The Austrian GP breakfast buffet was already cursed.
Then Kimi arrived.
Max was mid–pancake grab, blissfully unaware he was seconds from public humiliation, when a warm omega suddenly latched onto his side like a sleepy magnetic barnacle.
Kimi.
Full koala mode. Head on shoulder. Arms around waist. Zero hesitation. Zero shame.
Max froze.
“H—hello?? What are you—”
Before he could finish, a camera crew rounded the corner filming a behind-the-scenes segment.
Max: “NO—NOT—DON’T FILM THIS—”
Too late. Kimi burrowed deeper.
George spun from the coffee machine, horror in high definition.
“KIMI. GET. OFF. MAX.”
Kimi clung harder.
“No.”
“No?!” George sputtered. “You can’t just say no! He’s not—he’s—GET BACK HERE!”
One of the producers whispered, “Is this a team-building exercise?”
Max raised his hands helplessly. “George, I’m not—this isn’t—STOP RECORDING—”
Laurent strolled by with a latte and sunglasses like chaos incarnate.
“Morning, Mama.”
Max: “STOP CALLING ME THAT. AND STOP LETTING THEM FILM THIS.”
A journalist scribbled something down.
Another whispered, “Who’s the baby? Which one’s the dad?”
Max: “I CAN HEAR YOU.”
Fernando materialized like drama’s patron saint.
“He has chosen you. Beautiful.”
Max: “STOP SAYING THAT TOO!”
Kimi made a distressed whine when Fernando leaned close.
George immediately shoved an arm between them like a protective border collie.
“Stay back! Don’t scare him!”
Fernando blinked. “I was complimenting.”
Carlos pointed with his spoon. “Your compliments ARE threats.”
Charles: “Yes.”
Lewis: “Absolutely.”
A cameraman zoomed in dramatically.
Max: “WHY ARE YOU ALL LIKE THIS??”
Lando, already holding a GoPro: “Because it’s funny.”
The Meeting That Should’ve Been an Email
Toto dragged Max, George, and Kimi into a “short talk.”
This was diplomatic optimism at its most delusional.
The second they sat, Kimi crawled into Max’s lap like a determined bread loaf and stayed.
A PR rep walking past the window gasped and whispered to another,
“Oh my god, Max has a baby. Should we congratulate him?”
George nearly ascended.
“KIMI. NO LAP. NO SITTING. OFF.”
Kimi: “Safe with Mama.”
Max went red. “I—NO—STOP CALLING ME—”
Fernando popped his head in like a demonic jack-in-the-box.
“It is pointless to resist motherhood.”
Max: “I AM NOT A—”
A FIA official opened the door.
“Mr. Verstapp—oh. Is this a… childcare situation? Do we need to fill out a form?”
“NO!” Max yelped. “He’s not—this isn’t—STOP WRITING THINGS.”
Lando poked his head in with his phone up.
“Say cheese, Mama Verstappen!”
“LANDO I SWEAR—”
George leapt forward like a man protecting national security.
“DELETE IT BEFORE MAX SEES IT ONLINE AND PANICS!”
Max: “I AM RIGHT HERE!”
Kimi cuddled closer, glaring at Lando like a feral, bite-optional creature.
A PR staffer whispered, “This is incredible for our engagement metrics.”
Laurent leaned over. “Very protective. Good instincts.”
George positioned himself as a human shield.
“NO ONE TOUCHES HIM RIGHT NOW.”
Max squinted. “Why are you protecting me?”
George: “Because—if HE panics, YOU panic, and if YOU panic, I panic, and if I panic, Toto cries.”
Toto: “I do not cry.”
Lewis: “You do.”
A FIA guy in the back nodded sympathetically.
Drivers’ Parade
Max leaned on the truck rail, forcing a normal-person face.
Kimi glued to his side like industrial-strength velcro.
Journalists were filming. Fans were screaming. Social media managers were thriving.
George nearly combusted.
“KIMI. LET GO OF MAX. THIS IS PUBLIC!”
Kimi hissed.
The crowd went feral.
Lando: “MAMA VERSTAPPEN ON DUTY!”
Max: “STOP CALLING ME—”
Fernando: “Look at how he protects the nest.”
Max: “THERE IS NO NEST.”
Charles, filming: “He’s nesting.”
Carlos: “He’s nesting.”
George: “HE’S NOT NESTING—HE’S TRYING HIS BEST!”
Everyone stopped.
Max blinked. “...Thanks?”
George coughed aggressively.
“ANYWAY—MOVING ON—”
Later
Max was trying to carry on with his day when Kimi hunted him down again like a lost baby duck and reattached himself.
Max stared at the limpet child.
Then sighed.
“…Okay. Fine. I’ll… let him.”
A door creaked open.
George peeked in.
He saw Max with a sleeping Kimi curled on him.
George softened like warm butter.
Then turned and glared at everyone in the hallway.
“DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT TAKING A PICTURE.”
Everyone backed up.
Except Laurent.
Who was already filming from behind a potted plant.
Two hours later Max carried the fully-asleep teen to Mercedes HQ.
Arms around Max’s neck.
Head lolling.
Full baby mode.
George opened the door and aged ten years.
“He fell asleep on you AGAIN?!”
Max: “I’m not doing it on purpose!”
George rubbed his face. “Oh god… we’re co-parenting.”
Max: “DON’T CALL IT THAT.”
George: “WE ARE. THIS IS A FAMILY STRUCTURE. A DYSFUNCTIONAL ONE.”
During the first triple-header, Kimi had taken to hovering around the Red Bull garage between sessions — which wasn’t new since the kid was lingering around all garages watching everyone — but he lingered a little too close to Max whenever they crossed paths on the way to driver briefings.
Max, being an omega who understood approximately 40% of his own instincts and ignored the other 60% strictly for racing and complaining about tires, didn’t think much of it.
He only noticed that Kimi walked slightly behind him.
And only ever behind him.
Lewis noticed.
Lewis always noticed.
He gave George a side-eye from behind his sunglasses during the track walk.
“Your rookie is… special, isn’t he?”
George, Alpha, proud, stubborn, and emotionally allergic to unexpected responsibility, paused mid-step.
“Why?”
Lewis sighed. “George.”
“…Yes?”
“Your rookie.”
George stared at him. “He’s an omega. He’s young. He follows people sometimes. And most of us are like free mentors for him. He’s a baby.”
“Yes,” Lewis said patiently. “But he follows one person especially often. And it’s not you.”
George stopped walking.
“Whatever you’re implying - stop.”
Lewis raised an eyebrow. “Do I look like I'm joking about it?”
George groaned into his hands.
“He’s following Max?! The same one who doesn’t really pay attention to people when they speak and has no filter between thinking and speaking?”
Lewis patted his back sympathetically. “At least he has good taste in drivers.”
It spread through the paddock like wildfire.
Yuki was the first to whisper it to Lando after FP2.
“Kimi’s following Max like a duckling. It’s adorable.”
“Duckling?” Lando whispered back. “Mate, that’s imprinting territory.”
Fernando — an omega with zero fear, zero shame, and an unbelievable instinct radar — overheard and loudly declared:
“He is imprinting. Omega to omega imprint. Rare but beautiful, maternal instincts will be hell. Dios mio, Max won’t know what hit him.”
To which Charles responded:
“Should we… do something?”
Carlos who was already texting pictures to Alex:
“No. We watch.”
Mechanics from both teams began placing bets in group chats.
Mercedes Comms: €30 says Kimi will call Max ‘Mama’ before the next race
Red Bull Strategy: €50 says Max notices last
A Ferrari engineer: €10 says Kimi bites someone who tries to separate them
The FIA quietly placed a note in their internal file:
“Monitor for potential relationship imprint incident between #63, #1, #12.”
“Why exactly are we checking the relationships between drivers?” One of the interns asked, his eyes barely open and brain processing the information.
“Do we actually know about anything these days?” The girl next to him muttered and quietly opened Tumblr to check the F1 tag for news.
It happened at the Spanish GP media pen.
Max was giving his usual pre-race interview:
“I think the long run looks good, car is stable—”
And Kimi, who should have been at Mercedes’ pen, walked right past three cameras, two PR handlers, and an increasingly distressed George, and stood directly at Max’s elbow.
Just stood with his head prompted on his right shoulder.
Looking up at him.
Quiet.
Soft.
Omega scent sweet - brown sugar with cherry blossom.
Max blinked down at him.
“Kimi? Shouldn’t you be… somewhere?”
George, five steps away, hissed through his teeth:
“Andrea Kimi, get back here.”
Kimi took one step closer to Max although it was hardly possible - he almost climbed onto the Dutch driver.
The entire media pen froze.
Even the microphones.
Even the cameraman mid-zoom.
Max scratched the back of his neck. “Uh… is this… normal?” he asked, wrapping one arm around the young Italian.
Charles coughed. “Oui. For imprinting.”
Max: “For— what?”
Kimi leaned just slightly into Max’s arm.
George looked like he wanted to declare a war and end the other driver.
Laurent arrived on scene like a shark who smelled blood. He heard that most of the mechanics whispered among themselves about the rookies and Max being hogged like a koala bear. Then the PR from Alpine showed someone a meme with Kimi’s and Max’s faces put onto the picture of two cats. Mama and a cub.
Hands on hips. Sunglasses on. Zero shame and a phone raised ready to take pictures.
“Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.” He laughed and snapped several photos, immediately sending them to the Social Media interns. He did not know how to do the memes but he could provide the base.
Toto stormed in seconds later.
“For God’s sake, Laurent, stop smiling! This is serious! Antonelli get off Verstappen!”
Laurent: “The cub wants to be near our omega. This is a PR miracle.”
George: “WHY?! He’s not— It's not— STOP CALLING HIM THAT!”
Kimi blinked up at him. “But why?”
George nearly passed out he changed colours so quickly. He moved forward to grab Kimi away from Max when the Red Bull driver moved and George grabbed Max’s side instead. Kimi’s smile grew wider and he slinked his arm around George similar like with Max.
Max muttered, “Ohhh. That’s what that means.”
Laurent slapped his shoulder proudly. “Congratulations, Max. You have a baby omega and apparently a Mercedes baby daddy. Oh, I can’t wait to send it to Jos,” the last part he murmured under his breath.
“I WHAT?!”
Within ten minutes, the moment hit X:
@F1Central:
BREAKING: Kimi Antonelli abandons Mercedes media pen to stand by Max Verstappen.
George Russell having a visible cardiac event.
Top Comments:
@RockieRookie
Baby imprint speedrun!!! 😍🥰😍🥰
@MCDRussellFanClub
George fighting for his life every weekend 😭
@CinnabonnEnergy
Max looks like he just got handed a puppy he didn’t know he adopted😆😍🥰
@LandoMandoPando
Mercedes PR leaving the planet🫠
@LettoBear
Toto typing a resignation letter 😆
@redbullracing
Family is about instincts ❤️
(attached a photo of Kimi looking like a child on Christmas with Max laughing and George shocked with his arm around Max)
@MercedesAMGF1
We ask everyone to please stop referring to drivers as baby animals.
Thank you.
Fernando Alonso @alo_oficial
Call me when they realize they’re bonded.
Lando Norris (@landonorris)
So…are we changing the song to du du du du Mama Verstappen or is it too soon? 👀👀👀👀
After three GPs of slowly escalating chaos, Toto made the worst decision possible:
“George, take Kimi for a team-building exercise. Something calm. Low-stress.” The team around them nodded in agreement. “Make sure he spends time with you and sees you as the main mentor.”
They chose the factory test track.
Low-speed.
Safe.
Private.
McLaren somehow found out and sent Oscar and Lando to “observe.” They arrived with foldable chairs, a mini fridge and a suitcase of snacks.
Ferrari sent Charles and Lewis “to support the rookie.” Lewis was live streaming everything with “Du du du du Mama Verstappen” in the background played by Charles from the speaker. The Monegasque driver snapped pictures of everyone and started writing down bets.
Red Bull sent half their strategy team and Max, who claimed he was “just curious” but was running around Kimi since he saw him and even hissed at George when the Brit tried to interfere.
Within an hour, there were 22 people around a private track meant for two.
Vasseur, who was dragged to the track by Charles, stood with arms crossed, deeply unimpressed but amused and curious.
“I thought this was supposed to be low stress,” he said.
“It IS low stress,” Charles insisted with an evil grin.
Lando pointed at Max already buckling Kimi’s belt:
“Yeah, mate, nothing says low stress like Mama Verstappen acting like a helicopter parent.”
Max stood back with narrowed eyes, the blue colour shining for a second gold. “Safety is important.”
George groaned. “He’s not your— oh never mind.”
George took a deep breath and slid into the passenger seat. Max was pacing close, his arms crossed and he was biting nails from his left hand.
“Kimi, this is simple. Slow. No sudden movements. The car is yours to control.”
Kimi nodded intensely.
Fernando next to Laurent, arms crossed like proud grandparents. Both in designer clothes and sun reflecting from their watches.
Charles was filming along Lewis, who fully embraced his part-time influencing job.
Carlos was whispering prayers while drinking a frozen yoghurt given to him by Oscar from their fridge.
“Okay,” George continued, “let’s imagine that you’re driving along and someone walks out into the road. What do you hit?”
Kimi narrowed his eyes and looked at George curiously.
“But who would walk onto the track when we drive?”
George groaned and rubbed his face. “I don’t know! Max arguing with Horner or Jos, whatever!”
Half the paddock leaned forward.
Kimi didn’t hesitate this time.
“I’d slide and hit both Jos and Horner. I would never hit Mama. Silly Papa.”
Max froze and his mouth fell open.
“...Mama?”
George put his head in his hands.
“The brakes, Kimi. You hit the brakes.” Then his head snapped up. “Wait, PAPA?!”
Toto, standing behind the rest, sipped his coffee calmly and added:
“I would also run Jos and Christian over.”
The entire paddock erupted.
Max turned bright red, George looked like he had a seizure.
Laurent was smiling evilly and sending the video to the SM unit. Make sure we use it wisely he wrote and send extra photos of Max having a breakdown and George paling like a Victorian child during plague.
Chapter 4 of Batman The Wife of Superman: Bruce Wayne The Husband of Clark Kent
Area 51 raid and CheeseFuel merch...?
The Nevada desert glowed under floodlights and phone screens.
Thousands of people had gathered, half in cosplay, half in conspiracy. Someone blasted the X-Files theme from a truck bed. Someone else wore a sign that said
“FREE THE ALIENS (OR WHATEVER).”
At the front of it all stood Lex Luthor, megaphone in hand, voice booming with the confidence of a man who thought this would get him elected.
“Citizens of Earth!” he shouted. “Tonight, we stand united against alien deception! We’ll uncover the truth! We’ll protect our world—together!”
In reality, it wasn’t about aliens. Lex didn’t believe in them.
He believed in approval ratings.
The crowd roared. Hashtags trended. Drones circled.
Lex smiled for the cameras, soaking it in—until the desert began to rumble.
The sound was low, mechanical, and hungry.
Headlights cut through the sand. The Batmobile tore through the mob, scattering glowsticks and cheap alien masks like confetti.
When it stopped, the crowd fell completely silent.
The cockpit opened.
And Batman stepped out.
No one moved. No one breathed.
He looked less like a man and more like the warning before an execution — armored, silent, and carved from shadow.
His voice came out low, metallic, and final:
“Absolutely none of you are invading Area 51.”
Someone whimpered. A drone fell out of the sky.
“It’s reckless,” Batman continued, “illegal… and idiotic.”
Red Hood, perched on a Jeep, muttered, “He said the thing.”
Nightwing groaned. “I told you we should’ve come in disguise.”
Robin crossed his arms. “Father is the disguise.”
Batgirl sighed. “Luthor’s about to make this worse. Ten bucks says it.”
She was right.
Lex raised his megaphone again, voice smug and righteous.
“Oh, spare me the lecture, Batsy. I’m doing what you won’t — protecting humanity from extraterrestrial manipulation. You’ve got your alien boyfriend in Metropolis. You have one, let us deal with the rest!”
The crowd gasped, delighted.
Batman turned toward him, slow and silent. The white lenses narrowed, and for the first time all night, Lex hesitated.
“...excuse me?” Batman said, soft but dangerous — like thunder before a storm.
Lex’s grin faltered. “I said—”
Batman was suddenly there, close enough that the megaphone cracked in Lex’s grip.
“Finish that sentence,” Batman growled. “I dare you.”
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
And then—
A sonic boom split the silence. Dust rose.
Superman landed in the middle of the mob, cape bright against the dark. The crowd lost its mind.
“Evening, everyone,” Clark said carefully, smiling that diplomatic smile. “I heard there was a gathering?”
Phones went up. People screamed questions all at once:
“SUPERMAN, ARE YOU HIDING ALIENS HERE?!”
“DOES KRYPTON HAVE WIFI?!”
“CAN YOU TURN INTO A GREEN ELF?!”
“IS 7/11 CHEESE A ROCKET FUEL?!”
That last one came from a man proudly holding a bag of melted nacho cheese like it was the Ark of the Covenant.
Clark blinked. Then turned his head slightly — toward Batman.
Batman didn’t move. Just looked back, silent. The kind of look that said: Handle it.
Clark cleared his throat.
“No, cheese is not a viable rocket fuel,” he said patiently. “And… please don’t try to make it one.”
A new voice shouted, “WHAT ABOUT SLURPEE FUEL?!”
Batman’s jaw tightened.
The crowd started chanting “CHEESE! CHEESE! CHEESE!”
Lex stared, completely horrified. This wasn’t how he’d imagined it.
He’d wanted headlines about heroism, not hashtag cheese fuel.
“You see?” Lex tried, desperately. “They don’t want the truth! They’ve been pacified by alien lies!”
Batman turned back to him slowly, cape shifting like a living shadow.
“You’ve got five seconds to stop talking,” he said. “Or I’ll make sure you deliver your next speech from a holding cell.”
Lex laughed weakly. “You wouldn’t dare—”
He stopped when Batman stepped closer — not fast, just deliberate. A predator closing in.
The crowd actually moved back.
Even Superman’s polite smile faded into concern. “Bruce,” he warned softly.
Batman didn’t look away from Lex. “Luthor knows what he’s doing,” he said. “He’s trying to weaponize ignorance.”
“WEAPONIZE CHEESE!” someone yelled helpfully.
Lex’s eye twitched. He looked from Batman to Superman to the crowd — who were now asking if aliens could “breathe in soup.”
Finally, the façade cracked. “You know what?” Lex said, lowering the mangled megaphone. “Take me. Take me anywhere. Just get me away from this.”
Two soldiers didn’t hesitate. They moved in, leading him off while the Batkids watched.
Nightwing smirked. “He lasted longer than I thought.”
Red Hood chuckled. “Cheese broke him. It always does.”
Robin tilted his head. “Humiliation is an effective deterrent.”
Batgirl grinned. “Bet Bruce didn’t even need to threaten him.”
Superman exhaled, hands on his hips, watching the crowd swarm again with new nonsense.
“Okay,” he said under his breath, “what now?”
He turned, looking to Batman for direction — that wordless, unspoken question.
Batman’s eyes flicked to the crowd, then back to Clark.
A single, sharp nod. Handle it.
Clark sighed. “Right.”
He turned back to the mob, who were now chanting, “DOES BATMAN SLEEP IN A UFO?!”
“Folks,” Superman began, “let’s all take a deep breath—”
“CAN WE SEE YOUR UFO?!”
Batman didn’t even turn around as he walked toward the Batmobile. “You’re cleaning this up.”
Clark half-glared at him with a gasp. “You’re really just leaving me here?”
Batman paused by the car door, cape whipping in the wind. “You attract them, Clark. You deal with them.”
And with that, he was gone — swallowed by the desert shadows.
Superman stood alone in the chaos.
A reporter yelled, “SUPERMAN, IS IT TRUE THAT ALIENS INVENTED TIKTOK?!”
Clark sighed, already missing Gotham’s criminals.
He glanced once more at the empty darkness where Batman had vanished with a sad longing —
Then back at the chanting crowd.
“...We're moving to Krypton,” he muttered.
Trending on X — 2 Hours Later
🔥 #CheeseFuel — 3.8M posts
🦇 #BatIntervention — 2.2M posts
🧑🚀 #AlienBoyfriend — 1.6M posts
🛸 #FreeTheAliens — 1.4M posts
💥 #LexLosesItLive — 1.2M posts
@Area51TruthSeeker:
So Batman literally drove through a crowd to stop people from storming Area 51??
I guess “reckless and illegal” means nothing to him either 😂 #BatLogic
@LoisLaneReports:
Superman asked the public not to use nacho cheese as rocket fuel tonight.
We live in history. #NevadaIncident
@MetropolisMom:
I showed my kids the footage. Now they think cheese is kryptonite. Thanks, Internet.
@LuthorForAmerica:
Lex was trying to warn us about alien interference.
Wake up — the cape is controlling the narrative. #AlienBoyfriend
@Gothamite94:
Batman didn’t even arrest Luthor.
He just… stared until the man gave up.
Peak intimidation. #BatIntervention
TIKTOK, AKA THE CHAOS APP
@Area51DancerGirl:
dancing under strobe lights with “X-Files Theme Remix”
“Me trying to vibe while Batman says I’m ‘reckless and idiotic.’”
Caption: “He didn’t have to be RIGHT 😭”
@SuperStan69:
Superman landing edit with dramatic music
“POV: your alien boyfriend shows up to the riot you started.”
#AlienBoyfriend #CheeseFuel
@TheRealCheeseFuelGuy (verified):
Holding a can of nacho cheese.
“Superman said no… but science never stops.”
(a lighter ignites off-screen)
Video cuts out.
@LexLuthorPR:
“Luthor was set up. Batman and Superman are suppressing human innovation.
They FEAR free thinkers. They FEAR the truth.”
Comments:
> “Bro you got escorted off stage.”
“You cried when they chanted cheese.”
“Take the L(uthor).”
REDDIT
r/MetropolisMemes
Thread: “So... is Superman like… half human now?? He’s too chill about cheese.”
> u/FlightRisk77: He’s just patient. That’s alien for “disappointed dad.”
u/BatSignalStan: Meanwhile Batman left mid-crisis. Classic.
u/ConspiracyCasserole: Batman’s just jealous Superman’s cape has better aerodynamics.
u/RedHoodedTheory: Plot twist — Batman is the alien.
r/GothamSh*tposts
Title: “When your dad says you can’t invade Area 51.”
Image: Batman pointing sternly, Superman sighing beside him.
Caption: “Grounded by Justice.”
Top comment:
> u/Nightwinged: Bro, Superman looks like he’s one bad chant away from moving planets.
YOUTUBE REACTIONS
Channel: TruthTrekkerTV
Video Title: “LEX LUTHOR: HERO OR HYSTERIA? (feat. psychic cat)”
> “Tonight we analyze the body language of Superman — does his cape move on its own?”
Channel: TheBatWatch
Video Title: “Batman Scares Billionaire LIVE – BEST MOMENT 4K (you can hear Luthor’s soul leave)”
> “Rewatch the moment Batman leans in like an IRS audit with a cape.”
Channel: ScienceWithSteve
Video Title: “Could Cheese Actually Be Rocket Fuel?”
> (He tries it. It fails. Badly.)
Comment pinned by Superman’s official account:
“Please don’t.” — @SupermanOfficial
@TheDailyPlanet (verified):
Metropolis authorities confirm Lex Luthor has been taken into “voluntary custody.”
Superman declined to comment, except to say, “No one was abducted. Please go home.”
@GothamPD:
We are not responsible for Batman’s travel choices. Please stop asking.
@NASA:
We will not be accepting cheese samples at this time. Thank you.
@DCLeaksHQ:
Freeze-frame at 12:37 — Superman clearly looks at Batman before acting.
He doesn’t move until Batman nods.
We’re calling this… The BatSignal Dynamic.
@ShipItStan:
You’re telling me the strongest being on Earth waits for Batman’s approval???
That’s love. #BatSup #TheLook
@AlienRightsNow:
No, that’s PROOF Batman is the real leader of the “Hero Industrial Complex.”
Think about it.
@EmilyBennetReports:
Or — and stay with me here — Superman looked at his teammate for backup in a chaotic crowd.
Internet: “They’re married.”🙃
@BatStan9000:
Superman’s like, “Can I laser the crowd?”
Batman’s like, “No.”
Dynamic duo energy.
TikTok Compilation — “THE LOOK Analysis (Multi-angle)”
@SuperSymmetry:
Slow zoom on Superman turning his head toward Batman, set to dramatic piano music.
Caption: “He only breathes when the Bat allows it.” 😭💔
#TheLook #BatSup
@ConspiracyCasserole:
“Okay but notice how Batman doesn’t even TALK — he just NODS.
That’s not friendship. That’s TRAINING.”
(Cut to grainy footage of pigeons following a man with breadcrumbs)
@EmoEditz:
Superman: “What now?”
Batman: nods once
Me: crying in emotional orchestral remix
🎵 “Say something, I’m giving up on you…” 🎵
REDDIT
MetaHumanDrama
Thread: “Who’s REALLY in charge of the Justice League?”
(Posted 8 hours ago by u/SuperWatcher, 22.4k upvotes, 5.1k comments)
u/SuperWatcher:
Superman waits for Batman’s cue before doing anything.
Go rewatch the Nevada footage. He lands, scans the crowd, then turns to Batman.
He doesn’t even speak until the Bat nods.
Tell me that’s not command hierarchy.
u/BatApologist:
It’s not hierarchy. It’s trust. Batman runs strategy, Superman runs support.
Think quarterback and coach, not master and sidekick.
u/SunSpotStan:
Actually? That’s not even strategy. That’s years of partnership condensed into a look.
They’ve fought gods together. One nod = a paragraph of communication.
That’s poetry, babes.
u/ConspiracyCasserole:
Coach??? Batman doesn’t even smile.
That’s not coaching — that’s conditioning.
He’s got Superman on a psychological leash. Probably cheese-based.
u/NightWinged (mod):
Cheese talk = instant ban.
We’ve been over this since the Nevada meltdown.
u/ShipItStan:
Call me delusional but the tension in that glance?
The micro-tilt of Superman’s jaw? The soft exhale?
He only breathes when the Bat allows it 😭😭😭
#BatSup #TheLook #SpaceAndShadow
u/SunSpotStan:
Okay but the way Superman visibly relaxes after the nod? That’s emotional regulation, not obedience.
He literally trusts Batman to center him. That’s beautiful.
u/AlienRightz:
Beautiful?? That’s alien submission.
He’s following Earth authority like we’re his babysitters. Open your eyes.
u/NightWinged(moderator):
Reminder: thirst is not analysis.
Also, stop tagging your fan edits as “documentary footage.”
u/KryptoFan:
Y’all are making it weird.
Also me, watching frame-by-frame at 3AM:
👁️👄👁️ “...they definitely love each other.”
u/UniversalTheory:
The way Superman’s shoulders drop a little after Batman nods?
That’s relief. Like, “Dad said it’s okay.”
I’m gonna throw up (affectionate).
u/BatDadVibes:
Or maybe — and I know this is wild — Batman’s the only one he can trust to make a call under pressure.
You’d look at him too if you were surrounded by screaming cheese people.
u/MartianMain:
Bro said “cheese people” like it’s normal now 💀
u/TheRealLuthor:
Fun fact: This exact dynamic is why I should’ve been in charge.
Superman needs structure, and Batman’s too emotional to provide it.
— Lex
u/AutoModerator:
This comment has been removed for suspected impersonation of a public figure.
u/NightWinged(moderator):
Okay, listen. We’re locking this if y’all keep writing Wattpad in the comments.
u/ShipItStan:
Everyone’s missing the point. It’s not about power — it’s about connection.
That nod? That was twenty years of trust condensed into one millisecond of eye contact.
It’s platonic… but also not. #TheLook
u/CapeWatch42:
I was there. You could feel it in the air — the moment Batman nodded, Superman stood taller.
It was like gravity changed.
u/ConspiracyCasserole:
Exactly. Gravitational field manipulation. Told you it’s brainwashing.
u/JusticeLeagueHR:
Can we not psychoanalyze workplace interactions between two guys trying to stop a riot?
u/MetaMemer:
No, because I just made a meme where Batman’s nod has 12 different subtitles.
So far my favorite is “When your manager finally approves your time-off request.”
u/BatMom69:
I like the one where the nod says “Good boy.”
u/RedHoodedTheory:
WHO TF LET MY MOM ON REDDIT
u/ModeratorNote:
This thread has been locked for:
Excessive thirst
Overuse of heart emojis
37 unsolicited fanfics in replies
Cheese-related discourse
And one (1) user attempting to sell “The Look”
candles
YOUTUBE
Channel: HeroDynamics
Title: “The Nod That Shook The Internet: Leadership or Leash?”
> “Tonight, we break down the now-infamous moment where Superman waits for Batman’s cue.
Is this hierarchy… or hesitation?”
(Cut to 37-second loop of the nod, slowed to 0.25x speed.)
Channel: CouplesEditZone:
Title: “He Looks At Him Like He’s The Mission.”
(Montage of Superman and Batman fighting side by side to the song ‘All of Me’)
Comments:
> “The tension is criminal.”
“Even Lex ships it now.”
“I can’t believe Batman’s love language is tactical nods.”
@JusticeLeague:
“That was teamwork. Please stop tagging Superbat in romance edits.”
@Batman:
“No comment.”
@LexLuthor:
“Wake up, humanity. You’re writing fanfiction while aliens take over your planet.”
Chapter 3 of Batman The Wife of Superman: Bruce Wayne The Husband of Clark Kent
Bruce Wayne had faced it all: Gotham’s worst criminals, cosmic threats, PR disasters… but this? This felt like stepping into a hurricane wearing a tuxedo—mostly domestic, entirely unavoidable, and wrapped in Clark Kent’s relentless sunshine.
He strode into the monitor room, datapad clutched like a weapon. “Clark.”
Clark didn’t look up at once. “Morning, Bruce.” His voice… warm. Rich. Musical in a way that made Bruce’s chest tighten. Damn spell.
Bruce’s tone was calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that was practically a scalpel slicing through pretense. “Care to explain why I’m trending… again?”
Finally, Clark pivoted in his chair, leaning back like he had all the time in the world. The fondness in his gaze made Bruce want to grind his teeth down to dust. “They asked if I was gay.”
Bruce froze mid-breath. “And your answer?”
Clark’s soft smile never faltered. “I told the truth.”
Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “…Which truth?”
Shrug. Gentle, almost lazy. “I’m not gay… but my husband is.”
Silence that could be sharpened and sold as a weapon.
Barry wheezed behind them. “Oh no, they’re doing it again!” Zooming in on his phone, triumphant. “#MyHusbandIs is back on top, right above #BrucieAndClark. The memes… they’re art.”
Diana stifled a laugh, elegant and precise. “Clark, Bruce spent three weeks trying to stabilize his board after the last viral fiasco.”
Clark’s gaze softened, exclusively on Bruce, voice gentle enough to make the Dark Knight forget every battle scar. “You worry too much, Bruce. It’s just a funny answer. And you looked… so handsome on the monitor when I said it.”
Bruce glared, steel-forged, though the heat in Clark’s eyes dulled it. “Out.”
Clark’s smile widened just a fraction. “You almost smiled, though.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “…Barely counts.”
“Still counts,” Clark murmured, eyes sparkling.
Social Media Frenzy — Midday
While the Watchtower and Gotham buzzed, civilians were combusting online over Bruce and Clark’s latest public “moment.”
@GothamTrendWatcher: “BRUCE AND CLARK ARE BACK. They literally smiled at each other during the press panel and I’m dead. #BrucieAndClarkForever”
@MetropolisObserver: “If they don’t show up to the gala together next week, I will personally riot. #PowerCoupleGoals #BrucieAndClark”
@CoffeeAndStocks: “Okay but Bruce buying Clark that ridiculous tie? ENGAGEMENT ENERGY. I feel it in my soul. #MyHusbandIs #BrucieAndClark”
@TheConspiracyLedger: “What if their wedding is secretly happening THIS WEEKEND? I’ve got spreadsheets. They’re too perfect. #BrucieAndClark #WeddingTheories”
@FashionablyLateGothamite: “Bruce looked SO annoyed about the viral stuff but you could see the soft side. Like he wants Clark to laugh at him. I’m crying. #SoftWayne #BrucieAndClark”
@MetropolisCoffeeAddict: “Clark doesn’t even try to hide his fondness. He just casually teases Bruce in public and Bruce dies a little inside. #MyHusbandIs #RelationshipGoals”
@GothamStreetScribe: “Plot twist theories: 1) Their wedding is a black-tie affair at some private estate. 2) Bruce will over-plan everything. 3) Clark will look effortlessly perfect anyway. Canon. #BrucieAndClark #OTP”
@RandomCitizenGotham: “Whoever designed that interview backdrop knew EXACTLY how to make them look like the couple. My heart. #BrucieAndClark #TrendingForever”
Every notification Bruce glimpsed made his jaw tighten. Half irritation, half… something else he refused to acknowledge. Clark, meanwhile, quietly nudged him like a reminder: See? They’re obsessed with us.
Bruce muttered, trying to maintain dignity. “I should… block them all.”
Clark leaned closer, voice soft, teasing. “You’d miss it too much. Admit it.”
Bruce gave him a look that was both glare and reluctant surrender. “…Barely counts.”
Clark’s smile widened. “Still counts.”
Gotham Streets — Afternoon
The younger Bat-family had already begun their subtle anarchy.
Tim scrolled, never missing a trend. “Statistically, Bruce Wayne’s public approval has spiked 23% since the hashtag. Apparently, the world prefers Soft Bruce over Brooding Bruce.”
Damian scoffed, indignation practically vibrating. “Preposterous. Father should be feared, not… adored like a golden retriever.”
Dick leaned lazily against the railing, smirking. “Relax, kid. He’s letting go of control. That’s the real danger. Watch.”
Clark had followed Bruce, moving quietly, almost tenderly. A gentle nudge. A soft reminder. He whispered: “Your scowl doesn’t work when your eyes are smiling. You’re enjoying this chaos, Bruce. It makes you… human.”
Bruce muttered, voice clipped, grumbling with the weight of unspoken surrender. “You’re insufferable. And you’re ruining my boardroom reputation.”
Clark shrugged, grin unwavering. “And still lovable. Package deal.”
Alfred greeted them at the door with his usual composed efficiency, taking Bruce’s coat.
“Master Wayne, I believe the rest of the family is in the sitting room if you'd like to join them.”
Clark’s phone buzzed just as they walked into the sitting room. He sat in the armchair and glanced down, cheerful. “Hi, Mama!”
Martha Kent’s face filled the screen, and her voice exploded through the speakers.
“CLARK JOSEPH! Nobody tells me anything! I’ve been waiting for you to call, and you just… didn’t! You married someone? Without your mother there? For HOW LONG?!”
Clark winced slightly, but his soft smile remained as he glanced at Bruce, whose jaw had already tightened into something resembling steel.
Bruce muttered, “…I thought this day couldn’t get worse.”
Martha continued, undeterred. “And who is this new son-in-law of mine? And what about my grandsons? I want to know EVERYTHING! Their favorite foods, their favorite colors, what makes them happy! NOW!”
She barked questions at the boys, who froze. Tim, Damian, and Dick exchanged glances, caught between amusement and panic.
Clark tried to calm the storm. “Mama, slow down—”
“No! I will not slow down! I am catching up!” Martha exclaimed. She turned her attention to the boys. “Tim, Damian, Dick, what is your favorite flavor of pie?!”
Before anyone could answer, Jason appeared in the doorway, hoodie on, casually holding takeout.
Martha’s scream could have shattered glass. “Is that...?!”
Jason froze, blinking. “Uh… hi?”
“ONE MORE GRANDSON FOR ME? You’re alive?! Oh my stars! And… what’s your favorite flavor of pie? What sweater do you want? I swear I’m gonna feed you until you can’t move when I get there!”
Jason looked at Bruce, confused. “I… I didn’t—”
Bruce’s glare could have cut diamonds, softened only by Clark’s warm presence at his side. He muttered, “…It barely counts as a domestic disaster when Martha Kent goes full tornado.”
Clark whispered to Bruce: “She’s in love with all of us. See? Even Jason.”
Martha continued, nearly bouncing with excitement. “Ya know what, darlin’? I’m buying the tickets now! And you wait—everybody, mark my words, we’re celebrating properly!” She hung up, leaving the house vibrating with residual maternal energy.
Everyone froze, stunned. Except Alfred.
“Very well,” he said, calm and unruffled. “I shall prepare the bedroom for Mrs. and Mr. Kent.”
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, defeated. “I… think I need a drink.”
Clark leaned in, voice low and soft, grinning. “Still counts, Brucie. All of it still counts.”
By late afternoon, the fair had turned into a fandom event.
Couples were reenacting the churro bite. Someone set up a booth selling “Tie and Glasses Churros” shaped like little glasses and ties dusted with powdered sugar in many colours.
A group of teens carried a handmade sign: “Kiss for the Camera, Mr. Wayne!”
Every phone camera pointed hopefully toward the crowd.
A vendor grinned at a couple holding hands. “You lookin’ for ‘em too?”
“Yeah,” the woman said, laughing. “If I spot them again, I’m proposing for them.”
By evening, local news aired a segment titled “The Sweetest Bite: How a Churro Broke the Internet.”
Gotham, That Night
At a diner in the Narrows, a group of night-shift workers huddled around a cracked phone.
“Bruce Wayne? The Grumpy of Gotham? Smiling?” one said.
Another chuckled. “Clark Kent must have magic sugar.”
A tired waitress sighed happily. “Good for him. Maybe Gotham needed to see that even the scary ones can be soft.”
Someone at the counter added, “If that’s Batman, maybe there’s hope for the rest of us.”
Harley Quinn tossed her phone onto Ivy’s lap, squealing. “Look at this, Red! Brucie's out there lettin’ his sunshine boyfriend hand-feed him churros like they’re in some Lifetime romcom!”
Ivy scrolled. “Mm. He looks… peaceful.”
“I’ll say! My ex never even shared fries! All I ever got was gaslighting and exploding pies.”
“Joker doesn’t exactly scream ‘acts of service,’ Harley,” Ivy said dryly.
Harley grinned, dreamy. “But look at this! Batsy’s got that lovesick stare goin’. I ain’t even mad. I’m rootin’ for ‘em. Hashtag: #LoveAndChurro.”
Ivy smiled faintly. “They deserve it. Gotham could use a softer headline for once.”
Fan-Cam Chaos
@BlarkSightings
🗺️ MAP UPDATE!
Metropolis: Churro stand, confirmed sighting.
Gotham: Wayne Tower, maybe??
If you see them in the wild, REPORT WITH PHOTOS. #FindTheChurroCouple 🍩
@TikTokUser142
🎶 “Can’t Help Falling in Love” plays over slow-mo footage of Bruce smiling at Clark 🎶
Caption: “He’s no longer vengeance. He’s domestic.”
@AO3Updates
Top trending tag: Blark - Churro Incident (Canon Compliant)
@CosmicNews
Gotham stock up 0.7%. The “Churro Effect” confirmed.
Wayne Manor, That Evening
By the time they returned home, Bruce’s phone was a warzone of notifications.
Clark lounged on the couch with Damian, both sipping Alfred’s cocoa.
“They’ve got a fan-tracking map,” Clark said. “You’re trending above LexCorp’s stock crash.”
Bruce sank beside him. “Terrifying.”
Alfred entered with tea, eyes amused. “The general consensus, sir, is that it’s rather endearing.”
“Endearing isn’t my preferred descriptor,” Bruce muttered.
“Perhaps it should be,” Alfred said gently. “You haven’t looked that content in a long while.”
Jason, from the corner: “You realize you’re like, internet darlings now, right? They’re calling you Dadcore Power Couple.”
Tim didn’t look up from his phone. “Someone made a 12-minute compilation of every time you’ve ever smiled at Clark.”
Damian sighed. “This city has lost its collective mind.”
Clark leaned close. “At least they’re rooting for us.”
Bruce’s eyes softened, a smile ghosting his mouth. “That’s new.”
Alfred set a hand briefly on his shoulder. “It’s good new, Master Bruce.”
Later
The rest of the world kept watching for more moments — but at Wayne Manor, it was quiet.
Damian fell asleep curled against Bruce, and Clark crouched beside the chair.
“You know,” Clark murmured, “the fans think you’re the soft one.”
Bruce gave a low, genuine laugh. “Then they’ve never met you before coffee.”
Clark grinned. “Barely counts?”
“Barely still counts.”
From the doorway, Alfred smiled quietly — the kind of smile that said he’d seen this coming for years.
And somewhere out there, the hashtag #BarelyCounts hit one million posts.
17th August, 2023 - A month after Churro Feeding
Bruce was running late. Again.
Clark stood beside Damian near a food stall lined with paper lanterns, scanning the crowd.
Damian scowled. “He said five minutes. It’s been seventeen.”
Clark smiled faintly. “Your father’s sense of time is… interpretive.”
“I’m hungry,” Damian muttered, crossing his arms. “If he’s going to make us wait, I’m getting dumplings.”
Clark chuckled. “Good plan, kiddo.” He handed over a few bills to the vendor. “Two orders, please.”
The vendor blinked. “Wait—you’re Clark Kent, right? From the Daily Planet?”
Clark nodded politely.
The woman’s eyes flicked to Damian, who was already spearing a dumpling with fierce focus. “And this must be your son?”
Clark hesitated for half a second, then smiled. “He’s our son, actually.”
From behind the stall, a teenager gasped. “Oh my god, you’re his husband? The Bruce Wayne husband?!”
Damian nearly choked on his dumpling. Clark’s ears went pink. “Uh—well, he does answer to that sometimes,” he said lightly.
A group of people nearby turned, whispering excitedly. Someone started filming.
“Mr. Kent! Over here! Can we get a comment about your family?”
Clark waved them off with a sheepish grin. “Just grabbing dinner before my husband gets here.”
Phones clicked. The crowd melted down.
🕊️ @MetropolisMoments
📸 Clark Kent spotted at Metropolis Food Festival with Damian Wayne — calling Bruce Wayne his husband! 🍜💍
#HusbandGate #ChurroGateSequel #WayneKentFamily
@DailyPlanetStan
HE SAID “MY HUSBAND.” HE SAID IT. PUBLICLY. WITH CHOPSTICKS.
@LoisLane_DP (verified)
Yup. He says it all the time. You people just don’t listen. 🙄
@GothamGossipQueen
This is the softest scandal Gotham has ever had. Where’s the brooding? Where’s the rooftop glower?
@MetropolisFanclub
Honestly? Clark calling Bruce “husband” like it’s a grocery list item is peak domestic power move.
@SmallvilleFarmKidFan
The way Damian just vibes with Clark… that’s real. That’s family.
@CyborgVic
#HusbandGate trending in 47 countries. Gotham and Metropolis have officially lost chill.
@BarryFromTheMidwest
You could hear the serotonin in Clark’s voice.
@FanficArchivist
AO3’s down again. Thanks, journalists-and-billionaires romance nation.
@CassC_Kicks
Damian looked relaxed. That’s the first time in, like, ever.
@JasonTdBooks
Kent called him husband and fed the kid dumplings. That’s not PR. That’s commitment.
@TimDrakeTech
Data: Bruce Wayne’s “public approval sentiment” up 23%. Hypothesis: dumplings fix billionaires.
The Fandom Spiral
@SuperNation
He called him husband with his whole chest. 😭💍
@BatFamSimps
This isn’t gossip. This is a rom-com in real time.
@ShippingJournal
From #ChurroGate to #HusbandGate — they’re accidentally writing fanfiction with their lives.
@SoftGothamite
Clark Kent holding Damian’s hand while waiting for Bruce Wayne >>> everything else happening today.
@BarelyCountsEdits
🎥 Fan edit: Clark saying “my husband” in slow motion, Damian smiling, soft piano track.
2.3M views in 3 hours.
@FanCamCentral
Crowd behind them literally melting. Someone whispered “they’re canon again.”
Of Course, the Naysayers
@GothamTruthTalk
PR stunt. Billionaires don’t fall in love; they rebrand.
@NoCapedCrusaders
Clark Kent’s supposed to be a reporter, not a trophy spouse.
@LexCorpDefender
Lex Luthor never needed to flirt for attention. Just saying.
@CorporateRealist
This feels… orchestrated.
And the Defenders Came Swinging
@SuperDefenseSquad
They were literally just buying dumplings, bro. Touch daylight.
@KentCore
Imagine being mad that two people are happy and feeding a kid. Go outside.
@WayneWatchers
“Staged”? Bruce Wayne’s smiled three times in public in twenty years. That wasn’t acting.
@LoisLane_DP (verified)
Friendly reminder: Clark Kent could write circles around half of you and still be a great husband. Sit down.
@HarleyNRed (verified)
Look, as someone who used to date a total clown, lemme tell ya — this is what actual affection looks like. 🌹 Good for them.
@IvyIsQueen (verified)
Agree with my partner. Genuine connection. Gotham could use more of it. 🌿
@FanEditGenius
Not Harley and Ivy shipping them too 😭 we’ve crossed into multiverse levels of domesticity.
Batman The Wife of Superman: Bruce Wayne The Husband of Clark Kent
The Watchtower Med Bay
The hum of the med bay was steady, almost peaceful. It would have been a nice change of pace if Superman weren’t sitting shirtless on a diagnostic table, eyes glassy with magic and a dopey smile plastered on his face.
He was staring directly at Batman.
“Wife,” Clark said solemnly.
The room went silent.
Batman froze mid-motion, halfway through removing a gauntlet. “What.”
“Wife,” Clark repeated, softer this time, the corner of his mouth lifting. “Don’t worry, I’ll protect you.”
Flash made a strangled sound behind him. “Please tell me someone’s recording this.”
“I am,” Diana said serenely. “For… medical documentation.”
Bruce exhaled through his nose, patience already hanging by a thread. “He’s concussed.”
J’onn didn’t look up from the monitors. “He’s not concussed. Physically, he’s fine.”
“Then what’s wrong with him?”
“Magic,” Zatanna answered, stepping inside and brushing glitter off her gloves. “Specifically, a truth-amplification spell. He’ll say exactly what he feels until it wears off.”
Bruce went very still. “…Wonderful.”
Clark beamed. “You’re beautiful when you brood.”
Barry collapsed against a counter. “Oh, this is amazing.”
“Perhaps we should give them some privacy?” Diana offered.
“No,” said everyone but Bruce.
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. “Kent, you’re under magical influence. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Yes I do,” Clark said earnestly. “You’re my wife.”
He reached out, catching Batman’s gloved hand. His grip was steady, warm.
“Clark—”
“You’re always there,” Clark continued softly. “When I fall, when I fight, when I forget how to breathe. You patch me up, you growl about it, but you stay. Who else would do that for me?”
For a heartbeat, even the snickers stopped. Something unreadable flickered behind the cowl.
The automatic doors hissed open.
“—I’m telling you, Orm, surface food isn’t that bad,” Arthur’s voice carried in before he appeared. “You just haven’t tried tacos.”
Orm followed, already scowling. “You’ve been King of Atlantis for years and this is the culture you bring home? Fried shells and—” He stopped dead. “Why is Superman half-naked?”
Arthur blinked, taking in the scene. “Why’s Bats holding his hand like they just exchanged vows?”
“Because apparently we did,” Clark said dreamily. “Hi Arthur. Wife says I need rest.”
“Wife?” Orm repeated flatly.
Barry lost it again, doubled over. “You can’t make this up!”
Arthur folded his arms, grinning. “I miss one fight and suddenly you two are married?”
Diana’s smile was pure diplomacy. “It’s temporary magic.”
“Sure,” Arthur said. “Temporary. That’s what people say after Vegas too.”
Orm rolled his eyes. “The surface world never ceases to bewilder me.”
“Join the club,” Bruce muttered.
Clark tugged gently at his hand. “Wife, you’re scowling again. It’s okay, I’ll kiss it better.”
Bruce yanked his hand back. “You will not.”
Barry wheezed so hard the monitors beeped in protest.
Zatanna, fighting a grin, said, “The spell should fade in a few hours. Keep him calm, happy—avoid, uh, intense emotions.”
Arthur looked at Bruce. “So basically, impossible.”
“Noted,” Bruce said through gritted teeth.
Clark’s smile softened. “You worry too much, sweetheart.”
Arthur snorted. “Sweetheart? Oh, I’m never letting this go.”
Even Orm cracked a smirk. “Perhaps you should host the wedding banquet underwater. I’ll provide the sharks.”
Bruce turned away before anyone could see the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. “We’re done here.”
“Not yet,” J’onn said calmly. “He shouldn’t be left alone.”
“Fine,” Bruce muttered. “I’ll take him.”
Flash clapped his hands. “Road trip! Or… space trip? Whatever, can I come?”
“No,” said Bruce.
“Yes,” said Clark.
The door hissed shut on their bickering, leaving the League and the two Atlanteans grinning like it was the best show in town.
Arthur elbowed Orm. “Told you surface life’s entertaining.”
Orm sighed. “It’s chaos.”
Arthur grinned wider. “Exactly.”
The flight back to Earth should have been quiet. It wasn’t.
Clark sat in the passenger seat of the Bat-shuttle, chin propped in one hand, watching Bruce fly. Every time Bruce adjusted a control, Clark smiled like it was the most heroic thing he’d ever seen.
“Your concentration face,” Clark murmured, “is illegal in at least three galaxies.”
Bruce didn’t look over. “If you touch another switch, Kent, I’ll eject you.”
By the time the ship touched down at the manor, Bruce’s jaw could have cracked granite.
Inside Wayne Manor
Alfred met them at the door, as serene as ever. His eyes took in the sight—Superman trailing after Batman like a lovesick golden retriever—and he didn’t so much as blink.
“Welcome home, Master Bruce,” Alfred said. “And I see Mr. Kent has… sustained magical side effects?”
Bruce muttered, “That’s one way to put it.”
Clark leaned toward Alfred conspiratorially. “He’s shy about public affection.”
“I imagine, sir,” Alfred replied dryly, “that Master Bruce would prefer private affection remain hypothetical.”
From the staircase, a voice shouted, “Did he just say affection?”
Nightwing appeared first, grinning. Behind him came Red Hood with a bag of chips, Red Robin with a tablet, and Damian already looking unimpressed.
“What happened this time?” Jason asked, crunching loudly.
“Magic,” Bruce said shortly.
“Love spell,” Dick corrected cheerfully, catching Clark’s dopey smile. “Oh my God, you two are adorable.”
Damian crossed his arms. “Father is incapable of romance. This is clearly an attack.”
Clark knelt so he was eye-level with him. “Hey, Damian. Your dad’s very romantic when no one’s looking.”
The boy’s eyes widened in horror. “Lies.”
Jason nearly dropped the chips from laughing. “I love this spell.”
Bruce rubbed at his temples. “He needs to rest. And not talk.”
“Impossible,” Tim muttered. “He’s Superman.”
Clark pouted. “Wife says I talk too much.”
“You said wife,” Dick sing-songed. “Bruce, this is destiny!”
“Destiny’s grounded,” Bruce growled.
Alfred, utterly composed, gestured toward the sitting room. “I’ve prepared tea. Perhaps a quiet environment will shorten the spell’s duration.”
Clark brightened. “Tea with my in-laws! Perfect.”
Jason whispered to Dick, “He’s serious. He’s so serious.”
They managed to herd Clark into the sitting room. The Robins arrayed themselves like an audience. Alfred poured tea. Bruce stood near the fireplace, arms crossed, every inch the picture of someone who would rather face Doomsday again.
Clark, however, seemed perfectly at peace. He watched Bruce the way people watched sunsets—like something inevitable and quietly miraculous.
“You don’t have to hover,” Bruce said without turning.
“I like hovering,” Clark replied softly. “You smell like rain.”
Tim coughed into his cup. “Okay, that’s new.”
Bruce’s ears went faintly pink. “Kent, sit down.”
Clark sat—on the same armchair as Bruce, half in his lap.
Jason choked on tea. Dick took a photo. Damian muttered something about therapy bills.
Alfred merely refilled Bruce’s cup. “Sugar, sir?”
“Several,” Bruce said.
Clark leaned his head against his shoulder. “You pretend you don’t like this.”
Bruce didn’t answer. He didn’t move away, either.
The room fell into a companionable, incredulous silence until Alfred, as always, was the first to break it.
“Shall I prepare a guest room for Mr. Kent?”
Bruce started to refuse, but Clark murmured, “With you,” and the single word was so gentle it stopped him cold.
Alfred’s expression softened the barest fraction. “Perhaps the master suite then. Temporarily.”
Jason mouthed temporarily with exaggerated air quotes. Dick high-fived him.
Bruce stood. “Everyone out.”
Later
When the manor had gone quiet and the younger voices had retreated upstairs, Bruce found himself in his bedroom doorway. Clark sat on the edge of the bed, looking suddenly shy.
“The spell’s fading,” he said. “I can feel it.”
Bruce folded his arms. “Good.”
Clark smiled. “You sure? I might stop saying what I really feel.”
“That would be a relief.”
Clark stood, closing the distance between them. “You know what the first thing I’m going to say when it’s gone will be?”
Bruce’s breath caught despite himself. “…What?”
“Thank you,” Clark said simply. “For taking care of me. For not running when I was ridiculous.”
Bruce’s gaze softened. “You were impossible.”
“You didn’t leave.”
The silence stretched, warm and unspoken. Outside, the rain started to fall.
Bruce finally said, “Go to sleep, Kent.”
Clark grinned. “Yes, dear.”
Bruce almost smiled back. Almost.
12 hours later
Morning sunlight spilled through the tall windows of Wayne Manor, catching on polished wood and the faint steam from Alfred’s coffee tray.
The smell of pancakes had lured the entire household to the dining room—except Bruce, who had been up since four. He appeared finally, robe immaculate, expression unreadable.
Clark was already there.
Sitting at the table. Reading the paper. Wearing one of Bruce’s T-shirts.
“Morning, wife,” Clark said cheerfully without looking up.
Jason spit coffee across the table. “No way it didn’t wear off!”
Tim checked his watch. “It’s been twelve hours. Either the magic’s permanent or we’re living in a sitcom.”
Damian stared, horrified. “This house has fallen into madness.”
Nightwing just grinned into his orange juice. “I love domestic mornings.”
Bruce set down his mug with controlled precision. “Kent.”
Clark folded his paper, smile lazy and devastating. “Morning, Bruce.”
“You’re still under the spell.”
Clark tilted his head. “Or maybe Zatanna’s clock was off. You know magic—it’s unpredictable.”
“Unacceptable,” Damian muttered.
Jason smirked. “You kidding? This is amazing. I’m calling the League.”
“Do that,” Dick said. “They deserve the update.”
Tim was already typing on his tablet. “Group chat name suggestions? ‘Batspouse Live’?”
“Don’t you dare,” Bruce said sharply.
Clark chuckled, reached over, and—because he could—brushed a crumb off Bruce’s sleeve. “You have to eat, dear.”
Alfred slid a plate onto the table, unruffled as ever. “Breakfast, gentlemen. And if I might add, Mr. Kent, I believe the term ‘husband’ would be marginally more accurate.”
Bruce gave Alfred a look that could fell trees. Alfred only raised an eyebrow.
The comm on the table buzzed. Diana’s calm voice filtered through.
“Bruce, good morning. Just checking—how’s our patient?”
Jason hit the speaker before Bruce could stop him.
Clark leaned toward the mic. “Better, Princess. My husband’s taking good care of me.”
Flash’s laughter came immediately through the channel. “OH, IT STUCK? THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE.”
Aquaman’s voice followed. “Told you it’d be permanent. Orm owes me twenty shells.”
Zatanna sounded half-amused, half-apologetic. “Uh… so funny story. The spell might have… adapted to emotional truth. It’ll fade when his feelings do.”
Everyone turned toward Clark.
Clark smiled gently at Bruce. “Guess I’m stuck like this, then.”
Even Bruce had to look away for a second. “We’ll find a cure.”
“Take your time,” Clark said easily, “I’m not complaining.”
Jason stage-whispered, “Neither is he.”
“Out,” Bruce ordered, voice low but not quite fierce enough to convince anyone he meant it.
The boys took their time leaving, still snickering. Alfred gathered plates, calm as the tide.
When the room finally quieted, Bruce sat across from Clark, eyes narrowed. “You know this isn’t real.”
Clark shrugged. “Feels real.”
“Magic.”
“Maybe. Or maybe the magic just said it first.”
The words hung between them. Bruce sighed, long and quiet. Clark reached over again, fingers brushing Bruce’s hand this time, not gripping—just resting there.
“You don’t have to answer,” Clark said softly. “I just… meant what I said yesterday. All of it.”
Bruce didn’t move, didn’t pull away. “You’re impossible.”
Clark smiled. “Your problem now.”
From the doorway, Jason’s voice drifted in: “So… are we getting a second wedding breakfast or what?”
Bruce groaned. Clark laughed. Alfred sighed the sigh of a man too dignified for this household and went to fetch more coffee.
Metropolis, 3 days after the spell should've worn off
The day started normally enough at The Daily Planet. Perry White had coffee, Lois had deadlines, and Clark Kent had that quiet, serene look that usually meant he was about to cause problems.
“Smallville,” Lois said, dropping a folder on his desk, “you, Jimmy, and I are covering the grand opening of Gotham General’s new trauma wing. Don’t vaporize the press again.”
“I’ve only done that once,” Clark said mildly, straightening his tie.
Jimmy leaned over. “Wasn’t Bruce Wayne funding that?”
Clark’s expression brightened. “Oh, yes.”
Lois narrowed her eyes. “You sound suspiciously cheerful about that.”
“I’m always cheerful,” he said, which was true and everyone knew it.
Gotham General, later that day
The press area gleamed with cameras and polished chrome. Bruce Wayne was at the podium, every inch the billionaire philanthropist: calm, precise, unreadable.
Lois scribbled notes beside Clark. “Try not to disappear halfway through—”
She stopped when she noticed Clark wasn’t looking at the stage so much as smiling at it.
Bruce caught sight of him and, for a split second, his professional mask slipped—just a flicker of recognition, the barest hint of exasperation.
He mouthed, don’t.
Clark mouthed back, hi, wife.
Lois blinked. “Did you just—?”
Before she could finish, a reporter called, “Mr. Wayne! Any comments about your new partnership with Metropolis?”
Bruce nodded smoothly. “Yes, Wayne Enterprises is pleased to collaborate with the Planet—”
“—and my husband’s paper,” Clark said brightly. Into a live microphone.
The crowd stilled.
Bruce froze.
Lois stared. “Your what?”
Cameras flashed. Reporters erupted.
“Mr. Wayne, is this true?”
“When did you marry?”
“Inter-city power couple, how exciting!”
Bruce’s public-relations reflexes kicked in an instant too late. He managed, “No comment,” but Clark had already smiled that devastating, photo-ready smile and added, “We like to keep things private.”
Lois buried her face in her notes. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
Jimmy whispered, “This is gonna break the internet.”
On the stage, Bruce pressed two fingers to his temple, whispering under his breath, “I hate magic.”
Later, in the Batmobile
Bruce’s phone buzzed nonstop: Alfred, Dick, Hal, and Aquaman, all leaving congratulatory messages.
Clark sat in the passenger seat, utterly unrepentant. “Technically, I didn’t lie.”
Bruce shot him a sidelong look. “You called me your husband in front of six news outlets.”
Clark’s smile was soft. “You said not to call you wife. So, what’s the harm?”
Bruce exhaled, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you’re still driving me home,” Clark said.
Silence, comfortable this time, filled the car. Outside, Gotham’s skyline glittered with a thousand camera flashes already turning the rumor mill.
Bruce muttered, “I’m never living this down.”
Clark grinned. “At least you get a great headline.”
Daily Planet, that evening
The front page proof lay on Perry White’s desk:
“WAYNE AND KENT: POWER COUPLE FOR A BETTER FUTURE?”
Lois sighed. “You’re buying lunch for a month.”
Clark looked at the photo—himself and Bruce, mid-smile, caught in a frame that looked less like a mistake and more like fate. “Worth it.”
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