to pay respects to the Big, Bad Boy Billionaire, Bruce!

Press, investors, politicians, photographers, and hours upon hours of public appearances and socializing! Hours of standing beside your family while Gotham watched, putting up with microphones and cameras being shoved into your face. 

And because the universe actively hated you, Bruce looked directly at you and continued: “Since you're acting head of Wayne Enterprises right now, you'll be leading presentations alongside me.”

Yeah, you really thought you were gonna start crying now. 

Because you could picture it so, so clearly: The cameras, the interviews, the fitted dresses, the questions, your family—

Your grip tightened slowly around your glass. 

Three weeks. You have three weeks to figure everything out.

Three weeks to either spill the beans or seek out other options.

‘Three weeks is not enough time.’ 

Across the table, Dick smiled. “Oh, that'll be fun.”

You all looked at him.

Dick's smile faltered. “…Why is everyone looking at me like that?”

'Cause you’re not the one who will have to deal with setting up preparations, dipshit!’

[idiasofficialwife]

I Got Pregnant Through Medical Malpractice and Now I Have to Hide it From Batman (and His Robins)

CHAPTER 1

Description: As if being born into the Wayne family wasn’t enough, life decided to keep piling it on. And just when you thought things couldn’t get any more mentally taxing? You’re pregnant. Fan-fucking-tastic.

Not planned, obviously. Not even remotely. More like some state-of-the-art, Jane the Virgin bullshit—courtesy of a mess-up at a women’s clinic.

Because, of course, that would happen to you! It’s completely on brand with your streak of luck.

Now, with Wayne Enterprises already weighing heavily on your shoulders, you’re stuck trying to hide a whole pregnancy from the press…and from your disturbingly perceptive, overprotective family.

Honestly, the public finding out might be the least of your problems. You don’t even want to think about how Bruce Wayne will react. His only daughter, single and pregnant at 22?

You’re going to need some divine intervention to keep you from losing your mind.

Batfamily x Pregnant!Jane The Virgin Inspired!Reader

**Transferred over from AO3 under the same username!**

---

“Congratulations, Miss Wayne! You must be thrilled.”

Thrilled. Right.

Of course.Because nothing says thrilled like being told you’re pregnant when you are, quite confidently, not supposed to be pregnant. You stared at her. Then down at your hands. Then back at her again. “Ha…ha..hahaha!” You began to laugh, as if she had just told you some ridiculous story. Which, in hindsight, she did. A wonderfully amusing, untrue story that couldn’t be any more than a joke!  You wiped a stray tear from your eyes, giggling softly. “Ah, that was funny. Now, really, what is the matter with me? A hormone imbalance?”  The nurse stared back at you a little wide-eyed, simpering along with you awkwardly. “Ah…well, hormone spikes are to be expected with pregnancy, Miss Wayne.” She tugged at her collar. “You must be experiencing them even more prevalently, considering that you’re almost done with the first trimester…”  Your smile dropped. Then it rose again, dropped again, rose, fell, rose, and fell once more—like you were suffering from some minor facial muscle spasm. “Pardon me, if you’re joking, it’s not funny anymore.” 

There was a pregnant (pun intended) pause between the two of you, and you felt as if your heart and stomach were replaced with bags of ice. A nauseating feeling overtook your being, and you prayed to whatever god existed that this was some overdone gag.

But it didn’t seem like a joke—not anymore, at least—because she wasn't taking it back. 

You let out a quiet breath, attempting to stabilize yourself. It didn’t help. 

“No,” you said, shaking your head faintly. “No, I think there’s been some kind of mistake.” And you weren’t wrong. There must’ve been a mistake—because you knew damn well your virgin ass wasn’t pregnant. In fact, it’d be a miracle if you lost your virginity before the age of 45!

The nurse was definitely concerned now. “I can have the doctor come in and explain everything more thoroughly—”

“Yes,” you cut in immediately. “Yes, I would love that. Please. Bring in Dr. Charlene, if she's not busy.”

She hesitated, then gave a small nod and slipped out of the room. The door clicked shut behind her.

In silence, you stared at the wall, then at the floor, finally ending your baseless search at your trembling fingers. Pregnant.

No, see, the problem with that was, it didn’t make any sense. You would know. You would absolutely, one hundred percent know. 

According to the laws of reproduction, there were steps involved in becoming pregnant, whether it be sex, IVF, or surrogacy. You’re fairly certain you’ve gone through none of the above.

The door opened again, and this time, the doctor stepped in. “Miss Wayne,” she greeted calmly, taking a seat across from you. “I understand you have some concerns.”

“Concerns feels like a mild word,” you replied faintly.

She offered a polite smile. “That’s fair.”

You leaned forward slightly, hands clasping together. “I think—no, I know—there’s been a mistake. I shouldn’t be pregnant, Charlene.”

She nodded. “We ran both a blood test and a urine test,” she explained. “Both came back positive. Your hormone levels are consistent with early pregnancy, and based on those levels, we estimate you’re around ten to eleven weeks along.”

‘Ten to—what the hell?’ You leaned back in your chair.

Ten weeks. That was over two months.

Two months of…what? Going to meetings? Smiling at investors? Sitting through board discussions about quarterly revenue while apparently, what, growing a whole human being on the side? This is some serious bullshit, and you were starting to get really, really pissed.

The doctor’s expression softened, just a fraction. “It’s not uncommon for early symptoms to be missed, especially if you’ve been under significant stress.” 

‘Oh great. Now this is somehow my fault, too??’ You thought bitterly. 

“Now, Dr. Charlene, you’ve known me for a while now, and you’re well aware of my familial status.” You began, your face turning serious. “I’m not married, and as you can see in my file, I’ve made it clear I’m not sexually active.” As you spoke, she flipped through your papers once more, nodding at your every word. 

“So tell me this: how is it that someone such as I becomes pregnant out of thin air?”

Dr. Charlene’s brows furrowed, raising a hand to her chin as she thought out loud. “We would review all possibilities,” she said gently. “Medical history, recent procedures, any potential complications or errors.”

Procedures. Your head snapped up.

“Hold on,” you interrupted. Your mind flipped through the past few months: appointments, family gatherings, obligations…your routine Pap smear from two months ago. You felt your gaze sharpen, glaring a hole into the floor as you sat up. “There was a clinical appointment I had a few months ago. Two, to be precise.” As you stood, your eyes zeroed in on the doctor. 

You attempted to rein in your sneer, but you found yourself unable to. “It was a routine gynecology appointment. It was supposed to only be a Pap smear.” Something in your expression must have shifted, because Dr. Charlene’s posture straightened slightly. 

“If there’s a possibility of a medical error,” she said carefully, “we can look into that.”

‘A medical error.’

That was a nice, clean way of putting it. “Yeah,” you said. “I think we’re going to want to look into that. Before I sue for malpractice.” 

You didn’t mean any harm against Dr. Charlene, you really didn’t. She was a sweet, unassuming older lady whom you’ve known since you were a teenager. The issue is, if this clinic had any ulterior motives that led to you becoming pregnant, you would tear this establishment apart brick by brick—burying it in lawsuits so severe they’d be studied. 

You saw her neck bob, swallowing the lump that swelled in her throat. 

If this was some kind of ridiculous, one-in-a-million, lawsuit-worthy, reality-breaking mistake, then your life wasn’t just complicated. It was about to become a full-blown disaster. You couldn’t deal with this right now. You needed to leave. 

You strode to the door, hand just grasping the handle before you turned to give her a damning look. “You will set up an investigation to figure out what the hell is going on. Not only will you do this, but whoever is at fault will suffer the consequences.” 

“Do this or so help me God, I will utilize my name and figure it out myself.” 

Dr. Charlene nodded immediately. “Understood.”

Good. At least someone in this building feared you appropriately.

You exhaled sharply through your nose before turning on your heel and exiting the office, heels clicking against the tile floors with enough force to announce your presence within a ten-mile radius. It wasn’t something you did intentionally, but you had bigger fish to fry at the moment. With that, you tried to ignore the nervous looks from the staff. 

Pregnant. You’re pregnant. 

With shaky hands, you opened up a private browser and searched. You nearly dropped your goddamn phone at what you saw. 

You silently put your phone back in your pencil skirt (something you realize you’ll need to get rid of soon) and leaned your forehead on the wall as you waited for the elevator. 

Pregnant. You’re pregnant with a lime-sized baby. That's a big ass baby for someone who didn’t know she was pregnant a few minutes ago. 

The elevator ride down was agonizingly silent.

You stood stiffly beside an elderly man reading a golf magazine while your entire life collapsed in on itself. Somewhere between the fourth and third floor, you became aware of the fact that you were digging your nails into your palm hard enough to leave crescent marks.

Right. You needed to calm down. ‘Panicking accomplishes  nothing.’ 

You were a Wayne. More importantly, you were the acting face of. You handled corporate scandals, hostile acquisitions, press disasters, and shareholder meetings on little sleep and lots of coffee. You could handle this.

When the elevator door dinged, you stepped out into the lobby in a daze, offering a distracted smile to the receptionist as you passed. The woman, noticing your grin, smiled back. “Have a lovely afternoon, Miss Wayne!”

You stared at her for half a second too long. “Mm,” you replied weakly. If she found it odd, you didn’t notice. 

You stepped out into the underground parking garage, where your driver was already waiting beside the car. The poor man took one look at your expression and immediately opened the door without a word. The second you slid into the backseat, you dropped your head against the leather and groaned loudly. 

“Miss Wayne?” your driver asked cautiously. 

“Please just…drive,” you mumbled into your hands.

The car pulled smoothly out of the garage, but your thoughts remained hopelessly tangled. You tried to think logically, truly you did, but every train of thought somehow ended with catastrophe.

There would have to be an investigation. Lawyers, statements, tests…God, you could already hear Lucius telling you to take time off from work.

Then came the even worse realization. ‘The family!’

A cold sweat broke out across the back of your neck.

The press finding out would be horrible, yes, but the press couldn’t analyze your body language like an FBI profiler. The press didn’t have decades of experience identifying microscopic behavioral shifts during life-threatening situations.

Your family did. 

“Oh, absolutely not.”

Your driver glanced nervously at you through the rearview mirror but wisely remained silent.

Tim was going to figure it out immediately. The second you declined coffee or looked mildly nauseous or canceled family dinner or turned down a much-needed glass of wine—he would narrow his eyes like some horrifying little bloodhound and begin constructing theories. Tim-level probing was the last fucking thing you needed right now. 

And Dick wasn’t much better. Dick noticed things in the worst possible way because he cared too much. One concerned look from him and you’d probably burst into tears and confess everything on the spot.

Jason, bless his heart, would commit homicide in your name if he discovered what happened. You REALLY did not need that. 

Damian, in all of his shitty, arrogant, teenage behavior, would only psych you out more.

And Bruce…actually, no. You didnt need to think about Bruce right now.

As though summoned by your spiraling thoughts, your phone suddenly rang in your lap. Looking down, in big, bold letters was:

Dick Grayson is calling…

Of-freakin-course.

You stared at the screen with profound suspicion. In all honesty, you could be convinced the man had developed psychic abilities. After several moments of internal debate and a heavy sigh, you answer the call.

“What.”

There was a brief pause on the other end.

“…Hello to you too?” Dick replied, a soft chuckle coming from the receiver.

You closed your eyes. “Sorry, Dicky.” you said quickly, forcing your voice into something vaguely regular. “It's been a long morning.”

“Well, considering you just answered the phone like I killed your dog, yeah, I’d figured.”

Despite everything, a reluctant smile tugged at your mouth. Damn him. 

“You need something?” You asked. 

“Actually, yeah. Bruce wants everyone at the manor tonight.”

Your stomach dropped. “No.”

“Wow,” Dick said. “Usually, people ask ‘why?’ before rejecting family dinner so quickly.”

“I’m serious, Dicky. I can’t tonight.”

“Why not?”

You sucked in a silent breath, closing your eyes irritably. ‘Be kind. He doesn’t know what's going on. Don't be unfair.’ 

“Bug? You okay?”

His familiar use of the nickname felt as though a weight was relieved from your shoulders. You playfully sighed loudly enough for him to hear. “You know me, Dicky. I’m tied to work like an elephant to a chair.”

“Yeah, yeah. Liven up, Buggy—you always work. A day off won’t hurt.”

“Would you still uphold that philosophy if I told you to take a day off your ‘night shift’?”

“Ah! You got me there!” He snickered. “But in all seriousness, Brucie specifically asked for everybody. Even Tim will be there.”

You winced. ‘Oh, that's just marvelous.’ 

That little piece of info made it even worse, you think. With everyone there, the stakes of you being found out are even higher.

But, realistically, not even you knew until today…and it's your own goddamned body! 

You leaned your head back against the seat again, already feeling the beginnings of a migraine forming behind your eyes.

One family dinner.

Surely you could survive one dinner without accidentally revealing your dilemma to a family of unstable detectives/vigilantes/operatives.

Right? Right??

[simple-dorito]

Just thinking about little Damian who always finds his way to you, his brothers partner, no matter what and always falls asleep on you within minutes.

Nobody really knows why Damian has this unfounded fondness to be close to you but Dick finds it amusing to walk into a room only to see Damian tucked close to your side, slightly dropping, but fast asleep as you run your fingers through his dark hair and watching over him as he rested with a small smile upon your lips. You didn’t know why Damian did what he did but never think to bring it up to the young boy in case he feels as if it’s not wanted and closes himself off, you’ve been told by Dick, Bruce and Jason that Damian didn’t have a normal childhood -like most of them- and so finding normalcy was treasured deeply for little Damian.

So you let the little guy sleep on you for as long as he wants, always making sure to bring a blanket or two of the most fluffiest and comfiest kind to put him more at ease.

Bruce finds it endearing to see little Damian dragging you through the manor, pulling you by the arm as he marches you through the long halls of the massive house, face set in determination with a slight pout on his lip. He could see his sons tight grip on you from where he stood in the doorway, finding that a weight has lifted whenever he saw how quickly Damian had taken to you, immediately wasting no time in showing you the grounds while also getting annoyed when the likes of your parter or his other brothers try to grab your attention.

‘Don’t you have a system to hack Drake?’ Bruce could hear his son say and could clearly imagine the pout on his lip as he crosses his arms across his chest to seem intimidating for his size, his son always acted older then he actually was but to see him act like a child about to throw a tantrum -and over you no less- made him think that there was a glimmering chance for Damian to get to be a normal child, even if it was for a couple of moments it’s more then he could ever ask for his son. So Bruce thanked you for bringing that side of his son out as he watched as Damian huffed through his nose, grabbed your arm and tugged you out of the room and away from Tim elsewhere.

Jason found it funny when he saw how poorly Damian tried to hide the pictures he draws of you and himself and Titus, flustered chubby cheeks as he poorly hides the beautifully drawn picture behind his little back, it stuck out like a sore thumb because he drew landscape and not portrait. Jason could easily see the corners of the drawing and didn’t take much guessing on his part to know it’s got something to do with you, his little brother’s favouritism towards you was clear for anyone to see, he saw how clingy Damian was with you and how he wanted all of your attention all the time, never mind the glare he’d give everyone else for merely brushing your shoulder before demanding you kneel as his tiny hands wipe your shoulder clean of their germs.

Tim would love nothing more then to use this all against the little menace but decided against it as after all Damian was still a growing lad, a child who was given a sword instead of a colouring book and crayons. So when he sees Damian actually act like a child with you, sleeping on you, wanting you to read to him, wanting your attention on him all the time and getting to throw a tantrum like a child too! It’s rare for Damian to act his age for he always acted older then it but you managed to soothe the child he never got to properly be and he clings onto you for that normality, Damian wouldn’t want to give you up when you’ve given him something he didn’t know he needed until the moment he rested his head on your shoulder, when you’ve given carried him to bed and kissed his forehead and wished him the sweetest of dreams.

So now whenever you came to visit the manor, everyone knew to let Damian hog you as much as he desires, for it wasn’t everyday he got to be an actual child.

[lucylockets]

Always Have Been. Always Will Be.

synopsis: an old photo album of yours is found in the attic, and you’re reminded of how much you’re loved in the family. requested by anon!

warnings: drinking mentioned (taking shots). fluff

pairings: batfamily x batmom!reader

dividers by: @/cafekitsune

[Main Masterlist]. [DC Masterlist.]

Dick was the one who found the photo album. He, Jason, Cass, Tim, Duke and Damian were tidying the attic. A punishment given by Alfred, and approved by you. It was for a mixture of being careless on patrol, sneaking out when banned from patrol the night after, and a build up of disobedience.

The only reason Bruce wasn’t up there with them right now, was because he claimed he had “important work” to finish, but you promised the children that Bruce would join them shortly. Plus, Alfred remarked that the Christmas decorations needed to be found up there anyway.

Dick pulled the album out of an old box, and opened the cover to be met with a photo he had to blink twice to figure out properly.

It was very obviously you in the photo, but much younger. You looked like you were college age, standing with a group of girls that were clearly your friends, judging by the arms around each other.

After flicking through a few more pages, Dick held it out and called, “hey look, it’s all old photos of mom.”

Damian’s head appeared from above the small wall of junk he had built while searching through the different piles. He made his way to Dicks side, stepping over whatever Tim or Jason had carelessly tossed over their shoulders. “Let me see.” He demanded, before humming a little as Dick lowered his hands.

Cass had appeared at the other side of Dick, also interested in the pictures of her mother. Duke had also made his way over, equally as interested. Jason shrugged, deciding that it was definitely better than continuing to clean and walked over. Tim was also interested, wanting to see any picture that he wouldn’t have seen when he was doing his previous research.

When they properly turned each page of the album, they found that the pictures started when you were a baby. There was a picture of you, small with chubby cheeks blowing spit on a birthday cake with a big ‘1’ decoration on it.

A couple of pages later, there was a picture of you, a couple of years older. You had hair that was just past your shoulders, flashing small teeth in a smile with one missing in the front. There was a small note underneath the picture that said “First day of school.”

First school play. Graduating elementary. First day of middle school. First day of high school. Prom, homecoming, and you with your diploma. You throughout different years crouched by a Christmas tree or you with different costumes through the years on Halloween.

That was the first half of the album.

Dick flipped the second half, when you had started college and most of the pictures were now taken by you or your friends, rather than your parents. They varied from different locations, from parties to your dorm room.

In one picture, you’re taking a shot with one of your friends, the clock in the background showing that it was 2:30AM. “And she tells me not to stay out too late.” Jason rolled his eyes, but had no real bite to his words. “She was cool.” Duke said, his voice laced with awe.

When Bruce made his way up the ladder to the attic, the album was open on a page that showed a picture of you getting ready for some event. You had rollers in your hair, and a bathrobe on as you beamed at the camera. The lighting made your eyes sparkle and your smile shine. There was a different look of happiness that the children hadn’t seen on your face. You looked much more carefree, and you had the look of someone that could never fathom the horrors the world had to offer you. It wasn’t that you weren’t happy now, it was just clearly different back then.

“What are you all crowded around?” Bruce asked them, making each of their heads fly up to notice him.

“A photo album of Mom.” Tim answered him before swiftly turning back to the photo album.

When Bruce cast his eye on the photos of you, he didn’t look surprised. A small, easy smile appeared on his face. Cass reached out to flip a couple of more pages, and they reached the section where you had clearly just started your relationship with Bruce.

The picture was the two of you in a kitchen that looked very different from the one in the Manor. Even though it was barely seen in the background, it was clearly smaller, with much simpler looking furniture. You were both dressed in pyjamas, the morning light coming knocking through the window in the background.

The camera was held in your hands, just the upper half of your bodies shown. You were making a face at the camera while Bruce wasn’t even looking at it. His eyes were closed, his lips pressed to your cheek as he stood behind you. Bruce looked younger too. He had some lines on his face, and there were a couple of scratches on his shoulder from presumably the previous night as Batman. But still, younger.

Bruce’s fingers reached out, eager to see more pictures of the two of you from the past. That’s when they heard somebody else enter the attic.

“Are you all doing alright up here?” Your voice was heard before you found them huddled around something in the middle.

“Grayson found an album of you.” Damian answered, already taking a step towards you as you joined their huddle.

You smiled upon seeing the different pictures of you when you were younger. There was a picture of you when you first appeared at a gala with Bruce. Your face was smoother back then, the crease between your brow not yet there. you weren’t yet aged with the stress of having a husband who likes to throw himself into danger every night, and six children who did the exact same.

“I was fairly pretty back then.” You said, “Been a while since that was a relevant fact, though.”

Bruce’s head immediately turned to yours at your words, his mouth opening. But a couple of people got there before him.

There was a chorus of outraged sounds, shouts of confusion and overlapping voices of siblings that don’t know how to speak in turn.

“Absolute nonsense.” The smallest boy at your side said, shaking his head. Damian was acting as if you had gotten a simple question wrong on a test. “You were beautiful then and equally beautiful now.”

“Exactly.” Tim nodded. “You’re gorgeous, mom. The amount of camera flashes when we’re forced to galas should prove it.”

Cass had slid herself close beside you, so that your arm subconsciously went around her. She shook her head at you too, before saying quietly, “very pretty.”

Dick looked downright horrified at your words. “How could you even think that?” He said. “Mom, you’re literally inspiration for like, five different clothing brands.”

“You’re stunning.” Duke declared. “In all these pictures you are. And you are now.”

Jason also tutted. He looked pained to agree with all of his siblings, but he had no choice. “Saying nonsense.” He muttered. “You’re beautiful, ma, always have been and always will be.”

You were silent for a moment before you smiled. “Thank you.” You said, a little sheepish. You pressed a kiss to the top of Cass’ head and ruffled Tim’s hair. “You know how to make me feel special, anyway.”

They continued fussing over you before you eventually reminded them to return to their ‘punishment’.

Later that evening, Bruce found you in your shared en-suite bathroom, washing your face before bed.

He stared at you for a moment, letting that indescribable feeling settle in his body again. Even after years of marriage, gentleness is still unfamiliar to him. He would’ve stayed there for hours if you hadn’t noticed him.

You caught his eye in the mirror before turning to him, “you okay?”

Bruce just nodded before walking the few steps to put his arms around you. “i’m okay.”

and that was enough.

“they’re weren’t lying earlier, you know.” he mumbled into your hair. “when they said you were still beautiful. you are. you’ve always been.”

You smiled against his shoulder. “thank you.”

And Bruce took every opportunity he could to remind you of it. because it wasn’t just your face that Bruce found beautiful, it was everything.

How you loved and cared for his children, how you put up with him and his late nights for years, how you cry and laugh at movies and books, how you treat Alfred with kindness and respect, how you were able to bring in so much love into his life when he thought it wasn’t possible, how you held him even when he couldn’t admit he wanted to be held.

Bruce Wayne might be the best detective in the world, but he’ll never figure out how you didn’t see how gorgeous you are.

[athenagc94]

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter 12

Tim Drake x Reader

First | Prev | Next

Chapter 12

“You have a visitor.” Minnie leaned on the filing cabinet next to your desk, a smug smile crinkling the skin around her eyes.

Fortunately, she didn’t hate you after the shit show at the Fishing Spot a few nights back. If anything, you two had grown closer because of it. You had plans to grab drinks later that week (at a more reputable establishment, this time). Never in a million years did you think you’d be on this assignment long enough to make friends, but this wasn’t your usual assignments—a fact you were slowly coming to terms with.

Over her shoulder, Tim waited on the other side of the glass doors that separated the office space from the lobby. He caught your questioning gaze and waved. A ring of keys looped around his finger.

“I didn’t see him on your calendar.”

Your eyes narrowed at him before turning your attention back to Minnie. “Because he wasn’t.” She hummed in that irritating way that implied that she didn’t believe you. “I mean it. I’m meeting with my youth emcee at one of our program centers this afternoon. He was not invited.”

“Well, it looks like he invited himself.” You shot her an unamused look that went ignored as she slapped the top of the filing cabinet. “Best not to keep him waiting. I hear he gets antsy.”

She left you with the annoying quandary in an oversized suit on the other side of the glass. He had yet to break eye contact; that tight-lipped smile pulled taut across his face. Sighing, you gathered your things and headed over.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought we could grab coffee,” he said as if that was something you two did often.

And maybe it was becoming part of the routine. As the RCP drew closer, Tim occupied more of your time. Not only did he join on your morning runs, but he was constantly dropping by the office to see you. If you weren’t with him, your thoughts wandered to him, but that was as close as you’d get to admitting that Minnie may be onto something.

Tim continued when you failed to respond, “I have a few late sponsors who reached out this morning.”

“Can’t,” you said sharply, “I have a meeting with our emcee. I’m leaving shortly.”

“Want a ride?”

You squeezed your eyes shut with the flare of your nostrils. Just once, you wanted something to go your way. “I was going to take the subway.”

“And I’m offering you a ride.” He led you toward the door, and for whatever reason, you followed him. Your lack of self-control where he was concerned was astounding. “It’ll be faster this way. I read that the lines are still a mess after Redwing’s fight with Croc. It’s a no-brainer.”

Again, a conversation you’d never thought you’d have to have, but he said it so casually. One would think you two were discussing the weather.

“Don’t you have real work to do?”

His car sat in the fire lane, cautions flashing. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. He would. He opened the passenger door for you, nonplussed. “Define work.”

You slipped into the passenger seat, its smooth leather soft against your bare arms. “Anything that warrants a paycheck.”

“I don’t need a paycheck.”

Insufferable prick.

“Well, aren’t you lucky.”

Tim closed the door and joined you on the driver's side, his shades falling back over his eyes. His engine purred as he turned the key in the ignition. Nineties grunge poured through the speakers, loud enough to drown your thoughts. Tim turned the volume down until it was barely tolerable before margining seamlessly into traffic.

A chain link fence surrounded the outdoor playground connected to the program center. Children ranged from elementary to high school. The former half hung off the brightly colored playsets or drew with chalk on the asphalt. The latter loitered in small groups along the wall. A few attempted tricks on skateboards while their friends filmed. Laughter filled the air. Months had passed and this was your first time seeing the programs RAP offered.

A young woman met you at the gate. Black hair kissed the underside of her chin, strands of faded blue visible beneath. She smiled, rounding her freckled brown cheeks. A small silver piercing glistened beneath her top lip. “Hey, you must be from the office. Kimber said you’d stop by sometime this afternoon.” Opening the gate, she ushered you and Tim into the playground before locking it behind her once more.

“I’m Izzy Oritz, head counselor.”

You introduced yourself. “And this is—”

“Timothy Jackass Drake,” Izzy finished for you as she bumped fists with the jackass in question. Your expression fell as… something flared in the pit of your stomach, but you squashed it as quickly as it came. “The kids’ll be stoked to see you.”

“Pretend I’m not here,” Tim insisted. “I’m just her ride.”

“He insisted,” you deadpanned.

“I’d do anything for the children.”

Izzy snorted as she led them toward the doors. “Well, Dante is excited to meet with you. He’s never been asked to speak in front of a crowd before. When he got the script, he forced me to sit with him to practice for at least an hour. He’s inside going over it again. I always love seeing the kids get excited to talk about their experience with RAP. It does them a lot of good, and I want the rest of Gotham to see this city isn’t all doom and gloom all the time. If we’re lucky, we can sneak in before the kids—”

“Mr. Drake!”

She stopped, a wicked smile curving her lips. “Too late.”

A small group of teens approached with skateboards in hand. Tim flipped his sunglasses on top of his head and grinned, wide and toothy in the way that made him feel less like a pretentious tool. It was almost charming, not that you’d ever tell him that.

“Yo.” He met each kid with a unique handshake. “I was watching those ollies. Looking real sick.”

“You should show them how the pros do it.”

Tim shot a narrow look over his shoulder. Izzy merely shrugged, unfazed by his ire. Okay, you liked this girl.

The boys pumped their fists. “Fuck yeah!”

Izzy cleared her throat.

The one who shouted looked sheepish. “I mean, hell yeah.”

She rolled her eyes as if to say good enough and continued, “Well, are you going to show them or not?”

“Please, Mr. Drake!” One of the boys exclaimed as he offered his board.

Izzy echoed, “Yeah, Mr. Drake, please.”

You peered between Izzy and Tim in disbelief.

Why was she encouraging this? What the hell was happening? This was supposed to be a very basic meeting with a child. Tim wasn’t even supposed to be here. He seemed to sense your bewilderment and gave you what he probably assumed was a reassuring smile, but nothing about this was reassuring.

He turned back to the boys and said, “A quick demonstration and that’s it. My friend here has work to do. Not me though.” He ruffled the scruffy blonde hair of the boy closest to him. “I’ve never worked a day in my life.”

Effortless.

That was the only word that came to mind as you watched Tim navigate the board over various handmade obstacles along the chain link fence. His stunts quickly attracted the attention of others.

He planted his hand on the ground in a one-armed handstand, flipped the board in the air. Cheers ripped through the crowd as he caught it and landed back on the board. You could feel the waves smug pride rolling off him as he moved onto his next trick, and damn, if he didn’t have every right to be smug.

“You may want to pick your jaw up off the ground before he notices,” Izzy whispered in your ear. “Love the guy, but he’s insufferable enough without the boost that’ll do to his ego.”

Your jaw tightened as you forced yourself to look away. No one liked to be caught staring, least of all you. “How do you and Tim know each other? Are you friends?”

“Friends? With that loser?” Izzy chuckled. “My boyfriend lived with Bruce Wayne for a short stint back in high school? He stays in touch.” She nodded to Tim as he glided across a railing, much like a bird rode on gusts of wind. “They play FIFA most nights and D&D twice a month. He plays an undead warlock and makes his pact with a lich everyone’s problem.”

The way Izzy described it made Tim sound so… normal, likeable even. Playing games with friends, learning how to skateboard, taking time to get to know the kids he funded through RAP. It all clashed terribly with the image of the spoiled rich kid you’d crafted in your mind. You struggled to come to terms with the fact that—just maybe—you misjudged him.

“Oh.”

Tim jumped. The momentum flipped the board twice in the air before he landed once more. Another cheer and he was off. Izzy shook her head and said, “A few basic ollies usually do the trick, but he's going all out today.” She gave you a sidelong glance. “Can’t imagine why that would be.”

You ignored whatever she was implying. “No idea.”

Tim stopped in front of you with hands shoved in his oversized pockets. He gave you a quick once over and smirked. “Impressed?”

Your cheeks warmed. “What makes you think that?”

He lowered his voice and said, “I couldn’t help but notice you staring.”

And then there were moments like this, that made you think that maybe you were right on the mark. “Conceited much?”

“It’s hard not to stare. I’m very impressive.”

That sounded more like him. “Are you done showing off?”

“I think so. I caught your attention, so I’ll take that as a win.”

The heat on your cheeks deepened. “Wrap it up. I have other meetings today.” A lie, but whatever. Anything to get you out of this conversation.

“Sure, sure. Be right back.” He left to return the board to the kids, but not before doing another round of elaborate handshakes with each of them.

Izzy had pulled out her phone, thumbs flying across the screen. You shot her a curious look. “Something wrong?”

“Not at all.” She sent her message and pocketed the phone, though the knowing smile on her face unnerved her. “How well do you know Tim? You’ve only been with RAP a few months, right?”

“He’s just my volunteer chair,” you insisted, but even you didn’t believe it. “We’ve been working closely throughout the process, but our relationship is strictly professional.”

Izzy hummed thoughtfully. “Sure.”

Clearly, she didn’t believe you either. “You’ve told me more about him than he’s told me about himself.”

“Yeah, that’s Tim for you. He hates small talk. He’d rather jump straight to the gut-wrenching trauma. It makes him real popular at parties.”

Before Izzy could continue, Tim returned, a healthy flush tinting his cheeks and his hair tousled. “Alright. I’m ready.” He slung an arm around your shoulders and led you toward the door. This close, the woody cologne on his collar nearly smothered you. “Let’s get to business.”

You weren’t sure how Tim convinced you to get food after meeting with your youth testimonial. Your lie about having other meetings quickly unraveled when he started prodding.

Why would you schedule meetings after an offsite meeting?

Seems like poor planning if you ask me.

You didn’t eat lunch, did you?

Everyone needs to eat. I need to eat. Let’s eat.

And so, you found yourself seated in a booth across from Tim in a small diner on the north edge of the Narrows. It reeked of old grease and stale coffee, but Tim didn’t seem to care as he flipped amicably through his menu. “It may not look like much, but this place has the best pancakes in Gotham. Trust.”

You simply hummed as you studied the other diners. While no one stuck out to you, there was always a chance a stranger’s quirk would be the difference between solving a job and watching it fall dead in the water. It was a bad habit, but one you’d learn to live with.

The woman in the far corner was left-handed, evidenced by the way she fumbled with her fork in her right hand as she tapped away on her phone in her other hand. The man in the booth behind Tim was balding on the crown of his head, a suspicious mole visible. He should probably get that checked out. A small group of teens occupied the largest table in the center.

You noted the matching patches decorating their bags or jacket. ‘R’ for... you weren’t exactly sure. Maybe it was the symbol of a local gang? They didn’t seem to be causing any trouble, so you decided not to dwell on it.

“Hello?” Tim waved a hand in front of your face, drawing you back.

“Sorry,” you said, though your heart wasn’t in it.

“You do that a lot, you know?”

“Do what?”

“You disassociate.”

You bristled. “I’m not disassociating. I’m people watching there’s a difference.”

“How do you figure that?”

“It’s more of a hobby, I guess. People fascinate me,” you started slowly. A bead of condensation rolled down your glass, pooling on the varnished wood. You stared at the water to avoid looking at Tim, though you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. “Humanity at its core is both uniquely complex and yet so easily understood when you see the patterns.”

Your knee bounced under the table, bumping his. His expression didn’t change, but the air sharpened with the current fluttering beneath your skin. You tucked your feet under your chair, ensuring it wouldn’t happen again.

“So, you treat people like machines?”

“It makes them easier to understand,” you admitted, though you weren’t sure why you said anything at all. Maybe because you got the sense that Tim related to the disconnect you felt when faced with regular people.

Finally, you looked at him. His bangs fell over his brow, in desperate need of a trim, but he only had eyes for you. “And what about me?”

You swallowed thickly. “What about you?”

“Am I fascinating?”

“Last I checked, you are people,” you answered, unwilling to balk twice.

His head lolled thoughtfully to one side as he swirled the contents of his glass. “Is that all you have to say?”

“I’m not in the business of stroking egos, Drake.”

“I find you fascinating.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” He sipped his drink and wet his lips. “I can see it, something in the way you carry yourself. There’s more to you than meets the eye. I just haven’t figured out what that something is.”

“Normal people ask questions when they want to know someone.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I like looking for patterns too.”

“And what patterns have you noticed?”

“I asked you first.”

Stalemate.

He leaned across the table, breeching your personal space as if he could bully the answers out of you, but you’d gotten used to his lack of personal space. Realizing his usual methods wouldn’t get him anywhere, he settled back in his chair and took another swig of his drink.

“So, what’s your favorite part about Gotham so far?”

Wait.

Was he trying to make small talk?

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You told me to ask questions, and now you’re upset when I do. I can’t win with you.” He threw up his hands, clearly fed up. Panic flared in the pit of your stomach. You thought this was all part of the game, but he looked genuinely frustrated now.

Shit.

“Sorry. You’re right. It’s just—“ This fun back and forth made this easier. As long as you both played it coy, you weren’t obligated to share too much, but you’d reached a crossroads. Playing it too coy might make him think you had something to hide, so you cracked the door for him. It was strategic, nothing more.

“I don’t have a favorite part of Gotham,” you admitted. It wasn’t the answer he wanted but it was the truth. “There’s a lot of things I don’t like, if I’m being honest. The cartoonishly evil villains for one, the fact that I can’t count on public transportation because there’s a fight between them and a bunch of masked vigilantes every other week. It’s cloudy all the time and, god, I just miss the sun. How do you live like this?” You shared more than you intended, but you’d been keeping it all in this whole time. You needed to tell someone.

Turns out, that someone was Tim.

Wild.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought of leaving,” Tim said.

You blinked. “You have?”

“Of course. Everyone does, but Gotham is hard to quit. People leave, but they always find their way back eventually.” He shrugged. “I’m no different. There are days I wish I could pack my bags and get the hell out of dodge. I’ve gotten close a few times.” He fiddled absentmindedly with his watch. It was the closest you’ve ever seen him to being nervous. “But it’s never stuck.”

“What keeps you coming back?”

You knew that was the step too far the moment the question left your lips. This moment, or whatever you’d call it, ended, as Tim shook his head. “A lot of reasons. None of them all that important.”

You found that hard to believe. “Right.”

“Besides, if I left, you would have never had the pleasure of meeting me.” His mask shifted back in place, the arrogant Tim Drake returning. You relaxed, realizing you weren’t ready for that level of vulnerability with him—not yet. Probably not ever. “Admit it,” he continued with a smirk, “I’m your favorite thing about Gotham.”

You mirrored his expression. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Pokes head out of the burrow of life*

Has it been a few months already? My bad.

If you haven't heard, I bought a house. So. That's been a bit of a whirlwind and has been occupying a lot of my time and energy.

But look! I finished a chapter, which is more writing than I've done in months. I thank Supergirl for bringing back my DC excitement. Oh, and Batman Knightfall, which will give some much needed Tim Drake exposure.

One last normal chapter before shit hits the fan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List

@redhooduwu @angel-academia @bungunz @anuttellaa @dessaydoo @zfeasal @saddixies @vanillakirstein @fire126 @all-user-error @intergalactic-padawan @calico-cheriies @byzantiumhollow @hoshikomcblair @sxdie-sun

[suprsnupi]

BITE MY TONGUE / IT'S A BAD HABIT

bruce wayne x fem reader

it's perfectly fine to blow some steam with the so-called 'detective' you hate. it's also perfectly fine to turn around and talk shit about him to your best friend.

— wc 4.3k, suggestive content, menaces/bffs to luvs, making out, identity silliness, 2-timing but also not really, banter, fluff and cuteness

— title from bad habit by steve lacy, im crazy for the jimenez/rpat bat but u can imagine him as any version tbh!!

BATMAN WOULD BE YOUR FAVORITE CRIME, apart from the fact that you, in no way, are a criminal. 

Every day before you slip that Gazette badge into your pocket, you tell yourself that he's just a guy in a suit. A six-two, totally ripped, and infuriatingly genius guy who has a penchant for out-scooping you. 

Mysterious sounds in the sewers? The Bat's already got that solved, and spoiler alert—it's Killer Croc, again. 

Local gang war? Oh, don't worry about it. There won't be much reporting needed, because the leaders have been strung up above Main Street with Bat-rope. 

Journalists always have some paranoid, skeptical chip in their shoulders. You're worried that this could be some sort of telepathic link or something. Why else would Batman be haunting your headlines like he does every pitch-black alleyway in this damned city? 

So, naturally, you find ways to take out your frustration. 

"God, how many compartments do you need?" you grit, fingers scrabbling for the right seam in his suit. You aren't a stranger to wrestling his cowl off, but it's hard in complete darkness, and you've almost cut yourself on a hidden blade more than once. 

But that's how it always is with Batman. Darkness, danger, a knife's edge between will he, won't he. Schrodinger's Bat, if you will. 

The alley you're crammed in isn't really one. It's a side-street, tucked between a condo and a rowhouse. Clean and quiet, in a way that would be surprising if you weren't in the nicer part of the city that lines the financial district. 

You suppose the night is why he even lets you touch him at all. The myth turned man, right at your fingertips. He sows a line of kisses from the right corner of your mouth to your ear, squirming out of your grip on purpose because last time, he admitted to finding you cute when you were frustrated. 

You had half the mind to gag, and the other half you buried deep into the meat of your brain, where it will rot and follow you forever. The thought comes back now, that maybe he's not that bad of a bad guy. 

(It’s not like you hate him. It’s just…you wish he’d leave some of the fun for you—after all, there’s nothing exhilarating in simple reporting. You want excitement, the thrill of the chase.) 

At least he knows how to push your buttons. 

"Not that hard," he mumbles, lips mouthing at the space behind your earlobe. He's somewhere between chapped and baby-soft, like he sometimes peels the skin off his mouth with his teeth as a nervous habit. 

"It is," you respond, swallowing a sound when he bites. Just lightly, not hard enough to bloom, but enough to remind you. 

It's this cat-and-mouse game you play. The PD gets the whole story before the press can jump because of Batman. Therefore, you're justified in your duty as a journalist—a pillar of democracy—to try unmasking him, no? 

The mission may have run awry, but you're here, and you're close. 

Finally, you find the small flap where his mask detaches from his cape. He helps you with it, considerate for once, fingers joining yours in sliding under the cowl and wrestling it off. 

You still can't see him, but you can feel him. The day-old stubble clinging to his jaw. How his nose has that slightly crooked angle, one you couldn't feel if he had his mask on. The way his jaw works, the way his hair is shorter at the nape and soft at the crown. 

You wonder what color his eyes are, if they sparkle in the light. 

He's never taken his suit all the way off with you. How many scars does he have? Does the suit bulk him up? Is he really that tall without boots? 

And then, quieter in your head...does he have cold feet? You know someone who does, and he always presses them to your warmer thighs. 

You grimace. It's one thing to have a covert, inappropriate relationship with the most wanted man in Gotham, but it's another thing entirely to think about your best friend while participating in said relationship. 

"What are you doing." Not a question, but not a demand either. His voice echoes in the narrow side-street. 

"Feeling your face?" 

"That defeats the purpose of being a mystery," he says, low. Then you hear the rasp of his glove sliding off, and the palm of his hand meets your hip, burning as he nudges the hem of your cardigan. 

(You're again reminded of him. Probably dead in that stupidly large bed in his mansion, snuggling silk sheets and the whole works, completely unaware of what you're doing. He'd chastise you if he found out.) 

Humming, your fingers tangle in his hair. "I have a mystery for you: where's Karate Kid?" 

"Taking a break." 

"Can you respond in more than ten words?" 

"Depends on if we're off the record." 

You hate him. Still, you don't stop him from kissing you again, eyelashes fluttering on the apple of your cheek as he moves back down to your jaw. 

A soft sigh burns through you when Batman's bare fingers find the sliver of skin beneath the hem of your rucked-up shirt, then dip into your waistband—myth and man, all at once. 

Face numb with heat, you just hope no one can hear the night’s silence shattering with your quiet whine of want. 

— 

"Thanks, Alfred." 

You know the tight grin you flash looks more like a grimace, but you have to make do with your thighs that scream with every sore step. 

“He’ll be in his room,” Alfred says, and every muscle in his face stays perfectly still as he folds your jacket over his forearm, giving no indication that he’s picked up on your stiffness. 

But knowing the butler, he probably has—he just doesn’t feel the need to comment. 

The halls, however grand and spacious as they are, have never made you feel small. Though your steps echo as you drag yourself up the darkly lacquered stairs, and the grim paintings on the walls regard you with intimidating glares, the Wayne residence has always felt like a second home. 

It’s awfully drafty, though. You know Bruce runs hot (save for his freakishly frigid feet), but the breeze drifting along the ornate walls is making concern for that poor kid itch at your nape. 

You turn right, go straight until the floorboards make a particularly loud creak, then take a left. It’s a path you could follow by feeling alone, by counting the precise seconds until you can see your best friend again.  

You knock on the bedroom door with firm knuckles and resolve. 

“What.” The word comes out as a low, gravelly rasp, devoid of inflection. 

You scoff, wry. “Did Alfred not bring you coffee?” 

The latch twists with a snick, and the heavy, darkly lacquered door parts from the frame to reveal a scruffy jaw and broad ink-strokes of messy hair falling over an angled brow. 

Bruce glares at you, but there’s no trace of annoyance in those clear blue eyes. Only tiredness; slight relief softens the heavy bags beneath his enviously thick bottom lashes.  

“Woah,” you blurt, instinctively taking a step toward him. “Sheepless night?” 

He just makes this…little rough, careless sound in the back of his throat, letting you in as he sneaks one hand beneath his black silk shirt to scratch his stomach. “Not punny.” 

Ignoring the insult, you pad into his room. It hasn’t changed since the last time you’ve been here—which was last week, as always.  

His absurdly massive bed sits in the middle, more rumpled than usual. It’s a shame that he rarely sleeps here anymore, and you almost feel bad that he prefers to spend his nights in his office (or wherever he wants you to believe). 

Like second nature, you choose the silky cushions of the chaise lounge beside the bed to unceremoniously stretch out across. You won’t disturb that sacred mattress with your outside clothes.  

The curtains are drawn tight, forming a thick armor of velvet over the windows, but Gotham’s pale sunlight still wriggles into the room from above the curtain bar.  

The thousand-threaded sheets seem to shimmer in the dim light, rippling as Bruce collapses onto the bed with a sleepy groan. 

“I take it we’re having brunch at home then,” you say, arranging your limbs so that you’re starfished on the lounge. “Shame…Dick seemed like he was looking forward to soufflé pancakes.” 

“Mhm,” he rumbles, dragging a pillow into his chest. Nuzzles into it, and something in your chest loosens like the first bloom of spring. 

Lately, you've noticed that his typically rigid composure has been loosening. Though the ghosts of his parents' deaths still hang over his exhausted head, he's warmed up in small increments—like now, choosing to lean into his sleepiness rather than pushing past the need to maintain his image. 

But perhaps that's because you've known him for too long. You can see through most of his farces, especially the one he insists on displaying to the wider public. 

You almost scoff to yourself. Playboy billionaire. Who's going to tell the paparazzi that he broke into a cold sweat when you joked about setting him up on a blind date? 

He sighs, all rough edges, tinged with the sweet relief of abandoning pretense. “You can blame Dick for keeping me up last night.” 

“Oh, I couldn’t do that to him.” 

Gazing at you with sleep-softened eyes, Bruce says with a tinge of earnest affection, "I was helping Alfred tend to him. Wouldn't have happened if he dressed warmer like I told him to.” 

“What should we do instead?” you muse, absently running your fingers over the smooth, nearly invisible stitches in the chaise’s upholstery. You’ve probably worn a path along the seam with that habit. 

“Tell me about your week,” Bruce murmurs, voice dipping into gravel. His languid words pour over you, soothing.  “Any scoops? See the Batman again?” 

At the reminder, irritation and something akin to embarrassment (though you won’t assign an official name to it) flares in your stomach. The ache in your thighs and a few tender points along your collarbone decide to flare up, which only serves to fuel your annoyance. 

You exhale hard—not so much a scoff than a careless grunt—and choke back the burning urge to roll your eyes. “Alright, that's just provoking, Bruce.” 

A lazy, almost blasé, hum is your answer. “I thought you liked complaining about him. Beating the dead horse much?” 

"Oh, that horse is rotting," you grit, sitting up so quickly that your vision spins with the elaborate detailing on his dark ceiling. Now that it's come to your attention, you're slowly noticing how the Gothic-reminiscent ornamentation resembles the skeletal wings of a bat, stretching above you in desperate flight. Huh. 

"Do tell."  

You cross your arms and glare at him, but he just lets an amused smirk play at the corner of his chapped lips (though still partially concealed by his stupidly fluffy pillow, which you are suddenly thankful for, as you'd probably just suffocate him remorselessly if you'd been exposed to the full power of his smugness). 

"Remember the gang war lead?" 

"Tied above Main Street with Bat-rope," is the confirmation, followed by a couple of nods that are too solemn to not be teasing.  

"And the whole Joker thing—which, by the way, I think he should investigate why the clown keeps escaping—" 

"—it's ninety percent Arkham Asylum's fault—" 

"—plus when I was actively investigating the Riddler's latest puzzle, but he must've stolen my notes because I swear I was this," you pinch your index and thumb together, muscles tensed for emphasis, "this close to solving it." 

To your ire, Bruce chuckles wryly, and if you didn't know better, you'd say he's dangerously toeing the line of self-satisfied. But that would be crazy...unless... 

No, that's just crazy. 

Right? 

"Well, Batman is the world's greatest detective," he says, following the statement with a smooth card of fingers through his inky mess of hair. 

The motion shifts the collar of his expensive pajamas, making the silk dip to reveal a small circular bruise on his collarbone. It's still reddish and stark against his pale skin, so it must be fresh. Weirdly, you distinctly remember the hard press of the Batman's clavicle against your teeth last night. 

Your own bites pulse faintly again beneath your clothing. 

"There's a reason why Commissioner Gordon—" 

"Is that a hickey?" you interject, your pointer finger flicking out to zero onto it. You scoot to the edge of the chaise, frowning; secretly, you're elated at the chance to pivot away from the subject of Batman.  

Your voice takes a teasing tone as you chuckle. "C'mon, you didn't have to lie about Dick's antics keeping you up. Bruce Thomas Wayne, are you finally becoming the playboy they say you are?" 

You bite back the bitter tang of regret the moment those words escape your mouth. Your best friend can have anyone he wants—he's rich, handsome, generous, caring, and despite what the tabloids spew about him, all of Gotham knows that his intellect is damn near genius. 

And yet the discovery stings. Deep down, you chide yourself for being a hypocrite, for feeling the slight betrayal that Bruce had someone in his bed while you were fucking Gotham's protector (you'll use the word loosely) practically every week. 

But still. Maybe he isn't loosening up. Maybe he's still the same guarded boy he's been for over two decades. 

He huffs softly, the white of his canines flashing at you for a moment. "It's nothing." 

"Nothing," you repeat, incredulous. "You don't think—maybe—that this is a significant milestone?" 

"Pssh, you're acting like I'm some fair maiden." 

Doubling down, you slide off the chaise and kneel by his bedside, folding your arms along the edge of the mattress with a pleading look in your eyes and a sharp grin on your face. "Come on, I'm just curious. I tell you everything, down to my leads and sources." 

Eyeing you from behind the soft armor of his pillow, he responds, "Alright. Why were you limping?" 

Shit. The gleeful journalist in you drops dead on the floor, replaced by the anxious secret-bearer, whose knees are knocking together like the erratic tick of your heart. 

"Almost everything," you correct, grin beginning to wilt into a grimace. 

Bruce just regards you with a stare that is almost cold while exasperation weighs heavily on the thick lines of his angular eyebrows. That damn disapproval lances straight through your heart. Jaw tight, you concede and rest your cheek against your arm, frowning slightly. 

"Fine. Sorry. I shouldn't push," you say with a softer voice. "I'm limping because I hooked up with a guy." 

He...doesn't seem fazed, which throws you off. You've always known him to be protective, even possessive at times; even before his parents were murdered, he kept watchful tabs on his belongings, and he'd know if you shifted one of his toys by an inch.  

Naturally, you'd expect him to show some sliver of alarm between his brows—because if you were limping after sex, that would imply that your partner may have been rough enough to affect your gait—but those faint 11 lines haven't budged. 

In fact, he almost looks smug. Or maybe he’s just gotten better at caring more than he lets on. 

"Your turn," you mumble as an afterthought, cheeks burning hot. If this room were colder, you'd be radiating white coils of steam. 

"I also…was intimate. With a girl," he admits, though he works through his choice of words with a faint wrinkle by the corner of his mouth, like they taste bitter. "She’s nosy for a living." 

Sounds like someone you know very well. 

“You could’ve just told the truth,” you mumble, feeling redundant in your disappointment. 

Flashes of your clandestine meetups with Gotham’s favorite vigilante unwittingly resurface, from the softness of his maybe-black hair to the way you’d know the elegant structure of his cheekbones by touch alone.  

You’ve always wondered what he looked like, yes, but you suppose that imagining it with all the parts you have already memorized is different. But if you could hold up a man to the myth… 

…you might raise Bruce.  

Which is—fucking insane! It’s crazy, and stupid, and a terrible thing for him to do. 

Yet. 

Yet the small, needling voice of journalism rises from the dead. Whispers echo in the caverns of your chest: just follow the hunch, wouldn’t it explain a lot? 

A beat of silence follows as Bruce determines his next words.  

“I didn’t want you to see me differently,” he says, low and earnest. “I thought I had a good thing going. For the first time, I don’t want things to change.” 

Somehow, you get the feeling that he isn’t just talking about his hookup. 

“Plus,” he tacks on, like some afterthought he finds vaguely humorous, “you get all flustered when you need the truth. It’s cute.” 

He admits that in the same tone the Bat admitted it, kissing the side of your neck. 

The world shifts just a few degrees. Like the Earth has been spinning on its axis a little wrong, and you sitting up has made the planet right again.  

It fits so fucking neatly that it’s infuriating. The intricate gadgets. The sleek car, with all its sharp edges and plush Italian leather cushions. The way he always seems to be two steps ahead of you.  

They’re both six-two, ridiculously smart, and muscular. You know Bruce had trained in martial arts overseas; you’re realizing with horror that Dick is about the same age as Robin, and the cold would explain the sidekick's absence last night. 

You deal in facts. In hard, concrete truths and testimonies sworn against perjury. Yet, if you wanted to stick with only the cold facts, you would’ve become a lawyer. 

And there’s the subject of his hickey. The thought of it being you twists something around your ribs, ugly and vindictive and satisfied all at once.  

You should be pissed—no, you should be furious.  

Bruce lied, hid, copied off half of your investigations like a bad high school cheater, and fucked you so good that you’d forget about it. 

Yet the truth just settles deep inside the pit of your stomach, like you’ve known all along but never wanted to believe it.  

Because maybe you’re just as possessive. Maybe you do feel ugly and messy and proud that you’re the one that keeps him coming back.  

“Yeah,” you say after a swallow, gluing your gaze onto him to gauge any reaction. “My guy’s pretty nosy too. A lot more annoying than your girl, probably. Tends to hide important information.” 

“It seems like they’ve got their bad habits in common,” Bruce responds. To any other person, he’d seem unfazed, but you know. 

You know that slight downward twitch of his sharp eyebrows. You know the understated purse of his lips by touch in the dark and visual study in the light. He doesn't quite blink, but his long, dark eyelashes flutter like he's making a conscious effort to keep his mask up. 

“That changes a lot, doesn’t it?” It leaves your mouth less like a question and more like a statement. “Does she mean anything?” 

You lean closer to him, eyes flicking all over the planes of his face until he twitches, one hand curling gingerly around your nape, as if deciding between holding fast or not at all.  

“Everything.” He lets it tumble out, just like that, lets the weighty admission bounce off the mattress like a hand grenade. Too easy, too loaded. “She means everything. I think you know that too.” 

The last syllables are breathed softly against your lips, and his lashes tremble as he searches your gaze with a deceptive calm brewing in his glassy eyes. Like the stillness before a storm, except there's a sort of acceptance thrown haphazardly into the blue swirling around his pupils. 

Understanding. 

“I can forgive the lying,” you murmur, tilting your head just so, nose brushing against his. “And the hiding. But out-scooping me? That’s fucked up.” 

“You’re not even mentioning last night, and all the other ones?” A faint laugh colors the question, blooming in the infinitesimal space between your lips. 

It’s then that you realize you can never be mad at him for too long. He’ll just pull some puppy-eyed shit like this, irresistible charm woven into his forever lingering smirk, and you’ll turn the world just because he’d do the same. 

“Those have been forgiven for a long time.” 

Bantering like this, impossibly close yet too far, comes as second nature. You fall into place like the pieces of his two identities, all neat and simple. 

“Can I make it up to you?” 

You flick your eyes to his Gothic ceiling, where the spiny wings of the bats seem to flutter in excitement. “Since you asked so nicely…” 

Bruce presses his gentle, apologetic lips to the corner of your mouth, then traces your bottom lip with a callused thumb. “Can I kiss you here?” 

“Will that stop making you ask questions like a journalist?” 

A soft puff of air leaves him, half incredulous and all endeared. The thought of that being so enamoring, so magnetic flashes through your mind before he softly places his lips over yours—slightly chapped, warm, and completely familiar. 

You've figured the Batman out and solved the mystery of the century. The victory doesn't taste as sweet as Bruce Wayne. 

Without breaking, he draws you up to him as he shifts onto his back, a rough yet cautious hand on your waist guiding you to shuffle across the mattress on your knees and sit over his hips. 

Your head spins, eyes refusing to open out of fear that this is a dream. You feel the gradual slide of his tongue in your mouth, so unlike the feverish way he kisses you in alleyways.  

A quiet moan of satisfaction rumbles in his throat, and it strikes you in the chest, how he seems to be just the same, yet so different. Or maybe it's because he knows this is tentative, precarious, that it's not as certain as you and his alter-ego. 

You shiver—pliant and wanting in a way you didn't expect from yourself—when he diverts his attention, kissing reverently across your cheek, then expertly down your neck.  

Palms and fingers on your waist, surer this time and dragging your weight against...is he serious? 

You sigh against his hair, putting a little firmness behind the occasional rock of your hips against the growing heat tenting his pajama pants. "Really?"  

He groans at the stimulation, cheeks flushing as he ducks his head down. 

"Ignore it. Just want to stay like this," he mumbles, voice rough. 

You slide a hand into his hair, which is prickly at the nape and soft at the crown (yes, yes, yes), and run the other down from the scruff still clinging on his jaw, to his softly heaving chest, to the hem of his shirt. 

You sneak your touch beneath the warm silk, splaying your hand over the burning skin above his hip. This feels like a blessing, to feel the subtle ripple of muscle instead of a toolbelt and a suit. 

Bruce’s sharp canines nip at your fresh hickeys from last night, to which you wince at the twinge of tenderness and slip your fingers higher to fit into the dips between his ribs—he's a little ticklish there, though you know he lies badly about it. 

Paying you back in double, his hands travel beneath the hem of your own shirt, rucking the fabric up to expose your spine to his exploring touch. Another soft sigh burns through you, though the latter half is swallowed by his lips, all lazy and savoring. 

And this might be better than what you've been doing. There's no more dancing, no more cat-and-mouse.  

There's just you and him, sharing breaths in a sliver of air you're hesitant to widen, learning to orbit each other again with the weight of Batman altering your gravities.  

He rolls both of you onto your sides, wasting little time tangling your legs. He traces shapes into your back, weaving around your spine.  

The world smudges around you. Time swims by languidly as he just…caresses your skin, humming against your lips, bent on appreciation rather than stress relief.  

You’ve never wanted something to stretch on forever so badly. 

Unfortunately, impermanence calls when Alfred—and you know it’s him before he speaks—primly raps his knuckles three times against the door. “Master Dick is stirring. His temperature has dropped.” 

“Finally,” Bruce grumbles. He attempts to pull away but can’t resist another two (or five) quick pecks. “Breakfast for lunch?” 

You smooth your fingers over his head, pressing down the strands that stick out at odd angles from your grip. “Weird, but okay.” 

He calls out, “Alfred, order from that French toast place Dick likes.” 

“Will do, sir.” 

You can practically see the way the butler bows slightly and marches down the hall. Never change, Alfred. 

Bruce glances back at you with glimmering eyes, and his faint smile is too tender to be anything but hopeful, "Stay for dinner, too?" 

You twist your lips, faking pensiveness. “Only if you promise to leave something for me to write about.” 

Wrinkling his nose, he scoffs but makes a point of avoiding your gaze. “When have I ever done that…” 

“Don’t even start.” 

“I'm not,” he chuckles against your lips. It’s signed and sealed with a sweet, chaste kiss.

Oh, your heart sighs in wistful recognition. It’s always been him.

— soft tease bruce my shayla.... part of the much ado about luv event <33

[gloomycatz]

what would u think about tim x virgin!reader 👀

omg … you are ON to something nonnie

cw ; fem reader, perv!tim makes a reappearance, munch!tim, tim is a dom on this blog (who also whimpers)

i think tim would obsess once he finds out. doesn’t matter your relationship. if it’s bsf!tim it definitely comes out during a random conversation when he’s over at your place. you let it slip out on accident but he doesn’t miss it. “… you’re a virgin?” gets hard immediately. doesn’t want to push you or rush you, so he finds an excuse to go to the bathroom to jerk off.

within the week he’s got you under him.

if it’s bf!tim he’d still obsess but would be much more patient. especially if it came up during foreplay.

regardless of relationship though, he’d spend so long between your legs, making you cum on his tongue at least twice. maybe even three times if you can take it. insists it’s to prep you but he really just wants an excuse to eat you out. stretches you open on his fingers until he thinks you’re ready.

almost bottoms out instantly as soon as he barely has his tip pushed in. fists the sheets and whines right against your ear.

once you’re adjusted to his size, he’s fucking you… semi-rough. every time you squeak when he bottoms all the way out, balls pressed to your ass, he apologizes all shaky only to do it again.

“i’m sorry— nghh, feels so good.”

nearly cums inside you, unless you give him the okay then he’s absolutely pumping you full of him and will fuck it deep into you until he’s satisfied. if not he pulls out and finishes on your legs or stomach.

then he flips you over and fucks you from behind. i think tim loves this position ‘cause you get so noisy <3 he gets a little mean in this position— will spank you, will pull hair if that’s applicable to you, will wrap his arm around your neck in a headlock.

could very easily turn into marathon sex if you’re into it. tim’s stamina is built for it. will bend you in every position, usually ones where he’s in control.

and his aftercare is simple but it’s good! will either stay inside you and cuddle you from behind or pull out and have you lie on his chest. either way he’s fussing over you.. just a little <3 the type to run a hand down your back and ask, “are you okay? did i hurt you?” after rearranging your insides :3

[maiamore]

what could possibly be hotter than waking up in bed being bracketed by two, hulking men, eager for your attention. that’s what lazy mornings with bruce wayne and clark kent would look like.

being lifted with ease onto clark’s lap where his morning wood presses at the soft fabric of his sweats. a quick adjustment of his thighs slide you further down so your clit catches his hard on. being sleepy still and bruce coming up from behind you to rub your clit, encouraging you to grind and soak clark with your arousal.

the man behind you, places open mouthed kisses down your pulse as he’s tugging at your shorts, “take em’ off. let him feel you taking what you need.”

clark stiffens beneath at bruce’s words, eager to feel your heat directly on him as you dry hump yourself into an orgasm. “n-need these off,” he’d whine pathetically, pulling the waistband of his sweats down. feeling you twitch on him, without any barriers, it felt so potent that his hands snap to your hips. sliding up your torso to cup around your clothed tits.

[athenagc94]

Smoke & Mirrors - Chapter 12

Tim Drake x Reader

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Chapter 12

“You have a visitor.” Minnie leaned on the filing cabinet next to your desk, a smug smile crinkling the skin around her eyes.

Fortunately, she didn’t hate you after the shit show at the Fishing Spot a few nights back. If anything, you two had grown closer because of it. You had plans to grab drinks later that week (at a more reputable establishment, this time). Never in a million years did you think you’d be on this assignment long enough to make friends, but this wasn’t your usual assignments—a fact you were slowly coming to terms with.

Over her shoulder, Tim waited on the other side of the glass doors that separated the office space from the lobby. He caught your questioning gaze and waved. A ring of keys looped around his finger.

“I didn’t see him on your calendar.”

Your eyes narrowed at him before turning your attention back to Minnie. “Because he wasn’t.” She hummed in that irritating way that implied that she didn’t believe you. “I mean it. I’m meeting with my youth emcee at one of our program centers this afternoon. He was not invited.”

“Well, it looks like he invited himself.” You shot her an unamused look that went ignored as she slapped the top of the filing cabinet. “Best not to keep him waiting. I hear he gets antsy.”

She left you with the annoying quandary in an oversized suit on the other side of the glass. He had yet to break eye contact; that tight-lipped smile pulled taut across his face. Sighing, you gathered your things and headed over.

“What are you doing here?”

“I thought we could grab coffee,” he said as if that was something you two did often.

And maybe it was becoming part of the routine. As the RCP drew closer, Tim occupied more of your time. Not only did he join on your morning runs, but he was constantly dropping by the office to see you. If you weren’t with him, your thoughts wandered to him, but that was as close as you’d get to admitting that Minnie may be onto something.

Tim continued when you failed to respond, “I have a few late sponsors who reached out this morning.”

“Can’t,” you said sharply, “I have a meeting with our emcee. I’m leaving shortly.”

“Want a ride?”

You squeezed your eyes shut with the flare of your nostrils. Just once, you wanted something to go your way. “I was going to take the subway.”

“And I’m offering you a ride.” He led you toward the door, and for whatever reason, you followed him. Your lack of self-control where he was concerned was astounding. “It’ll be faster this way. I read that the lines are still a mess after Redwing’s fight with Croc. It’s a no-brainer.”

Again, a conversation you’d never thought you’d have to have, but he said it so casually. One would think you two were discussing the weather.

“Don’t you have real work to do?”

His car sat in the fire lane, cautions flashing. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. He would. He opened the passenger door for you, nonplussed. “Define work.”

You slipped into the passenger seat, its smooth leather soft against your bare arms. “Anything that warrants a paycheck.”

“I don’t need a paycheck.”

Insufferable prick.

“Well, aren’t you lucky.”

Tim closed the door and joined you on the driver's side, his shades falling back over his eyes. His engine purred as he turned the key in the ignition. Nineties grunge poured through the speakers, loud enough to drown your thoughts. Tim turned the volume down until it was barely tolerable before margining seamlessly into traffic.

A chain link fence surrounded the outdoor playground connected to the program center. Children ranged from elementary to high school. The former half hung off the brightly colored playsets or drew with chalk on the asphalt. The latter loitered in small groups along the wall. A few attempted tricks on skateboards while their friends filmed. Laughter filled the air. Months had passed and this was your first time seeing the programs RAP offered.

A young woman met you at the gate. Black hair kissed the underside of her chin, strands of faded blue visible beneath. She smiled, rounding her freckled brown cheeks. A small silver piercing glistened beneath her top lip. “Hey, you must be from the office. Kimber said you’d stop by sometime this afternoon.” Opening the gate, she ushered you and Tim into the playground before locking it behind her once more.

“I’m Izzy Oritz, head counselor.”

You introduced yourself. “And this is—”

“Timothy Jackass Drake,” Izzy finished for you as she bumped fists with the jackass in question. Your expression fell as… something flared in the pit of your stomach, but you squashed it as quickly as it came. “The kids’ll be stoked to see you.”

“Pretend I’m not here,” Tim insisted. “I’m just her ride.”

“He insisted,” you deadpanned.

“I’d do anything for the children.”

Izzy snorted as she led them toward the doors. “Well, Dante is excited to meet with you. He’s never been asked to speak in front of a crowd before. When he got the script, he forced me to sit with him to practice for at least an hour. He’s inside going over it again. I always love seeing the kids get excited to talk about their experience with RAP. It does them a lot of good, and I want the rest of Gotham to see this city isn’t all doom and gloom all the time. If we’re lucky, we can sneak in before the kids—”

“Mr. Drake!”

She stopped, a wicked smile curving her lips. “Too late.”

A small group of teens approached with skateboards in hand. Tim flipped his sunglasses on top of his head and grinned, wide and toothy in the way that made him feel less like a pretentious tool. It was almost charming, not that you’d ever tell him that.

“Yo.” He met each kid with a unique handshake. “I was watching those ollies. Looking real sick.”

“You should show them how the pros do it.”

Tim shot a narrow look over his shoulder. Izzy merely shrugged, unfazed by his ire. Okay, you liked this girl.

The boys pumped their fists. “Fuck yeah!”

Izzy cleared her throat.

The one who shouted looked sheepish. “I mean, hell yeah.”

She rolled her eyes as if to say good enough and continued, “Well, are you going to show them or not?”

“Please, Mr. Drake!” One of the boys exclaimed as he offered his board.

Izzy echoed, “Yeah, Mr. Drake, please.”

You peered between Izzy and Tim in disbelief.

Why was she encouraging this? What the hell was happening? This was supposed to be a very basic meeting with a child. Tim wasn’t even supposed to be here. He seemed to sense your bewilderment and gave you what he probably assumed was a reassuring smile, but nothing about this was reassuring.

He turned back to the boys and said, “A quick demonstration and that’s it. My friend here has work to do. Not me though.” He ruffled the scruffy blonde hair of the boy closest to him. “I’ve never worked a day in my life.”

Effortless.

That was the only word that came to mind as you watched Tim navigate the board over various handmade obstacles along the chain link fence. His stunts quickly attracted the attention of others.

He planted his hand on the ground in a one-armed handstand, flipped the board in the air. Cheers ripped through the crowd as he caught it and landed back on the board. You could feel the waves smug pride rolling off him as he moved onto his next trick, and damn, if he didn’t have every right to be smug.

“You may want to pick your jaw up off the ground before he notices,” Izzy whispered in your ear. “Love the guy, but he’s insufferable enough without the boost that’ll do to his ego.”

Your jaw tightened as you forced yourself to look away. No one liked to be caught staring, least of all you. “How do you and Tim know each other? Are you friends?”

“Friends? With that loser?” Izzy chuckled. “My boyfriend lived with Bruce Wayne for a short stint back in high school? He stays in touch.” She nodded to Tim as he glided across a railing, much like a bird rode on gusts of wind. “They play FIFA most nights and D&D twice a month. He plays an undead warlock and makes his pact with a lich everyone’s problem.”

The way Izzy described it made Tim sound so… normal, likeable even. Playing games with friends, learning how to skateboard, taking time to get to know the kids he funded through RAP. It all clashed terribly with the image of the spoiled rich kid you’d crafted in your mind. You struggled to come to terms with the fact that—just maybe—you misjudged him.

“Oh.”

Tim jumped. The momentum flipped the board twice in the air before he landed once more. Another cheer and he was off. Izzy shook her head and said, “A few basic ollies usually do the trick, but he's going all out today.” She gave you a sidelong glance. “Can’t imagine why that would be.”

You ignored whatever she was implying. “No idea.”

Tim stopped in front of you with hands shoved in his oversized pockets. He gave you a quick once over and smirked. “Impressed?”

Your cheeks warmed. “What makes you think that?”

He lowered his voice and said, “I couldn’t help but notice you staring.”

And then there were moments like this, that made you think that maybe you were right on the mark. “Conceited much?”

“It’s hard not to stare. I’m very impressive.”

That sounded more like him. “Are you done showing off?”

“I think so. I caught your attention, so I’ll take that as a win.”

The heat on your cheeks deepened. “Wrap it up. I have other meetings today.” A lie, but whatever. Anything to get you out of this conversation.

“Sure, sure. Be right back.” He left to return the board to the kids, but not before doing another round of elaborate handshakes with each of them.

Izzy had pulled out her phone, thumbs flying across the screen. You shot her a curious look. “Something wrong?”

“Not at all.” She sent her message and pocketed the phone, though the knowing smile on her face unnerved her. “How well do you know Tim? You’ve only been with RAP a few months, right?”

“He’s just my volunteer chair,” you insisted, but even you didn’t believe it. “We’ve been working closely throughout the process, but our relationship is strictly professional.”

Izzy hummed thoughtfully. “Sure.”

Clearly, she didn’t believe you either. “You’ve told me more about him than he’s told me about himself.”

“Yeah, that’s Tim for you. He hates small talk. He’d rather jump straight to the gut-wrenching trauma. It makes him real popular at parties.”

Before Izzy could continue, Tim returned, a healthy flush tinting his cheeks and his hair tousled. “Alright. I’m ready.” He slung an arm around your shoulders and led you toward the door. This close, the woody cologne on his collar nearly smothered you. “Let’s get to business.”

You weren’t sure how Tim convinced you to get food after meeting with your youth testimonial. Your lie about having other meetings quickly unraveled when he started prodding.

Why would you schedule meetings after an offsite meeting?

Seems like poor planning if you ask me.

You didn’t eat lunch, did you?

Everyone needs to eat. I need to eat. Let’s eat.

And so, you found yourself seated in a booth across from Tim in a small diner on the north edge of the Narrows. It reeked of old grease and stale coffee, but Tim didn’t seem to care as he flipped amicably through his menu. “It may not look like much, but this place has the best pancakes in Gotham. Trust.”

You simply hummed as you studied the other diners. While no one stuck out to you, there was always a chance a stranger’s quirk would be the difference between solving a job and watching it fall dead in the water. It was a bad habit, but one you’d learn to live with.

The woman in the far corner was left-handed, evidenced by the way she fumbled with her fork in her right hand as she tapped away on her phone in her other hand. The man in the booth behind Tim was balding on the crown of his head, a suspicious mole visible. He should probably get that checked out. A small group of teens occupied the largest table in the center.

You noted the matching patches decorating their bags or jacket. ‘R’ for... you weren’t exactly sure. Maybe it was the symbol of a local gang? They didn’t seem to be causing any trouble, so you decided not to dwell on it.

“Hello?” Tim waved a hand in front of your face, drawing you back.

“Sorry,” you said, though your heart wasn’t in it.

“You do that a lot, you know?”

“Do what?”

“You disassociate.”

You bristled. “I’m not disassociating. I’m people watching there’s a difference.”

“How do you figure that?”

“It’s more of a hobby, I guess. People fascinate me,” you started slowly. A bead of condensation rolled down your glass, pooling on the varnished wood. You stared at the water to avoid looking at Tim, though you could feel the weight of his gaze on you. “Humanity at its core is both uniquely complex and yet so easily understood when you see the patterns.”

Your knee bounced under the table, bumping his. His expression didn’t change, but the air sharpened with the current fluttering beneath your skin. You tucked your feet under your chair, ensuring it wouldn’t happen again.

“So, you treat people like machines?”

“It makes them easier to understand,” you admitted, though you weren’t sure why you said anything at all. Maybe because you got the sense that Tim related to the disconnect you felt when faced with regular people.

Finally, you looked at him. His bangs fell over his brow, in desperate need of a trim, but he only had eyes for you. “And what about me?”

You swallowed thickly. “What about you?”

“Am I fascinating?”

“Last I checked, you are people,” you answered, unwilling to balk twice.

His head lolled thoughtfully to one side as he swirled the contents of his glass. “Is that all you have to say?”

“I’m not in the business of stroking egos, Drake.”

“I find you fascinating.”

You arched an eyebrow. “Me?”

“Don’t sound so shocked.” He sipped his drink and wet his lips. “I can see it, something in the way you carry yourself. There’s more to you than meets the eye. I just haven’t figured out what that something is.”

“Normal people ask questions when they want to know someone.”

He shrugged. “Maybe I like looking for patterns too.”

“And what patterns have you noticed?”

“I asked you first.”

Stalemate.

He leaned across the table, breeching your personal space as if he could bully the answers out of you, but you’d gotten used to his lack of personal space. Realizing his usual methods wouldn’t get him anywhere, he settled back in his chair and took another swig of his drink.

“So, what’s your favorite part about Gotham so far?”

Wait.

Was he trying to make small talk?

“What the hell are you doing?”

“You told me to ask questions, and now you’re upset when I do. I can’t win with you.” He threw up his hands, clearly fed up. Panic flared in the pit of your stomach. You thought this was all part of the game, but he looked genuinely frustrated now.

Shit.

“Sorry. You’re right. It’s just—“ This fun back and forth made this easier. As long as you both played it coy, you weren’t obligated to share too much, but you’d reached a crossroads. Playing it too coy might make him think you had something to hide, so you cracked the door for him. It was strategic, nothing more.

“I don’t have a favorite part of Gotham,” you admitted. It wasn’t the answer he wanted but it was the truth. “There’s a lot of things I don’t like, if I’m being honest. The cartoonishly evil villains for one, the fact that I can’t count on public transportation because there’s a fight between them and a bunch of masked vigilantes every other week. It’s cloudy all the time and, god, I just miss the sun. How do you live like this?” You shared more than you intended, but you’d been keeping it all in this whole time. You needed to tell someone.

Turns out, that someone was Tim.

Wild.

“I’d be lying if I said I haven’t thought of leaving,” Tim said.

You blinked. “You have?”

“Of course. Everyone does, but Gotham is hard to quit. People leave, but they always find their way back eventually.” He shrugged. “I’m no different. There are days I wish I could pack my bags and get the hell out of dodge. I’ve gotten close a few times.” He fiddled absentmindedly with his watch. It was the closest you’ve ever seen him to being nervous. “But it’s never stuck.”

“What keeps you coming back?”

You knew that was the step too far the moment the question left your lips. This moment, or whatever you’d call it, ended, as Tim shook his head. “A lot of reasons. None of them all that important.”

You found that hard to believe. “Right.”

“Besides, if I left, you would have never had the pleasure of meeting me.” His mask shifted back in place, the arrogant Tim Drake returning. You relaxed, realizing you weren’t ready for that level of vulnerability with him—not yet. Probably not ever. “Admit it,” he continued with a smirk, “I’m your favorite thing about Gotham.”

You mirrored his expression. “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

*Pokes head out of the burrow of life*

Has it been a few months already? My bad.

If you haven't heard, I bought a house. So. That's been a bit of a whirlwind and has been occupying a lot of my time and energy.

But look! I finished a chapter, which is more writing than I've done in months. I thank Supergirl for bringing back my DC excitement. Oh, and Batman Knightfall, which will give some much needed Tim Drake exposure.

One last normal chapter before shit hits the fan.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tag List

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[yunyuu]

✶ DADDY'S LITTLE RAPUNZEL!

synopsis ⠀:: ⠀ when they do your little daughter's hair 🎀

including ⠀! ⠀ bruce wayne. dick grayson. jason todd. tim drake. damian wayne. ✶

contents ⠀! ⠀ fem reader. obsession? fluff. i love writing fictional men as girl dads. masterlist. english is not my first language. ✶

BRUCE WAYNE

Bruce takes it very seriously.

Every morning, your daughter climbs onto the bathroom counter while Bruce stands behind her with a brush like he's preparing for surgery.

"...Does it hurt?"

She shakes her head.

"No, Daddy."

"Tell me the second it does."

He brushes from the ends up exactly like you taught him.

Gentle. Slow.

If he hits a knot, he stops immediately.

"Found one."

Tiny fingers reach up to hold the section while he carefully works it out.

She watches him in the mirror.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I wanna be pwetty."

Bruce smiles so softly it almost hurts.

"You already are."

He still spends twenty minutes making sure every little ponytail is perfectly even.

When she runs off afterward, he quietly takes a picture.

He has hundreds.

DICK GRAYSON

Dick's love playing with her.

"Welcome back to grayson's professional hair salon!"

Your daughter giggles before she's even sitting down.

"What are we doing today?"

"A princess braid!"

"Good choice."

He narrates everything dramatically.

"Step one..."

Brush.

"No screaming! Amazing client!"

She laughs so hard she wiggles.

"Princess, I need you to stop moving."

"I can't!"

"I can see that."

Halfway through the braid...

He accidentally makes one side way bigger than the other.

"..."

"...Don't tell Mommy."

She gasps dramatically.

"Our secret?"

"Our secret."

You walk in.

"...Dick."

"...Yes?"

"Why is one braid twice the size of the other?"

Your daughter immediately throw him under the bus.

"Daddy said don't tell!"

He places a hand over his heart.

"Oh you traitor!"

JASON TODD

Jason learned because he refused to let you do everything.

He watched tutorials.

Practiced on wigs.

Even ask Dick to help him.

(He never speaks of that day again.)

Now your daughter sits between his legs on the couch while he carefully brushes her hair.

"You okay?"

"Mhm."

"No pulling?"

"Nope."

He's surprisingly good.

Slow hands.

Patient.

Then she asks—

"Daddy..."

"Yeah?"

"Can I have two buns?"

"...Absolutely."

The buns end up slightly uneven.

She looks in the mirror.

"I LOVE THEM."

Jason looks like he just won the lottery.

"Yeah?"

"They're perfect!"

He absolutely pretends that was intentional.

TIM DRAKE

Tim researches.

Extensively.

Different hair textures.

Brush types.

Leave in conditioners.

Protective hairstyles.

He has bookmarks.

A spreadsheet.

You don't ask.

One morning your daughter climbs into his lap with a hairbrush.

"Daddy?"

"My appointment?"

She nods seriously.

"You have an appointment."

"Excellent."

He carefully brushes every section while explaining what he's doing.

"This helps keep your hair healthy."

"Healthy!"

"Exactly."

She repeats every word he says.

By the end...

The hairstyle is adorable.

Slightly crooked.

But adorable.

She hugs him.

"You make me beautiful."

Tim nearly cries.

"No."

He kisses her forehead.

"You were beautiful since the day you were born."

DAMIAN WAYNE

Damian refuses to admit he enjoys doing her hair.

"This is simply efficient."

Sure.

Every morning she's already climbing onto the stool before he even ask.

She hands him the pink brush.

"Please?"

"...Very well."

He's incredibly precise.

Every part is straight.

Every ponytail is symmetrical.

Every bow is centered perfectly.

You watch from the doorway.

"...She's spoiled."

Damian doesn't even look up.

"As she should be."

Then your daughter turns around.

"Daddy."

"Yes?"

"I want flowers."

"...In your hair?"

She nods.

Without another word, damian disappears into the garden.

Five minutes later he returns with tiny fresh flowers.

He carefully tucks them into her braid one by one.

She beams at herself in the mirror.

"I'm a fairy!"

"You are."

Then she throws her little arms around his neck.

"I love you, Daddy."

Damian freezes for exactly half a second before hugging her back just as tightly.

"...I love you as well, habibti."

You smile from the doorway, watching the self proclaimed "most disciplined" Wayne melt completely because his little girl wanted flowers in her hair.

He'll never admit it out loud.

But tomorrow morning, he'll already have fresh flowers picked before she she even wake up.

If you want to be in my DC taglist let me know :)

© yunyuu 2026 : do not plagiarize, repost, or translate works without the knowledge or consent of the creator in other platforms or websites.