jason's child catching hips

SEMI HIATUS || Jayden/G || 21 || sometimes writes sometimes dont || any pronouns || Mιɢнт вe oɴe oғ тнe вιɢɢeѕт ѕιмpѕ тнαт ever eхιѕтѕ || MULTIFANDOM || This blog is certified chaotic at all times. Please proceed with caution ;) || MINORS DNI || requests: OPEN i need writting motivation to finish ATK- SEND THOUGHTS, HCS DRABBLES WHATEVER THE FUCK PLEASE👹

[dearlawdimasimp]

heyloo fellas!! I've decided to make a masterlist of the fics I've written so far! I am still pretty new and am learning on writting stories and they are mostly self indulgent so ehhh might not be your cup of tea but! if you are interested, you can check 'em out!! I will gladly accept comments, suggestions and requests are also open!! hit up my asks/inbox and lets talk ^-^ i will edit and update the links whenever i post a new fic💞

MAIN MASTERLIST

Alfred Molina

Moon Knight

[lettersunderthecrypt]

hiiii cutie!! may i request a batfamily x batmom!reader where theyre on a plane (i know he has his own but for story’s sake he uses public airlines) and encounter a really mean old lady who finds discomfort with the family for some reason or other and makes it reader’s problem until bruce comes back from talking with the pilot or restroom or wtv and the old lady sees this and immediately goes hush. i just think thatd be so funny

Please Secure Your Attitude for Takeoff

Pairing: Batfamily x Batmom!AFAB!Reader

Words: 4k

Content Warning: None!

A/N: Hiiii!! Finally getting through my request inbox, yay!

Enjoy, Reader

This was going to be a shitshow.

You knew it the moment you arrived with Bruce Wayne at the public airport with seven children, two garment bags, far too many carry-ons, and the serene, devastating confidence of a man who had never once been personally humbled by boarding group numbers, overhead bin politics, or the particular little purgatory of removing shoes while an entire security line breathed down the back of his neck.

He had said it would be fine, because Bruce always said things would be fine in that low, steady voice that made disaster sound like an administrative inconvenience waiting for his signature. 

The private jet was unavailable, which you strongly suspected meant one of the children had broken something expensive, another had attempted to hide the evidence badly, and Alfred had decided, with all the silent cruelty of a man who polished silverware like a verdict, that commercial air travel was the natural consequence. 

So Bruce had bought first-class tickets, guided everyone through the airport with one warm hand at the small of your back, and said, “It will be good for them.”

You had looked up at him beneath the harsh airport lights, surrounded by travelers, rolling luggage, crying toddlers, and the smell of burnt coffee. “For them?”

“For all of us,” Bruce had said, which was much worse.

“That sounds like something said immediately before a tragedy.”

“It’s only a few hours.”

That was only an hour ago. Now the plane hums around you, that strange hush that only happens in the air, all of you sealed inside a narrow metal body above the clouds, breathing the same cold, recycled air. The engines drone low and steady, interrupted by the occasional soft chime overhead. Sunlight presses in through the oval windows, pale and bright, turning the leather seats glossy and catching on the plastic cups scattered across tray tables. 

The cabin smells faintly of coffee, expensive perfume, warm electronics, and the sharp, artificial chill of pressurized air. Dick sits across the aisle, already adored by two flight attendants and a toddler with a dinosaur backpack. Dick Grayson could make polite eye contact with a vending machine and leave it feeling understood. 

Jason has a paperback open in one hand, but he looks less like he’s reading and more like he’s daring the entire concept of literature to pick a fight. Your heart pulls a little when you catch him checking, just once, to see if you noticed the title; one of the stray, silent ways he still asks for approval, as if old habits might let him believe he is only visiting home. 

Tim is behind you, laptop open, soul halfway gone, fighting sleep with the tragic dignity of a vigilante fighting bedtime. You remember the year you learned to make strong tea just the way he prefers, so he wouldn’t fade during finals. 

Cass has already taken the laptop before it can slide off the tray table, moving so quietly that Tim just blinks at his empty hands like a magician stole his future. She gives you a fleeting, conspiratorial smile, the kind she reserves only for family. 

Duke wears a travel pillow and watches the cabin with the mild amusement of someone waiting for the plot to thicken. On mornings when the world feels heavy, you still call him your little sun. 

Damian sits beside you, sketchbook open in his lap, drawing Titus in what looks like a cape and a small, deeply judgmental cowl. He leans a little into your shoulder as he draws, a closeness he pretends is absent, but you know is his version of trust.

Bruce had been seated on your other side until ten minutes after takeoff, when a flight attendant leaned down and murmured something about the captain wanting a word. His eyes had shifted in that subtle way you recognized, attention sharpening behind the mask of a polite billionaire, and he had touched your wrist before standing.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.

“You said that once and came back with a child.”

Jason coughed into his fist, and Dick suddenly became very interested in the safety card.

Bruce’s mouth barely twitched. “No more children.”

“Do you promise?”

“For the rest of the flight.”

“Romantic,” you said, and he brushed his thumb once over the inside of your wrist before disappearing toward the front galley, broad shoulders making the aisle look unfairly narrow as he moved past the curtain.

For approximately thirty seconds, there was peace.

Then the woman in 3C cleared her throat.

It was not an ordinary throat clear. It was a declaration of war wearing pearls, the sort of sound produced by someone who had been storing disapproval in her chest since boarding and had finally decided the cabin deserved access to it. You looked up and found her turned just enough in her seat to face you without fully committing to the indignity of twisting around.

 She was elderly, elegant, and stiff-backed, with a silver bob sprayed into submission, coral lipstick, a cream cardigan buttoned over a pale blouse, and a handbag resting in her lap like a judgmental pet. Her eyes swept across Damian’s sketchbook, Jason’s jacket, Tim’s half-dead posture, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s watchful amusement, Dick’s easy charm, and finally settled on you with the hard little satisfaction of a woman who had found the person she intended to make responsible for her discomfort.

You knew that look. You had seen versions of it in school offices, charity events, grocery stores, hospital waiting rooms, and once in a museum where Damian had been accused of “lurking with intent” beside a Monet. It was the look people gave when they saw your family and decided love had exceeded the legal occupancy limit.

You gave her your politest smile. “Can I help you?”

“I certainly hope so,” she said.

Damian’s pencil paused against the page.

Dick leaned slightly into the aisle with that bright, well-meaning expression that made strangers believe diplomacy might survive the century. “Is something wrong, ma’am?”

The woman glanced at him, seemed briefly inconvenienced by the power of his face, then recovered. “I was speaking to the mother.”

Jason turned a page without looking up. “Which one? We rotate emotional support adults.”

“Jason,” you murmured.

The woman’s lips pinched. “That is exactly what I mean.”

You folded your hands in your lap because if you gave them nothing respectable to do, one might drift toward Damian’s wrist in warning or Jason’s shoulder in preemptive damage control. “What do you mean?”

“The noise,” she said. “The whispering, the constant shifting, the atmosphere.”

Duke blinked. “The atmosphere?”

“Yes,” she said, as if he had personally released a weather system into first class.

The bleakest part is that no one had been loud. The Wayne children in public could be many things, but when they needed to, they went quiet. Not normal quiet. Dangerous quiet. Rooftop quiet. The kind of quiet that makes sensible people check the exits and wonder why their instincts have started ringing little silver bells.

“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” you said. “We’ll be mindful.”

“Mindful would have been arranging yourselves properly before boarding,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Children should not be scattered across the cabin like loose change.”

Jason’s eyes lifted over the top of his book.

The air changed almost imperceptibly, and a silk thread pulled tight. Dick’s smile stayed in place, but the warmth thinned at the edges. Cass’s gaze moved to the woman with calm precision. Duke straightened a little. Damian lowered his pencil, his mouth flattening into the expression he wore when deciding whether a person deserved mercy or a footnote.

“They’re in assigned seats,” you said.

“They’re practically surrounding people.”

“We do that,” Tim mumbled, still half-asleep. “Family tradition.”

Cass gently shut his laptop the rest of the way.

The woman stared at him. “Is he ill?”

“Sleep deprived,” Duke said. “Very tragic. Very Gotham.”

“Then perhaps he shouldn’t travel.”

Tim opened one eye. “I suggested cargo. Nobody listened.”

“Tim,” you said softly.

The woman seized on that tiny crack of chaos with visible satisfaction. “You see? Disrespectful. Dramatic. And that one looks as if he is about to start a fight.”

She pointed at Jason.

Jason looked down at himself, then around the cabin, as if searching for whatever violent criminal she could possibly mean. “Me?”

“You know it’s you,” Dick said quietly.

Jason placed one hand over his heart. “I’m reading Austen.”

“That does not comfort people the way you think it does,” Duke murmured.

The woman turned toward Damian next, apparently determined to catalog every offense by row and blood pressure. “And that one has been staring at me.”

Damian looked up slowly, and the temperature of the cabin seemed to drop by several degrees. “I have not. I have been drawing my dog.”

“You looked at me twice.”

“You were in my line of sight.”

“Damian,” you said.

His jaw tightened, but he looked back down. “Apologies.”

It sounded less like an apology and more like a royal pardon delivered under protest.

The woman clearly mistook your restraint for permission. Some people did that. They saw courtesy and decided it was an unlocked door; they saw motherhood and mistook softness for a public utility. “Large families like this always think the world should accommodate them,” she said, loudly enough now for the nearest passengers to hear, but not quite loudly enough to admit she wanted an audience.

“We paid for our seats too,” you replied.

“Yes, but you chose to bring this entire… assembly.”

Dick’s smile vanished.

It did not vanish dramatically. It simply left his face like a light being switched off.

“Assembly?” he repeated.

“Dick,” you murmured.

“I’m just checking the vocabulary.”

The woman looked at him, perhaps sensing for half a second that she had stepped onto a floorboard with teeth beneath it, but then her attention returned to you. You were always the safer battlefield. Bruce was too imposing, Jason too visibly unpleasant when provoked, Damian too sharp, Cass too unreadable, Tim too dangerous in proximity to electronics, Duke too watchful, and Dick too charming until he was suddenly not charming at all. 

But you looked like the mother, the soft one, the one expected to absorb the blow and turn it into an apology. And in truth, you were their stepmother. It was a title that knew how to wear armor and softness at the same time, and you had learned to hold both, whether the world recognized the difference or not.

“I understand wanting to give children opportunities,” she said, her voice sweet in the way spoiled milk might be sweet if it learned manners. “But some children simply aren’t suited for public spaces.”

Jason’s book closed.

Not loud. Loud would have been less threatening. He closes it with one finger still marking his place, slow and deliberate, and lifts his eyes.

“Careful,” he said.

The woman recoiled, one hand fluttering to her pearls. “Excuse me?”

You looked at him. “Jason.”

“What?” he said. “It’s good advice. Lots of sudden drops on planes.”

“We are not doing this.”

A flight attendant named Maribel appeared in the aisle with the cautious smile of a woman who had smelled smoke before the alarm had started screaming. “Is everything alright here?”

The old woman turned to her immediately. “I’m being harassed.”

Jason made a sound like his soul had tripped over furniture.

Dick leaned forward. “No, she isn’t.”

“She is,” Tim murmured. “Being disagreed with.”

“Not helpful,” Duke whispered.

Maribel looked between all of you with admirable professionalism. “Can you tell me what happened?”

“I asked this woman to control her children, and they became rude and threatening.”

“Threatening?” Dick asked, and the word came out quieter than before.

“That one told me to be careful.” She pointed at Jason again.

Jason lifted a hand. “General safety reminder.”

“Please stop helping,” you told him.

“I have never helped once in my life.”

“That’s true,” Dick said.

“Do not defend my character right now.”

The woman turned back to you. “Are you going to allow this?”

Your smile thinned. “I’ve allowed a lot less than you think.”

Her eyes narrowed.

“I’m sorry if you feel disturbed,” you said, and though your voice stayed calm, you could feel your patience fraying beneath it, thread by thread. “But my children have done nothing to you.”

The words changed the cabin.

My children.

They were simple words, but they settled over the rows with a weight that made several of the kids go quiet in a different way. Dick’s expression softened for half a second, unguarded and young despite everything he had survived. Jason looked away, jaw working once as if the sentence had struck somewhere too private to acknowledge. Tim stared at his closed laptop. Cass’s gaze warmed with a softness that was nearly invisible unless you knew how to read her. Duke’s smile tucked itself away into something careful and touched. Damian’s pencil hovered above the page, unmoving.

The woman missed all of it, naturally.

“They’re not children,” she said. “Half of them are grown men.”

“Then stop tattling on them like they stole your crayons,” Jason muttered.

“Jason Peter Todd,” you said.

He winced. “That was unnecessary.”

The woman lifted her chin. “In my day, young people respected their elders.”

“In your day, planes had smoking sections,” Tim said, then looked immediately betrayed by his own mouth.

Duke covered his face with one hand.

Cass patted Tim’s arm.

The woman gasped. “Are you going to allow that?”

Tim looked at you with the doomed expression of a man who had wandered barefoot into a courtroom. “I may have over-participated.”

“You think?”

“Statistically, yes.”

The woman leaned back, offended dignity gathering around her like a shawl. “I don’t know what kind of household you run, but clearly these children have been given too much freedom.”

Your anger always arrives quietly. It isn’t fire, an explosion, or something that cracks through a room and demands attention. It gathers like weather over dark water, slow and heavy, giving people too many chances to mistake the horizon for peace.

“You can complain about the seats,” you said, voice low enough that the nearby rows had to fall silent to catch it. “You can complain about whispering, or atmosphere, or whatever else you’ve decided is unbearable about sitting near my family. But you will not talk about my children like they are burdens someone dragged onto this plane.”

The woman’s face stiffened. “I never said burdens.”

“You implied it.”

“I only meant,” she said, wearing a small, ugly smile now, “that it is generous of you to take on so many complicated young people. Though generosity does have limits.”

For a moment, no one moved.

The engines hummed beneath the floor. Sunlight flashed on the woman’s pearls. Damian went rigid beside you, and you felt the barely contained fury in him like a blade heating under cloth. Jason’s stare flattened into something cold. Dick’s hand tightened around the armrest. Tim was fully awake now, which was rarely a good sign. Cass became too still. Duke’s expression lost every trace of humor.

You reached over without looking and touched two fingers to Damian’s wrist.

“No,” you said softly. “It does not.”

Before the woman could answer, the cabin shifted.

You saw him first.

Bruce came through the curtain at the front of the plane with his dark hair slightly mussed, his suit jacket folded over one arm, his white shirt fitted across his shoulders in a way that made the aisle seem narrower by personal insult. He thanked the flight attendant near the galley, then walked back toward you with that quiet, controlled presence that made the world appear to straighten itself as he passed. No music swelled, no cape unfurled, no dramatic shadow fell across the cabin, though Jason would have paid actual money for all three. Bruce simply returned.

The woman turned because everyone else did.

Then she saw him.

And immediately went silent.

Not quiet. Silent.

It was the kind of silence that happened when someone realized the thunderstorm had a name, a jawline known to every gossip magazine in Gotham, and a very expensive watch.

Bruce stopped beside your row. His eyes moved over you first, always you first, and then over the children with a swift, practiced precision that missed nothing: Jason’s closed book, Damian’s clenched hands, Dick’s missing smile, Tim’s awake stare, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s sharpened expression, Maribel standing in the aisle with the fragile composure of a woman praying no one committed a felony at cruising altitude. Finally, he looked at the woman.

“Is there a problem?” he asked.

His voice was polite, even, and dangerous as a locked door.

The woman swallowed. “Mr. Wayne.”

Jason leaned back in his seat, delighted in the way only Jason could be when consequences arrived wearing cufflinks. “You were asking where our father was, right?”

“Jason,” Dick whispered.

“No, I’m helping.”

Bruce did not look away from the woman. “Were you?”

Her mouth opened, then closed. “There was a small misunderstanding.”

“A small misunderstanding,” Bruce repeated.

He glanced at you. You lifted one shoulder in a tiny motion that told him both nothing and everything. You could handle it. You had handled it. But Bruce looked at the children again, and something in his expression cooled.

“My wife,” he said, “is usually the most patient person in any room.”

The woman tried to smile. “Yes, well…”

“So if she became impatient,” Bruce continued, “I assume there was a reason.”

The smile died.

Maribel looked down, clearly fighting for her life somewhere behind her professional expression.

The woman clutched her handbag. “I didn’t realize this was your family.”

Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “That should not have mattered.”

Jason looked as if Christmas had arrived early and brought legal counsel.

Damian looked like justice had descended in human form and found the seating satisfactory.

The woman stared at her lap. “Of course.”

Bruce turned slightly to Maribel. “Has my family caused any disruption?”

“No, Mr. Wayne,” Maribel said. “They’ve been respectful.”

Bruce looked back at the woman. “Then I trust there won’t be further issues.”

It sounded like trust.

It was not trust.

“No,” the woman said stiffly. “There won’t be.”

“Thank you.”

Bruce sat down beside you and took your hand as if he had not just folded the entire argument into a neat little coffin and slid it beneath the seat in front of him.

For several seconds, no one spoke.

Then Jason whispered, “Dad voice still works.”

Dick exhaled a laugh, shaky with relief. “That wasn’t even full dad voice.”

Tim leaned back in his seat. “Full dad voice requires a first and middle name.”

Damian sniffed. “Father did not need volume. His disappointment was sufficient.”

Duke nodded solemnly. “Artisanal disappointment.”

Cass signed something with one hand that you couldn’t see fully from your seat.

Dick choked.

“What did she say?” you asked.

Dick grinned. “She said Bruce has resting principal face.”

Bruce looked at Cass.

Cass looked back, serene and merciless.

His mouth twitched. “Not inaccurate.”

You finally let out a breath, only then noticing how much tension had settled in your shoulders, tucked there like a smuggled knife. Bruce’s thumb moves slowly over your knuckles, hidden beneath the armrest where only you can feel it.

“What happened?” he asked quietly.

“She had opinions,” you said.

“About?”

“Our atmosphere.”

Bruce glanced around the cabin. “Our atmosphere.”

“Yes. Apparently we travel with a weather system.”

Jason muttered, “Accurate.”

You lowered your voice. “She said generosity has limits.”

Bruce’s hand stilled.

Damian looked up, his chin lifting with sharp, wounded dignity. “She implied we were burdens.”

“Damian,” you said softly.

“It is relevant.”

Bruce went very quiet.

Then he looked at them one by one. Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, Damian. His expression did not transform dramatically, because Bruce’s face had always been a locked house with only a few windows lit, but something deeper moved beneath it, something heavy and certain and fiercely held.

“None of you are burdens,” he said.

The sentence landed gently, and somehow that made it heavier.

Tim looked down. Cass’s eyes warmed. Duke swallowed. Jason’s jaw tightened as he stared hard at his book. Damian glared at his sketchbook with ferocious concentration. Dick smiled faintly, the kind of smile that looked like it had been stitched out of old hurt and gratitude.

Bruce’s voice stayed low. “Not to me. Not to your mother. Not ever.”

Your throat tightened before you could stop it, because even when a truth was known, there were moments when hearing it aloud made it real in a new place.

The woman in 3C sat so still she seemed to be trying to become upholstery.

Maribel returned with drinks a moment later, giving you a quiet look of solidarity as she stopped beside your row. “More water, Mrs. Wayne?”

“Yes, please.”

“Anything else?”

“Coffee,” Tim said at once.

“No,” you, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Damian said together.

Tim looked betrayed. “I need it to live.”

“You need sleep to live,” you said.

“I’ve tried sleep. We’re incompatible, swiped left.”

Cass accepted the coffee Maribel had already poured and placed it on her own tray table, far from Tim’s reach.

Tim stared at her with hollow despair. “Cruelty from the quietest corner.”

Jason reopened his book. “This family hates innovation.”

“This family hates whatever happens when you drink airplane coffee after thirty hours awake,” Duke said.

“Thirty-one,” Tim corrected.

Bruce looked at him.

Tim closed his eyes. “Allegedly.”

Slowly, your family settles back into its shape. Dick makes Maribel laugh with something kind and easy. Cass watches the clouds like they’re speaking a language she almost understands. Duke quietly guesses which passengers are afraid of flying and keeps being right every time. Tim actually falls asleep, mouth slightly open, protected from caffeine by Cass and whatever higher power is on duty. Jason goes back to reading Austen with the grim focus of a man determined to win an argument with a woman who will never know she’s part of it. Damian finishes his drawing and, after a small hesitation, tears it carefully from the sketchbook and hands it to you.

You took it with both hands. Titus stood in the center of the page wearing a cape and a tiny cowl, one paw planted on a defeated vacuum cleaner.

“He looks brave,” you said.

“He is brave,” Damian replied.

“Is the vacuum cleaner dead?”

“Subdued.”

“Of course.”

Jason leaned over. “Can Titus have a gritty reboot?”

“No,” Damian said.

“I’m seeing rain, vengeance, tragic kibble trauma.”

“Titus already has depth.”

“He eats socks.”

“That is a layered flaw.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Bruce’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing once over your skin like punctuation.

The old woman did not turn around again.

After a while, when the cabin had settled into that soft middle-of-flight hush and the clouds beyond the windows stretched white and endless beneath the wing, you leaned forward just enough for your voice to reach her. “I hope the rest of the flight is more comfortable for you.”

She turned slightly, embarrassed and stiff, no longer sharp enough to cut with. “Thank you.”

You sat back.

Jason stared at you. “You’re too nice.”

“No,” you said. “I’m exactly nice enough.”

Bruce’s gaze warmed. “Yes, you are.”

Damian frowned. “She did not deserve courtesy.”

“Courtesy isn’t always about deserve,” you said, watching the clouds glow like pale silk beyond the window. “Sometimes it’s about who you want to be when someone else is small.”

Damian absorbed that with the deep displeasure of someone who had asked for ammunition and received a philosophy lesson.

Jason groaned softly. “Great. Moral improvement at thirty thousand feet.”

“Hydrate,” you told him. “It’ll pass.”

Bruce lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, the gesture hidden from most of the cabin by the angle of his body, but not from you. His lips were warm against your skin, brief and old-fashioned and tender in a way that made your heart ache.

“You were magnificent,” he murmured.

“I was irritated.”

“Magnificently irritated.”

You smile despite yourself and look around at your family, scattered across the cabin just like the woman said. Loose change, she called them, or close enough. But she was wrong, the way people are always wrong when they mistake what they can count for what they can understand.

Not loose change, you thought.

A constellation.

Bright, stubborn, impossible stars, scattered across the dark and still belonging to the same sky.

[dontyouworrydaddy]

https://www.tiktok.com/@xxxtina.a/video/7644093982183525645?_r=1&_t=ZT-96nnF5DVk3Z

hii i tried to send this in before but i wasn’t sure if it went through because of the link but could i request a fic or drabble based on this video with bruce?

i love the idea of wife!reader and bruce getting come from a shopping spree and her waiting up (cause he leaves for patrol pretty much right after) to show/model everything for him even through he’s tired and a little beat up and wants to cuddle his wife.

just loverboy bruce admiring his wife and her pretty clothes while also trying to convince her to come to bed

thank you!!!

Your Love

Bruce Wayne x wife!Reader

warning: FLUFFFFFFFF!!!!! Tooth rotting fluff.

A/N: Anon, I absolutely love you. I had so much fun writing this.

By the time you were showing Bruce your nth outfit, it was honestly a miracle he was still conscious. You didn’t notice at first because you were having far too much fun, standing in front of the mirror looking at the new cardigan while talking about how you absolutely hadn’t intended to buy it until you saw it on sale and then somehow ended up buying it.

Meanwhile Bruce sat against the headboard with his arms crossed loosely over his chest, watching you with the kind of devoted attention that would have made most people think he was listening to the most important conversation of his life.

The truth was that he wasn’t really paying attention to the sweaters. He was paying attention to you.

The way your eyes lit up when you talked. The way you kept twirling around to look at yourself in the mirror. The way you kept smiling every time you showed him something new. That was what he was watching.

That was what had kept him awake for almost two hours after patrol. Because God, he was tired. His body ached from tonight’s patrol, his shoulder was sore from a hit he’d taken earlier and every time he blinked he felt sleep trying to drag him under. There was a point about thirty minutes ago where he’d genuinely forgotten what you were saying because he’d almost fallen asleep with his eyes open.

But every time you came from the closet wearing something new he found himself sitting up a little straighter.

“What do we think?” Bruce stared, completely caught off guard because he was actively fighting against the need to sleep. You immediately laughed.

“See, that’s not a real answer.”

“I like it.” His voice was rough with exhaustion.

“You liked the last one.”

“I did.”

“You liked the one before that.”

“I did.”

“The one before that?”

“I did.” Bruce’s mouth twitched.

“Exactly. You’re biased.” Bruce watched you walk toward the closet again. Waited until you couldn’t see him anymore. Then he rubbed his eyes with the palm of his hand, desperately trying to stay awake a little longer. This man was reaching his limits. Every instinct in his body was begging him to lie down.

Instead, he heard the closet door open again. Bruce lowered his hands and immediately smiled. You stepped out and did a small spin and Bruce’s eyes followed automatically.

“Well?” He looked at you for a moment long enough that your smile slowly turned into a laugh.

“What?”

“You look beautiful.” His expression softened. You groaned immediately.

“Awwwwww baby.”

“It’s true.”

“You say that every single time.”

“Because it’s true every single time.” You climbed onto the mattress and crawled closer. Bruce immediately reached for you. His hand settled against your thigh because you were within reach. Because touching you was as natural as breathing.

You smiled when you noticed.

Bruce looked halfway asleep. His head resting against the headboard and his hand rubbing slow circles against your leg. And suddenly you realized just how exhausted he looked. The excitement softened immediately after realizing your husband was actively trying to stay awake for you.

“Babyyyyyy.”

“Hm?” Bruce hummed.

“You’re tired.” A very laugh escaped him and you feel your heart ache a little. This man loves you so deeply and he never tries to hide it.

“Little bit.”

“Little bit?”

“Maybe more than a little.”

“Bruce.” You frowned and his eyes finally met yours. The look in them made your chest ache. Because he wasn’t annoyed. If anything, he was disappointed that he was getting tired.

“I love seeing my beautiful wife happy.” he said quietly. Your heart melted on the spot.

Bruce reached for your hand and he brings it to his lips, pressing a kiss against your knuckles.

“You’ve been talking about this shopping trip all week.” A sleepy smile appeared on his face. “I wanted to see everything.”

You stared at him. And suddenly all the dresses and sweaters and shoes seemed significantly less important than the man sitting in front of you.

“There’s only two outfits left.” you admitted. Bruce visibly perked up which makes you leave a gasp.

“Bruceeeee!” His head immediately dropped back against the headboard.

“Oh no.”

“You were counting.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You absolutely were. Say it!”

“I wasn’t counting.”

“You looked relieved.” Bruce laughed despite himself.

“You caught me there, love.”

“I can’t believe this.” You collapsed dramatically against his shoulder.

“I love you.” The response was so immediate that you burst out laughing. Bruce looked super super serious. No joke.

Ten minutes later, after you’d shown him the final outfit and spent another five explaining why the shoes you’d bought were completely necessary despite already owning three similar pairs, Bruce finally reached his limit.

The poor man looked exhausted. You were halfway through another explanation when suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around your waist.

“Babyyy!” Before you could react, he pulled you backward onto the mattress with him. One second you were standing.

The next you were trapped in Bruce’s big and muscular arms.

Bruce immediately rolled onto his side and wrapped himself around you like a giant human blanket. His face buried against your shoulder.

“Softie.” You started laughing.

“No.”

“Brucey.”

“No.” You tried to sit up. The arm around your waist tightened instantly. Yup, mission impossible.

“Bruce!”

“We’re done for today.” His voice was muffled against your shoulder.

“We’re not done.”

“We are.”

“I still haven’t shown you the bag.”

“The bag can wait.”

“The bag is cute.”

“I’m sure it is. You bought it, of course it will be cute.” You laughed so hard you could barely breathe. Bruce simply pulled you closer. As though he physically couldn’t get enough. As though after being away all night, all he wanted was to hold his wife and sleep.

“Husband of mine.”

“Hm?”

“You didn’t even see the other bag.” His eyes were already closed.

“I believe in you.”

“You don’t know what it looks like.”

“I’m sure it’s beautiful.” You rolled over enough to look at him. His face was pressed into your pillow, hair messy and his eyes closed. And somehow still holding you like you might disappear if he loosened his grip.

“You really stayed awake through all of that just for me?”

Bruce opened one eye. The effort alone looked exhausting.

“Of course I did.” The answer was immediate. You felt your heart squeeze. Bruce reached up and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His expression sleepy and affectionate and completely gone for you.

“I love seeing my wife excited.” You leaned forward and kissed his cheek. Bruce smiled. Then immediately pulled you closer again.

“Okay baby.” he murmured, voice thick with sleep. “I love you, good night now.”

“I love you too.” You smiled. Bruce pressed a kiss against your forehead.

“Good.” Bruce kisses you, again, one last time before drifting off to sleep while holding his favorite person in his safe arms.

[pearlyscenes]

heyyyyyy! *slides into dms* may i request a drabble with bruce wayne proposing to (y/n)? like the jason todd fic. because i absolutley adored your jason drabble. it was so incredibly sweet. i coulnt stop grinning while reading it. your writing is so cozy. ykyk? i want to read moreeeeeeee. i want to read some tooth rotting bruce fluff. i just love your writing style and could not help but ask. this is my first time requesting. so i am kind of nervous.

⁺༝ ꒰১ 𝒟𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 magical mailbox ໒꒱ ༝⁺: omg! my first anon letteeeeer. you have no idea how much this tiny milestone means to me! thank you so so much for your kind words anon. plus it only makes it even more speacial, that this is also your first request. gladly i will try to meet your wishes and write a tiny snippet. anyways- here is your tiny story hihi <33 hope you will enjoy it, honey.

i tried my best hihi. please like and comment if you enjoy this tiny ficlet. anywayyyyssss ૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა i should stop rambling.

₊꒷ ᨳ 𝒟𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠’𝐬 cozy snippet nook ₊˚⊹*

𐔌 . ⋮ 𝐭𝐢𝐩𝐩𝐲 𝐭𝐨𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝒩𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝒮𝐭𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱ ₊˚⊹* ₊⊹ 𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐧𝐞 x reader

warnings & tags .ᐟ: sfw. pure fluff. no use of y/n. written with fem! reader in mind. no reader description. maybe ooc? no beta reader. Bruce being all over the place. Bruce having a few dark thoughts (?). i did not know how to end this sorryyyy. wrote this till almost 4 am. could be trash haha. Still learning how to tag!!. English is not my first language.

a little sticky note .ᐟ: This is a little ficlet based on this post by the lovely sentrybites: "i saw someone saying on twitter about a woman who said that her boyfriend was so nervous when propose her that he forgot everything and ended up just getting on his knees saying “please”." you may find my original post (jason todd x reader) here .૮ ྀིᴗ͈ . ᴗ͈ ྀིა This time, I wrote directly in English instead of first drafting a rough sketch in my native language. I think I like it better this way; the text resembles my natural writing style much more closely.

word count: approx 1873

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒: Subsequent to Selina leaving him, even before walking down the aisle, Bruce ceased believing in his very own happy ever after for the Dark Knight. That is, until he met his very own Lampyridae, his sweet firefly, his Seirēn. A wonderful young woman who illuminated his seemingly gloomy and arcane labyrinthine path of self destructional vengeance, lucring him inro a sweet yet secret sanctuary. Now, brucce finally allowed his weary heart to fully embrace a new person, vowing never to let her go again. To offer her his last name, and with it, his entire weeping soul.

Ambrosia and citrus fruits hung in the air. Ice cream cones glided slowly down the ever warming pavements, the melting straberry and vanilla milky cream bleeding slowly along the cracks of the hot paving stone. For once , silence reigned at the lakeshores.

Even though the villa boasted a small private beach, teenagers would invariably hop the fence or clamber down the stone wall to party until dawn. "Il proprietario non c'è mai," they would hum whenever the Polizia peered over the fence.

"Let the young people enjoy their summer," she had said, just as he was on the verge of chasing the group away with a fine walking stick clutched in his fierce hand.

She was so lenient. He never understood why.

Windows flung wide open, an orchard of peach trees with wind chime breez through the leaves and branches shimmering with the early heat haze. A timeless oil-painting or polaroid-worn-away-at-the edges-with-fading-faces kind of beauty about this dream. It had to be one. Bruce Wayne was never lucky. This could not be real.

And her? Soft light spattered on her soft skin, her and her and her.

i want to live like this forever. I want to rip my teeth into this very moment and never let go. i want to feed on this very image. i want to die here.

Always intertwined, feeling the silken sheets shifting around us like white snakeskin as i sought for your body's warmth. Never quiet sated.

The golden light, filtered through the leaves, bathed her skin in gentle marble textures. Bruce traced curve after swirl, searching for those tiny imperfections in her skin that made her feel human. Less than the thalassic siren he saw within her.

Her muscles rippled in the same rhythm the gentle waves of the lake, soft, persistent, soft.

Bruce was scared. Scared that in this life, it would start raining the second he whispered her name into her ear. The second she called for him. Afraid that a storm would break, instead of time standing still, after they had kissed for the millionth time.

The house was filled with the smell of the last misshaped, sweet heavy, almost drunken peaches of the season. Slowly loosing shape from their ripeness. All summer long the peach-trees had begged to get picked. When their skin had still been plush, full of life as if frozen in them; smooth as marble.

Bruce pushed his nose into the back of her neck. Her warm, soft hair tickling his nose, while his lips savoured the faintly salty taste of her skin. He tried to purge the heavy ripe scent from his nostrils, trying to inhale her youthfulness. Hoping she was secretly not yearning for the light. That she did not feel as though her lips rested upon a fruit: a fruit that was scarcely lovable, less plump, and all too easily bruised.

He traced a tiny mole on her shoulder, sighing deeply. His eyes flickering towards an old bureau. Wooden vines adorned its otherwise simple form. Inside a tiny secret drawer lay a ring - cradled in silk and kept safe within a silver seashell jewelry box. A silver ring enclosing a genuine saltwater pearl, held fast by curving forms and filigree that evoked the beautiful, almost ethereal appearance of sea foam.

The ring of his mother. The ring of his father's mother. And hopefully soon the ring of his future children's mother.

Selina.

A name that haunted his mind like a ghost. He avoided mirrors, too afraid to catch the reflection of her cat like green eyes. Her gaze, staring back at Bruce like a blinding light in the darkness. Scars reminded him that Bruce Wayne would never find solace without becoming entangled in a web of hazy thoughts, thoughts he called love. Thoughts of straying from the righteous path of his predetermined, solitary road of vengeance, of abandoning the very safety of an already godforsaken city.

A name that had haunted him again for months, ever since a tiny green glimmer of hope had taken root in his heart. Hope for a more domestic life.

His spiraling thoughts were interrupted as she stirred beside him. The Bat blinked; his eyes felt dry after having zoned out for so long, his heavy eyelids unmoving. She turned over, still half-asleep, and buried her face against his bare chest. He felt her legs shift between his, yet she showed no sign whatsoever of waking up. "My sleeping beauty…" he murmured, pressing a kiss to the crown of her head. He inhaled her scent and the light oil of her scalp.

"Hmmm... does my pretty lady want to grace her humble knight with her waking presence?", he sighed gruffly. His voice was laced with a heavy raspy note. Another sleepless night for the vengeful knight, she noted. The young woman felt him shift his head,and felt, once again, how he was staring at that damned table for the umpteenth time. She didn't even have to open her pretty eyes to sense that tense gaze.

She heard him think, zoning out agian, for a tiny second. He heard her mumbel before he could once again loose him again.

"No...", she breathed, her refusal barily audible. He let out a soft, throaty laugh and scattered a thousand kisses across her jawline and cheek. His two days worth of stubble pricking her delicate face. "Let me see your pretty eyes...", he mumbeled between kisses, gently cupping her cheeks with one large hand. His palm was deliciously rough from the work as a viligante and the rigorous training. The skin scarred from training all the different skills he now commanded.

She opened her eyes only a tiny slit, her long lashes brushing expectantly against her slightly squished tissue of her cheekbone. He purred with contentment, pursed his lips, and pressed a childlike kiss to her mouth. "My pretty little fawn… just look at you—so displeased, and your day hasn't even begun yet," he murmured.

He laughed again, as if his words had been immensely amusing.

"I'm sorry, little angel—I'm so sorry I woke you," he cooed tenderly, kissing first her eyelids, then her nose. "Forgive me, my little apple."

He had left the bed, tucked his beloved back snugly into the silken cocoon of their sheets, and then set off for the kitchen. Ready to brew coffee and bring back some pastries from the tiny bakery downtown. Just a few miles away from this villa. The young woman slowly sat up, her eyes staring, almost gawking at the bureau. She tried to figure out what Bruce could possibly have found so interesting there.

After all, she hadn't simply stumbled into the Batcave last winter just because she had bumped her head one too many times as a child. She pushed the duvet off her legs and crept slowly, on tiptoe, toward the piece of furniture. Hesitantly, she glanced toward the open double doors. She could smell the fresh aroma of Italian coffee being brewed over on the stove.

Her hands felt along the underside; her fingertips sensed every tiny irregularity, every little imperfection in the wood. Her index finger glided over a strange spot. She pressed against the wood, and a tiny compartment sprang open. With a soft click, the drawer slid out.

For a moment, she simply stared inside. Lying there was a small silver shell, nestled within the folds of pale silk. The morning light caught on its curves, making it gleam like something dredged from the bottom of the lake by a mermaid's careful hands.

Slowly, she reached for it. The shell felt cool in her palm. Older than the house. Older than summer. The hinge gave way with barely any resistance. And there it was, a ring. Not gaudy not enormous. Not the sort of thing displayed behind spotless glass windows on Fifth Avenue.

The pearl seemed alive. Cream-white and luminous, carrying the soft glow of moonlight trapped beneath water. Silver swirls held it in place, delicate and wild at once, like sea foam frozen by magic. Her thumb brushed over the metal.

The realization settled slowly within her. For several seconds she simply sat there on the floor, cross-legged before the bureau, holding the ring between her fingers as though it might disappear. The world outside continued uninterrupted.

The floorboards groaned softly. Bruce appeared in the doorway carrying a tray balanced awkwardly in one hand.

Bruce almost dropped the tray. The pure silver was not particularly heavy, nor because the polished wooden floor beneath his bare feet was uneven, but because the sight that greeted him as he stepped through the doorway struck him with the same strange, disorienting force as waking from a nightmare and realizing it had followed you into daylight.

His Darling sat on the cool floor before the bureau, the tin ysecret drawer open; and between ger fingers, caught in a shaft of golden morning sunlight that pouzred through the open windows and turned every speck of durst into drifting flecks of amber, rested the ring.

The ring he had carried across contonets, hidden away in safes, vaults and secret compartments, protecting it with care that bordered on reverence, because some small and embarrassingly hopeful part of him had knoen for years that if therfe was ever going to be a woman standing again beside him at the end of all things, then it would be her.

For one terrible moment, Bruce could only stare.

Months. Months of planning collapsed in on themselves like a wet paper card house. Sogging into one big clump.

The little island in the middle of the lake appeared before his eyes, the old castle perched upon it like something stolen from a fairytale, its stone walls glowing honey-gold at sunset. He remembered the owner laughing when Bruce had first approached him, convinced the billionaire was attempting to buy the property outright rather than merely borrow it for an evening. He remembered checking out flower shops, stupid decoration and bills of online shopping of fairylights, so high no one could actually imagine one would buy so many.

He puffed, feeling suddenly so unsure.

The speech- God the speech! Entire patrols had been spent composing it in his head. He had rewritten it while literally hanging upside down from gargoyles. Rewritten it while bleeding. Rewritten it while pretending to pay attention during board meetings. Every sentence carefully chosen. Every word measured.

Because there were things he wanted her to understand: That she had saved him. That he still woke up some mornings convinced she was going to disappear. That every dream he had ever dared entertain for himself somehow had her standing at the center of it.

And now she had found the ring while wrapped in a bedsheet. Like a magpie digging through cupboards after flying into a room through an open window.

The Bat nearly laughed, oh he almost wept. He stepped hesitantly towards her, sank to his knees , slowly taking her delicate hands, and kissed ever singly inch of them. The ring lay cradled between her hands. "Please…" he murmured amidst his adoration. His eyes closed as he murmured "Please" once more.

𝐂𝐎𝐏𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 © ℘ꫀꪖ᥅ꪶꪗ ꯱ׁׅ֒ᝯׁꫀׁׅܻꪀׁׅꫀׁׅܻ꯱ׁׅ֒ . please do not copy/steal/translate or train ai with my work — 2026.

[dearlawdimasimp]

[lovee-potions]

SAVE A HORSE

PAIRING(S) — cowboy!clark kent x fem!reader

SYNOPSIS — you know the saying… 

CONTENT — 18+ minors dni | established relationship, pet names (sweetheart, darling), oral (f! receiving), fingering, hand job, external ejaculation, breast play, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), multiple orgasms, cowgirl position, mating press, bed breaking, creampie. let me know if i’ve missed anything!

WC — 5.5k

NOTE — i need him in ways that aren’t even funny

MASTERLIST

It was an unbearably hot afternoon on the Kent farm.

The sun hung heavy over the fields, turning everything gold and hazy. Clark had been up since sunrise, working the fence line and clearing brush like he wasn’t made of steel—because even as Superman, he insisted on doing things the normal way. Said it kept him “grounded.”

From the porch, you watched him push his hat back with the back of his wrist, sweat glistening along the cut of his jaw. His white shirt clung to him in ways that should probably be illegal. Every now and then, he’d drag his forearm across his forehead, smearing dust but somehow still looking unfairly attractive.

You decided he’s worked long enough without an interruption. You brought out two mason jars of cold lemonade, full of ice that clinked gently with every step as condensation already gathered on the glass. Clark heard your footsteps on the grass long before you reached him—he always did—but he kept working until you were close enough that your shadow fell across his boots.

“Brought you something,” you said, offering him a jar.

Clark turned, and that boyish smile—your favorite one, the one he saved just for you—appeared instantly.

“Well, aren’t you a sight,” he murmured, taking the lemonade from your hand. His fingers brushed yours, rough and warm. “Thank you, sweetheart.”

He took a long drink, tilting the jar back until his throat worked in slow, steady swallows, each one catching the sunlight on the strong line of his neck. A soft sigh escaped him, low and pleased, and a bead of lemonade slipped from the corner of his mouth. It traced a bright, sticky line down the curve of his jaw, cutting through the dust clinging to his skin.

You tried not to stare—truly, you did—but your eyes followed that drop like it had a mind of its own, trailing over the stubble shadowing his face, over the bow of his warm, parted mouth.

And he caught you. Of course he did. Clark always noticed the little things—especially when they concerned you. His lips tugged into the slightest, knowing smile, one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made heat unfurl low in your stomach.

To buy yourself a moment, you lifted your own jar for a sip. The lemonade was cold and sweet on your tongue, a stark contrast to the heavy summer heat, but his gaze on you burned warmer than the sun beating down on the fields. When you lowered the glass, you found him watching you with a softness that made your stomach flip even after all this time—like you were the prettiest thing he’d ever seen.

He reached out, brushing his thumb along your cheek. His touch was feather-light despite the roughness of his callouses, a mix of tenderness and strength that was uniquely, unmistakably him. His thumb lingered there, tracing the line of your cheekbone as if he was committing the moment to memory.

His thumb lingered on your cheek, sweeping once more along your skin as if he couldn’t help himself. The rough pad of it contrasted deliciously with the gentle way he touched you.

“You keep lookin’ at me like that,” he murmured, voice thick with affection and a hint of mischief, “and I’m never gettin’ any work done today.”

You huffed a laugh. “Pretty sure you weren’t getting much done anyway.”

“Hm.” His eyes dropped briefly to your lips, then flicked upward again. “Guess you caught me.”

You were close enough now that you could feel the heat radiating off him—not the sun’s heat, but Clark’s, warm and familiar. The brim of his hat dipped slightly toward you as he leaned in, shadowing both your faces. His hand moved to rest on your waist, fingers curling with an instinctive protectiveness you’d long since stopped trying to tease him about.

“You got lemonade on your jaw,” you said, mostly to steady your voice.

“Yeah?” Clark tilted his head, feigning innocence. “You gonna help with that?”

You rolled your eyes, already smiling but before you could reply, he crowded just half a step closer, enough that your chest brushed his. He dipped his head until your foreheads touched, your noses brushing. 

You slid a hand up to rest against his chest, fingers spreading over the soft, sun-warmed cotton of his shirt. Beneath your palm, his heartbeat thudded steady and sure, a quiet strength that grounded you just as much as he claimed the farm work grounded him. You felt the rise and fall of his breath, the subtle tension in his muscles as he waited.

His breath hitched, soft and sweet, the kind of sound he only ever made for you.

And then he kissed you. It started slow, a gentle press of lips that melted into something deeper, warm and unhurried. 

He tasted faintly of lemons and sweat and something unmistakably his—like sun-dried wheat and the comfort of home. His mouth moved against yours with a tender certainty, savouring each second.

His hand rose to cup your jaw, calloused thumb brushing along your cheek with reverence. The roughness of his skin contrasted beautifully with the softness of the kiss, each stroke of his thumb coaxing you closer as he deepened the kiss by the slightest fraction. Like he didn’t want to overwhelm you—just linger, just love you in the quiet, deliberate way he always did.

The world around you—buzzing insects, rustling grass, the crackle of distant heat—faded until there was only Clark. His hands. His breath mingled with yours. The tenderness threaded into every inch of him, every touch, every soft sound he let slip as your lips moved together.

When you finally broke apart, he didn’t go far. His forehead rested against yours, noses brushing, his breath warm and a little uneven. He breathed you in like you were the first cool breeze he’d felt all day.

You let your hand slide down to his waist before gently easing back. “Hurry up and fix that fence, Clarky,” you whispered, your voice still a little breathless as you reached up to straighten the brim of his hat.

He smiled—slow and crooked—at the way you fussed with his hat, tilting his head just enough to make your fingers brush his hairline. “You sure you want me fixin’ fences?” he drawled, voice still a little warm and rough from kissing you.

You let out a soft laugh, stepping back another small pace. “Someone’s gotta keep the place standing. And last I checked, that someone was you.”

Clark clicked his tongue, pretending to consider it. “Mm. I dunno. Think the place looks pretty good right now.” His gaze swept you slowly—fond, teasing, entirely too full of affection. “’Specially the view.”

You scoffed, heat blooming under your skin despite yourself. “Flattery won’t get you out of work, Kansas.”

You turned to leave, fully intending to head back toward the porch. But you’d barely taken two steps before a strong arm looped around your waist, warm and sure, pulling you gently—but firmly—back against him.

You let out a surprised breath as your back met his chest, his hat brushing your temple. “Clark—”

He leaned down, murmuring against the shell of your ear, voice low enough to make your knees feel a little unreliable. “Just needed one more second with you.” His thumb stroked slow circles at your hip. “Can’t let you walk away lookin’ that pretty without gettin’ my fill.”

Your breath caught, and he felt it—of course he did. His smile pressed warm against your skin.

“Clark,” you said, though there was no real warning in it.

“Mm?” His nose brushed your hair. “I’ll get back to work. Promise. Just…” He tightened his arms around you for a moment, holding you close, like he was memorising the shape of you against him. “…let me have this.”

You turned in his embrace, hand sliding up his side as you faced him again. He looked at you like you were the only thing worth stopping the world for.

“You’re impossible,” you murmured.

He dipped his head, the brim of his hat casting both your faces in soft shade. “Yeah,” he whispered, stealing one more kiss—quick, sweet, utterly devastating. “But you love me anyway.”

You could only smile. “Debatable.”

His grin brightened like the sun breaking through. “Alright,” he said, reluctantly letting you go. “Fence. I’m going.”

You gave him a playful shove toward the half-finished line of posts. “Go on then, cowboy.”

He took a few steps backward, still facing you, still smiling that boyish, lovesick smile. “Keep lookin’ at me like that,” he called over his shoulder, “and I’m blamin’ you if it falls over again.”

You shook your head, laughing as you headed back toward the porch—perfectly aware that his eyes stayed on you long after he pretended to get back to work.

The house had settled into that comfortable quiet that only comes after a long, sun-soaked day. Dinner dishes were drying in the rack, the windows were open to let in the cooling breeze, and the sky outside had faded into deep shades of lavender and rose.

You were curled up on the bed, back against the headboard, a book open in your lap. The room smelled faintly of sun-warmed cotton and the faint sweetness of lemonade left on the bedside table. You were mid-sentence when you heard the bathroom door open.

Clark stepped out, a cloud of steam curling around him like it couldn’t bear to let him go.

And oh, good lord.

He had a towel slung low on his hips, hanging on by what felt like sheer charity. Droplets of water tracked from his hairline, down the strong line of his throat, over his broad chest. Every bead of water caught the lamplight as it slid over him, carving shadows along the ridges of muscle, dripping down to disappear beneath the edge of the towel.

His hair was damp and messy, a single curl falling onto his forehead in a way that should not have been as attractive as it was. He ran a hand through it, sending another cascade of water rolling down his shoulders and back.

You didn’t realise you’d stopped reading until you heard the soft thud of your book slipping shut.

“Sorry,” he said, voice warm and lazy from the shower, “didn’t mean to distract you.”

“You didn’t,” you lied instantly, before adding, “Much.”

His smile widened, dimples appearing, his eyes glimmering with gentle mischief. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

He started toward the dresser, water still dripping down his torso, tracking lower and lower, and you realised you were openly staring.

Clark glanced over his shoulder, catching the look on your face. And that was all it took—his movement slowed, the teasing creeping into his voice. “Somethin’ on your mind, sweetheart?”

You swallowed once. Twice. “Just… appreciating the view.”

He chuckled—deep, warm, pleased. “Funny. I seem to recall gettin’ in trouble earlier for not finishing the fences ’cause of the view.”

You lifted your chin. “Well, maybe I’m allowed to stare.”

“Oh, you’re definitely allowed.” He stepped closer to the bed, droplets pattering softly onto the wooden floor. “Encouraged, even.”

Your gaze dipped to the drop of water that slid over his collarbone, down the centre of his chest, across the defined line of muscle, and straight beneath the towel.

He braced one knee on the edge of the mattress, leaning forward just enough to make your breath catch. His voice dropped, low and warm like honey in the lamplight.

“You want me to get dressed,” he murmured, “or keep goin’ like this?”

Your pulse fluttered, heat blooming under your skin. “Clark…”

He placed one hand beside your thigh, close enough that you felt the heat of him even without touching. “Yeah, darlin’?”

You reached up and brushed a single water droplet from his chest, your fingertip trailing slowly over warm, damp skin. His breath stuttered—just a little.

“I think,” you whispered, meeting his eyes, “you know exactly what I want.”

His smile turned molten, soft around the edges, full of affection and something deeper. He leaned in, brushing his forehead against yours, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then I’ll give you anything you want.”

He rested his free hand on your thigh, gently spreading your legs. His fingers skimmed the inside hem of your sleep shorts and it took all your effort not to squirm. 

Slowly, almost teasingly, he dragged his fingers up your leg, making their way up the soft skin of your inner thigh. He stopped just shy of where you were aching for his touch, a smug grin on his face. 

Huffing, you reached a hand up and brought his lips down onto yours. Clark kissed you with an intensity that made your head spin. He gently pulled your legs, causing you to slide down the bed and rest your head on the pillows. He followed you down, bracing himself on his forearms so his weight didn’t crush you.

You moaned into his mouth, and he took the opportunity to slip his tongue past your lips, exploring your mouth. His hands moved down, fingers finding the hem of your shorts and tugging them down your legs in tandem with your underwear.

He broke the kiss briefly to get them off, and you lifted your hips to assist. But instead of returning to your mouth immediately, Clark gripped your jaw and turned your head to the side to expose your neck.

His lips on your skin were scorching as they pressed bruising kisses all the way up to the underside of your jaw, then back down again, his teeth scraping over the delicate skin. Clark continued to trail kisses down your body until his lips found the inside of your thigh. 

You could feel his grin against your skin before he spread your legs wider and leaned in. His tongue pressed against your clit, and pleasure exploded through you. Clark moaned against you, lapping your clit with relentless efficiency. 

His hands were holding your thighs open, keeping you exactly where he wanted you. He teased around your opening, pressing his tongue there before licking back up. Then, without a warning, he pushed a finger inside you.

You moaned loudly, your hips straining against his grip. Clark hummed against you, the vibrations adding to the pleasure already coiling low in your stomach. His tongue flicked over your clit as his finger curled inside you, finding that spot that made you see stars.

His mouth was relentless, his finger pressing and working as you gasped and moaned beneath him. You tried to reach for his hair, but he caught your hand and pinned it to the bed. 

His finger was joined by a second one, and the stretch had you arching off the bed. He only pressed further in, adding another curl. Your legs began to shake, the pleasure building quickly. 

“That’s it, sweetheart,” Clark murmured against you. His fingers delved deeper, spreading you open. “Come for me.”

He continued to flick his tongue over your clit, adding just the right amount of pleasure to send you over the edge. You came with a cry, your fingers digging into the sheets. Clark didn’t stop immediately, not until he’d coaxed you through your climax.

He slid his fingers out of you, bringing them up to his mouth and licking them clean. His eyes were dark with satisfaction as he leaned over you, his body covering yours possessively. You caught the way his chin glistened with your pleasure before he leaned down and pressed his mouth to yours. 

You could taste yourself on his lips, and it sent another shiver down your spine. You moaned into the kiss, your hands raking down his stomach and tugging at the towel around his waist. Unwinding the towel, you felt his cock against your thigh, hot and thick. 

Clark groaned as you reached down to wrap your fingers around him, giving a few firm strokes. His breathing hitched when you ran your thumb over the head of his cock. You could feel the precum gathering at the tip, making your strokes smoother.

You couldn’t help but grin, reveling in the power you held in this moment. You increased your pace, your hand gliding up and down his cock eagerly. You twisted your wrist, fingers slick with his precum.

You felt his arms shaking as he braced himself over you, clearly trying to keep composure. He was getting close, you could tell by the way his breath was coming in harsher pants and the way his hips were hitching against your hand. 

He pressed his face into the curve of your neck, panting against your skin. His teeth found the sensitive spot where the shoulder met the neck, and he bit down hard. It was just the right mix of pleasure and pain, and you moaned loudly in response.

Clark slid one hand between your bodies, finding your clit again and circling it with his fingers. You moaned, your hand faltering on his cock as pleasure shot through you. Clark’s fingers quickened their pace between your legs, coaxing you to yet another orgasm.

“Gonna cum,” you panted, your hand working him faster.

“Do it,” he whispered, his fingers pressed against you just right. “Come for me.”

You couldn’t hold back anymore, the pleasure peaking and shattering through you. You came with a keening cry, your body arching off the bed as waves of ecstasy washed over you.

Clark was right behind you, gritting his teeth as he followed you over the edge. He buried his face in your shoulder, his hand still between your legs as he came with a groan. You felt his cock twitch and pulse in against your fingers as he emptied himself in your hand and over your stomach. 

Clark slumped further into you, his chest rising and falling against yours. You finally let go of his cock, feeling it rest against you. The silence stretched between you for a few moments, broken only by the sound of your breathing.

When you thought Clark was done, his hips rocked, just a little—like he couldn’t help it. You ran a hand through his hair, feeling his cock nudge against your inner thigh as he grew hard again. 

He began to press lazy kisses to the valley of your breasts, his hips still rocking. The tip of his cock slid through your slick folds, brushing against your clit. He placed wet, open-mouthed kisses wherever he could reach. 

“I can’t get enough of you,” he murmured, his fingers moving to grip your hips.

You moaned, your fingers tangling in his hair as he continued to rock against you. It was a delicious torment, feeling him so close to where you wanted him but not quite there. His cock slid through your folds, his tip nudging at your entrance but not quite pushing in—just teasing, bumping against you with every faint thrust.

His hands were restless, moving up your sides to cup your breasts. He fondled them roughly, his fingers playing with your nipples. Your back arched off the bed at the sensation, your pelvis tilting up to meet his. 

Clark shifted above you, hiking your legs up a little higher around his waist. The new angle had him pressing directly against your clit and you moaned loudly at the contact. He gritted his teeth, grinding against you with a newfound intent.

His hands were back on your hips, guiding your movements as he rocked against you. The friction was maddening, the pleasure building with every roll of his hips. He reached a hand down, guiding himself so the head of his cock pressed against your entrance. 

“Please,” you whispered, moving your hands to his shoulders.

His grip on you became almost painful, and he began pressing himself inside you. Your breath hitched at the intrusion, your head falling deeper into the pillows. Clark moaned your name, his voice hoarse and full of pleasure.

He slid himself inside you inch by antagonising inch, until he bottomed out. You could feel the burn of the stretch and you couldn’t help the little broken cry that slipped past your lips. Your nails raked down his back, trying to find something to hold onto. You could feel his muscles tense beneath your hand, shifting and contracting with every movement.

Clark took a moment, staying still and reveling in the way you clenched around him. Then, he began to move, and your brain stopped working. He pulled out almost all the way and then pushed back inside, setting a torturously slow pace. 

His hands slipped under your shoulders, pulling you even closer as he increased his pace. He was still holding back, you could tell; trying to keep himself from getting too lost in the feeling. He pressed his face into your neck, his breath hot against your skin.

He was mumbling something against your neck, but you couldn’t make out the words over the pleasure throbbing through you. Your hands moved to his hair, your fingers clenching in the sweaty strands.

Clark’s hips were moving faster now, a steady rhythm that had your breath hitching with every thrust. You could feel his muscles flexing with every movement, the power behind his every motion.

He was growling into your neck, the sound low and rough. His hands were roaming all over your body, touching and gripping and caressing every inch he could reach.

“You’re so perfect,” he murmured. His lips were at your ear now, his teeth finding your earlobe and giving it a gentle bite. His hands were at your waist again, his grip bruising as he slammed into you.

His pace was relentless now, his hips slapping against yours with every thrust. You could feel the edge nearing, the pleasure building higher and higher.

Clarks name fell from your lips in a gasp, the sound mixed with moans and pleading. “Please, please, please,” you begged, not knowing for what. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails scraping along his skin.

His hands found yours, lacing your fingers together as he held you down. He was getting close too, you could tell by the hitch in his breath and the way his rhythm was starting to falter.

You moaned, pressing your hands against his chest and flipping the two of you over. Clark let out a grunt of surprise when you flipped him onto his back, his hands going to your hips to steady you.

He stared up at you, confusion mixing with the pleasure still evident in his eyes.

“What—?” he began to ask, but the question died on his lips when you sank down onto him. 

Your moan was lewd and filthy as you took him to the hilt. Clark groaned, head tipping back against the pillows. His eyes stayed locked on you, drinking in every inch of you. You gave yourself a moment to adjust, feeling him stretch you even fuller than before. Then, you began to move. slowly at first, lifting your hips up and then sliding back down. 

Your thighs flexed as you rode him and the heat between you built. Clark reached over to his bedside table, picking up his hat and placing it on your head. It was enormous on you, the brim dipping instantly, sliding forward until it covered half your face and shadowed your eyes completely.

Clark bit back a laugh, failing miserably. “Well look at that,” he drawled, voice dripping fondness, “fits you real nice.”

You pushed the brim up with a finger, giving him a flat look that lost all its intensity thanks to the hat fighting you and falling right back down. “Clark.”

“Looks good on you,” he murmured, his voice tinged with amusement. “My own personal cowgirl.”

He thrusted up into you, meeting your movements with an unexpected roughness. Your nails dug into the hard planes of his chest for balance as you rode him harder, faster. The pleasure was building quickly now, and you could feel the euphoric edge approaching.

Clark could feel it too; his hands were trembling where they rested on your thighs, his breath coming in short pants. Your breasts bounced with each movement as Clark's hips lifted off the bed to match your pace. 

Your fingers dug into his chest, your nails leaving indentions in the skin. Your breaths were coming out in short pants now, your entire body trembling with the effort to hold on. Your pace intensified, your movements becoming erratic as you raced towards the edge. You were right there, right on the precipice.

Clark’s hands were like vices on your waist now, his fingers digging in with bruising force. He was babbling something under his breath, your name mixed with curses and pleas. 

“Gonna—come,” he panted, his eyes locking onto yours. His legs began to tense beneath you, his hips jerking off the bed.

You slammed down onto him, the pleasure teetering on the edge of pain, and that’s when he lost it. Clark’s back arched off the bed, his hips snapping up into you once, twice, three times as he came. 

You clenched around him, the feeling of him releasing deep inside you sent you over the edge. He shuddered beneath you, the intensity of his orgasm clearly overwhelming. You moaned loudly, your head falling forward as the intensity of your orgasm shook your entire body. 

Clark’s hands were steadying you now, his grip gentler as you rode out the waves of pleasure. When you finally collapsed on top of him, he slid his arms around you holding you close against him. 

You were both a sweaty, disheveled mess, your bodies still hot and sticky. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Clark’s hands were running up and down your back, his touch soft. You could feel his fingers tracing patterns into your skin, drawing lazy shapes and lines.

Then suddenly, in one smooth movement, he shifted beneath you, flipping you onto your back. His hat fell from your head and tumbled to the floor as he grabbed the backs of your thighs and hiked them up until your calves were over his shoulders. The angle had you gasping in pleasure. 

He pressed his chest down against yours and his body caging you in completely. He braced his hand on the headboard, his fingers curling around the wood—knuckles going white, and the other gripped your thigh.

Your legs were practically folded to your shoulders, ankles hooked around his head. You were spread wide and stuffed full with each snap of his hips. The bed jolted under you, the headboard thudding softly against the wall as Clark pounded into you. 

His cock was buried so far inside you it felt like he was in your stomach. His balls slapped against your ass as his thick cock drew helpless moans out of your chest. Each thrust was deeper than the last—going all the way to the base. 

His chest smothered your gasps and moans and he leaned down to capture your mouth in a sloppy kiss. His arms began to tremble from the tension of keeping you folded under him as the kiss grew messy. It was a tangle of tongues and teeth. 

Pulling back from the kiss, the headboard began to rattle in Clark's grip, the wood knocking against the wall every time he drove into you. Clark’s eyes were glued to where you stretched around him, sweat beading at his temple. 

Clark could barely hold his head aloft with how hard he was thrusting into you, his breaths coming in short grunts. His thrusts were becoming more uneven now, his pace faltering as he neared his orgasm. 

“Clark—” you moaned, your voice bouncing with his thrusts.

"I know, sweetheart, I know," he groaned, his hips snapping forward in a jerky motion. “You feel so good, honey. So tight, so perfect.”

His rhythm turned frantic, his thrusts sloppy and uncoordinated. He was losing control quickly, his body shivering with the exertion. You moaned loudly, hearing the wood creak under his grip. 

“Oh God, oh God,” he muttered, the words coming out between clenched teeth. 

A sharp crack sounded out through the room, stopping your moan before it could slip past your lips. The headboard snapped with a sudden, sharp pop. Before either of you could react, the entire top-left corner of the bed frame gave out with a dramatic groan, and the mattress lurched a few inches to the side, tilting you both. 

Clark ignored it, his hands moving from the splintered wood to your hips and holding you closer. He pulled you into his chest, adjusting his movements without even thinking. His body covered yours and he went right back at it—pounding into you. 

His hips move at an animalistic fervour, his grip almost bruising as he chases his release. His face is buried in the nape of your neck, his forehead sweaty against your skin. The broken bed frame and uneven mattress was the least of his concerns. 

“I’ll fix it,” he panted against your ear, his thrusts becoming needier. “Later… I’ll fix it later…”

His words dissolved into a low, wrecked groan. Your nails dug into his biceps as the pressure started to build again. You were so close, but you needed more, just a little more. You could feel every inch of him, the friction driving you crazy.

Your moans grew louder as one of his hands moved down to your clit, his thumb finding the sensitive bundle and rubbing circles around it. You were so close to the edge now that you’d sob if you could find the words. 

Another thrust, another gasp. Heat swirled in your stomach, spreading down your legs as he continued to circle your clit with his thumb. Clark’s hips stuttered and he let out a long, guttural moan. 

“Come for me,” he begged, his voice cracking. “Please, sweetheart. please…”

Obeying his request, your back arched and a broken sound teared through your throat as you clamped around him—climaxing harshly. Your body trembled in his arms as his thrusts grew erratic. You felt him jerk against you, a long, low groan tore from his throat.

His hips pressed up to you one last time, and that's when you felt it. His whole body went tight as he spilled inside you, filling you up and making you shiver. He stayed buried to the hilt and you clenched around him while he kept prolonged both your orgasms.

Clark’s cock pulsed inside you as he continued to move his hips in small, desperate circles. Your ears rang as you slowly subsided from the aftershocks of your orgasm. His grip on you eased, and his head rose to look down at you.

Clark’s eyes were heavy-lidded with satisfaction, his cheeks flushed, and there’s a pleased kind of smugness in his expression that told you he knew exactly how wrecked he’d made you.

Your legs fell from his shoulders and bounced lightly as they hit the bed. You felt weightless as his hands ran up and down your sides with a touch that’s almost reverent. One hand slid up your leg, leaving goosebumps in its wake, and he pulled out of you, his eyes flitting down for a moment.

Clark let out a low sound as he watched his release spill from you. You tried to summon up some semblance of annoyance at his smugness, but you were still feeling too boneless and satisfied to even think about it.

You gently swatted his shoulder as he rolled off the top of you with a laugh and laid beside you. He slung an arm around your waist, hauling you close, and pressed a lazy kiss to your shoulder.

Shifting ever so slightly, you rested your head on his chest, hearing the steady thump of his heartbeat under your ear. Your legs tangled in the sheets that had long since given up on staying neatly in place. 

Clark’s fingers traced lazy patterns along your spine, soft and idle, like he couldn’t quite stop touching you even when he was too blissed-out to move. Then the bed creaked. You lifted your head slowly.

“Clark…” You blinked down at him.

Clark stared up at the ceiling like he was trying to physically will himself invisible. You sat up fully now, sheets gathering around your waist as you inspected the scene of the crime. One leg of the bed frame had clearly surrendered to the forces of passion—and super strength.

He winced—adorably. Clark covered his face with one large hand, a flush creeping all the way to his ears. You poked his side and his hand dropped as he gave you a sheepish, boyish grin—the kind that always melted you a little.

“Guess I got carried away,” he admitted.

“You guess, huh?” you raised a brow, shoving his shoulder. 

Clark caught your hand gently, tugging you back down onto his chest with ease. “Hey,” he said softly, brushing a kiss to your forehead, “we’re a team. If I broke the bed… you helped.”

You smacked his chest. “Clark!”

He laughed harder, the sound rumbling warmly through his chest beneath you. “Alright, alright,” he said, dragging you closer and kissing your temple, “I’ll take full responsibility.”

[dearlawdimasimp]

[faepoetry]

bruce wayne and clark kent at the same time | 18+ tw: cursing, smut, degrading kink, praise kink, nsfw mdni

Bruce's fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave marks, his thrusts merciless as he pounded into you from behind. Your moans were muffled by Clark's cock as he thrusted into your mouth, not nearly as rough as Bruce's thrusts. "That's it, take our cocks like a fucking slut." Bruce growled, his palm landing a sharp slap to your ass. You yelped, jolting forward, which only made you take Clark's cock deeper down your throat.

Clark's fingers threaded through your hair gently, the feeling drastically different from the way Bruce was gripping your hips. "Fuck, you're doing so well baby. You're so pretty like this." He groaned as he looked down at you. You looked up at him through your lashes, face tearstained and messy with mascara, lip gloss smudged on your cheek, saliva dripping down your lips and chin.

Bruce let out a dark chuckle, his hips snapping forward roughly, causing your cunt to squeeze his length. "Look at her Clark, can't even decide which cock you like more. Fuck, you just love cock so much, don't you, dirty little slut." He growled as he gripped your ass, kneading the flesh in his large hands.

Clark's thumb brushed along your cheekbone, gently wiping away a stray tear. His hand tightened in your hair softly, helping guide you along his length. "You're so perfect," he murmured, voice thick with affection. "Love seeing those pouty lips stretched around my cock, sucking my cock so well." He groaned when your tongue flicked the underside of his shaft. "God, you're fucking mouth is so perfect. So fucking perfect." He whimpered, his pace becoming choppy, signaling that he was close.

Bruce's grip on your hips tightened even more, his rhythm turning erratic as he grunted through clenched teeth. "Gonna fill this greedy cunt up," he snarled, fingers biting into your skin. "Gonna breed this cunt until you're dripping for days. Make sure you remember who owns this perfect fucking pussy." His hips jerked against you a couple more timed before he stilled, his cock twitching deep inside of you, warmth flooding you as he filled you up with his seed. He pulled out, the sound obscenely loud. You whimpered when his fingers threaded through your hair roughly, thrusting you onto Clark's cock. "C'mon, choke on his cock. Make him cream down that pretty throat." He growled.

Tears sprang in your eyes once again as you looked up at Clark. Bruce's grip caused you to take Clark all the way, your nose pressing against his stomach as you gagged. Clark's fingers loosened Bruce's grip in your hair, easing you up just enough so you could breathe comfortably around his cock. "Easy, sweetheart." He murmured, his hips rocking shallowly, the head of his cock dragging against your tongue. "You don't have to take it all, it's okay baby. Just take as much as you can handle, sweet girl."

"You're fucking pathetic. Can't even take him down your throat properly?" Bruce laughed mockingly, his fingers tracing a line down your spine before landing another sharp slap to your ass. The feeling was dizzying, having Bruce degrade and humiliate you while Clark whispered soft praises, his touch gentle compared to Bruce's manhandling.

Clark's breath hitched as you hollowed your cheeks around him, his fingers twitching in your hair. "Christ, you feel amazing." He choked out, his thrusts growing sloppy. "Fuck, I'm gonna cum baby." He groaned, voice wrecked. You moaned around him, urging him on. Clark groaned loudly, thighs tensing as he came down your throat. You continued to suck his cock, helping him through his orgasm.

"Look at her, still trying to suck you dry. Little fucking cockslut, isn't she?" Bruce chuckled darkly.

Clark pulled out of your mouth with a wet pop, his cock glistening with your spit, a string of it connecting your lips to his cock. You gasped when Bruce flipped you around so you were now facing him. He stroked his length a few times, his cock covered in your mixed arousal. "Now you're gonna take my cock down your throat like a good fucking girl while you let Clark fill that greedy little pussy up with more cum. Understood?" He asked as the head of his cock brushed against your lips. You nodded, looking up at him, your eyes watery and your lips puffy, but you still wanted more. Needed more. Bruce smirked. "Good girl, because we're not done with you yet."

❀ end note: i looove soft dom clark and mean dom bruce so much. this dynamic drives me feral. i have more planned for these two so stay tuned! 🤭🙈

❀ if you liked this fic then i would really appreciate it if you liked, or commented, or reblog it! thanks for reading! ❀

©faepoetry please do not steal, copy, repost, reuse, or translate my work.

[gothamgraveyard]

how do you think the batfam would recruit a spider-person who gets bitten the same day they’re picked up?

like what would their recruitment process look like, i don’t really think they’d let the spider person know everyone’s identities and sorta just keep them under tim or bruce till they don’t look like a baby deer during their patrol

How the batfam would work with/recruit a new! spider person:

A/n: This is just my opinion. Feel free to disagree, It's never that deep.

Bruce would treat the Spider-Person less like a prospective vigilante and more like a biological hazard for the first several months

The thing about Bruce is that he is actually much more cautious with metahumans than fandom sometimes portrays.

When Dick became Robin, Bruce understood what Dick was capable of. Same with Jason, Tim, Damian, and even Cass. They were extraordinarily skilled children, but they were still operating within the limits of human capability.

A Spider-Person is not...

A newly-bitten Spider-Person is arguably worse because they have enormous power with absolutely no frame of reference for it.

Bruce would be deeply concerned by the fact that the kid could accidentally kill someone long before they were worried about whether the kid could survive patrol.

I think a lot of the Batfamily would assume Bruce is being overprotective at first, but then the Spider-Person accidentally tears a sink out of the wall while trying to steady themselves or leaves fingerprints in steel after gripping too hard, and suddenly Bruce's paranoia starts looking very reasonable.

They would almost certainly be kept under Tim's supervision rather than Dick's, which would irritate literally everybody involved

Dick is the obvious emotional choice. He's patient and js generally excellent with younger heroes

That's exactly why Bruce wouldn't choose him.

Dick's greatest weakness has always been that he assumes people can do things because he can do them.

And Bruce knows this

If Dick sees the Spider-Person successfully land a ridiculous aerial maneuver once, he'll immediately start encouraging them to push themselves further.

Tim, meanwhile, has the opposite problem

Tim assumes everyone is seconds away from catastrophic failure because that's how Tim himself experiences life.

A Spider-Person under Tim's supervision would spend months listening to explanations about risk assessment, situational awareness, contingency planning, and mission parameters.

The Spider-Person would be bored out of their skull (Bruce would consider this evidence that the training is working)

Tim would become increasingly frustrated because the Spider-Person keeps bypassing problems he spent years learning to solve.

A lock that would take Tim ten minutes to crack is bypassed because the Spider-Person simply climbs onto the ceiling and enters through a vent.

An ambush Tim carefully predicted is avoided because their spider-sense goes off

I think Tim would develop a very specific kind of resentment where he simultaneously admires their abilities and finds them deeply annoying.

Every training session starts sounding a little like:

"Okay, but if you DIDN'T have superpowers, what would you do?"

And the Spider-Person keeps answering

"But I do have superpowers."

Nobody in the family would be particularly impressed by the strength tbh

The Batfamily has met kryptonians, speedsters, Amazons, Lanterns, shapeshifters, and gods so super strength isn't something...new

The mobility might be!

A Spider-Person's movement is deeply unnatural by Batfamily standards.

Because they're moving in ways that don't make intuitive sense to people who have spent years mastering conventional movement

Cass would probably be fascinated by this almost immediately because so much of her fighting style depends on reading body language. A Spider-Person can attack from angles most fighters never even consider.

Dick would be obsessed with the acrobatics.

Damian would hate the acrobatics.

Jason would pretend not to care about the acrobatics while very obviously caring about the acrobatics.

Bruce would spend weeks reviewing footage trying to understand how the hell they keep changing direction in midair and it would make him rip out his hair

The identity issue would also be ridiculous

the Batfamily's security culture is borderline absurd?

Bruce would likely compartmentalize information heavily at first. The Spider-Person might know Batman's identity due to the circumstances of being taken in, but I doubt they'd immediately get access to the entire family roster.

The problem is tho that the Batfamily is catastrophically bad at keeping secrets from people who live with them.

They're excellent at keeping secrets from enemies

But they've got a track record with roommates and not being able to keep their identities hidden.

The Spider-Person would probably figure out Nightwing's identity accidentally within weeks of knowing him because Dick Grayson has never successfully concealed anything in his life.

The only people who might genuinely maintain operational security are Bruce, Cass, and Alfred. The rest would be a disaster.

I'm also not sure if a spider-person would survive Gotham?

A lot of Spider-Man stories take place in environments where Peter can afford to make mistakes. He gets hurt, he learns, he grows from there.

That's lwk NOT how Gotham works

The Spider-Person archetype tends to be optimistic, empathetic, and people-oriented. Gotham systematically attacks all three traits.

Bruce would probably spend far more time trying to teach emotional resilience than combat

Bruce would insist because he's already watched multiple children learn these lessons the hard way and has absolutely no interest in adding another name to that list even if ALL the Spider-Person wants to do is get out on that feild.

the Spider-Person would probably become the most socially functional member of the family too (Better than Dick, even)

Not bc they're healthier or anything but solely because the bar is in hell

A typical Spider-Person talks constantly and makes friends and allies just as easy

This is witchcraft to the Waynes (well, Waynes in spirit)

Commissioner Gordon would probably end up liking them immediately.

Civilians would esp adore them

I think they'd be the most likeable of the family as well, and I think with due training they could easily be allies with the Justice League

[noctisiss]

The Ghost Beside The Bat

A batman x vigilante!reader

Summary: "The girl leaned against the counter while she waited, eyes drifting over the little shop she had spent so many mornings in before everything got too complicated to keep pretending her life was simple. The window seats still had the same faded cushions. The plant by the register was a little more alive than she remembered, but only barely."

-> Bruce Wayne x vigilante!reader , Dc x Marvel crossover, recounting of old memories

II <- III ->

“Seriously though, you are a life saver.”

Pepper Potts’ voice came through the headphones with just enough exhaustion to make the words sound half-grateful, half-horrified that she had needed to say them in the first place.

The girl laughed softly as she kept walking, her boots tapping a steady rhythm against the sidewalk. Gotham at seven in the morning looked almost deceptive in its peace. The streets were quieter. The traffic was lighter. The harshest sounds came from the occasional honk, the distant grind of a garbage truck, and the soft hiss of a bus braking at the corner.

It almost made the city look harmless.

Almost.

“Pepper, I told you it wasn’t a big deal,” she said, shifting the phone against her shoulder as she adjusted the collar of her leather jacket. “Plus, at least I’m using my degree for something.”

She heard Pepper exhale over the line, and it was the kind of tired exhale only someone balancing a billion-dollar empire, a child, and probably five disasters at once could make.

“Still,” Pepper said, “I feel bad that I woke you up.”

The girl made a face and slowed at the crosswalk, watching a delivery truck rumble past before she crossed the street.

Right.

Sleep.

That thing she apparently used to do in theory.

In practice, she had come back to Gotham around two in the morning, spent nearly an hour unpacking case files from the GCPD, and then got dragged into Pepper’s emergency call at four because someone had apparently made a mess of the schematics for a new Stark project and Pepper had needed an extra set of eyes.

The girl had agreed immediately.

Then she had spent the next several hours going over technical notes until her brain started to feel like it had been sandpapered from the inside.

“Don’t worry about me,” she replied finally, tucking the headphones more securely over her ears. “This isn’t as bad as it was last time.”

There was a pause on Pepper’s end.

The girl could practically hear the worry there even through the line.

She knew that sound well by now.

Pepper had that kind of voice. The one that always sounded like she was trying to keep herself composed just enough to hold everyone else together too.

The girl softened slightly.

“How’s Morgan?” she asked.

The pause on the other end turned into something quieter.

Fond.

“Tired,” Pepper admitted. “Loud. Curious. Unreasonable. Determined.”

“That sounds about right.”

“She started talking more recently,” Pepper said, and the girl could hear the smile this time. “I think she’s starting to understand more than she lets on.”

The girl smiled too, glancing up as the morning light broke through between the buildings ahead.

“I bet she’s missing her aunt right now.”

Pepper snorted.

That worked exactly as intended.

The girl smiled wider, turning the corner toward the old coffee shop she used to frequent when she was still young enough to pretend she had time to sit down and live like a normal person for ten minutes.

“I'll tell her you said 'hi' later” Pepper said.

“I’ll do better than that,” she replied. “I’ll text her something embarrassing about you to her later.”

“Do not.”

“I absolutely will.”

Pepper groaned softly, and for a brief second the entire conversation felt almost normal.

Like they were not both carrying enormous amounts of responsibility.

Like she had not spent the last month surviving a war and then returning to Gotham like it hadn’t nearly destroyed her once already.

Like Pepper was not managing Stark Industries and a child and grief all at once.

Like the girl was not standing in the middle of Gotham at sunrise with blood still under her nails from the previous night’s patrol.

After a moment, the girl glanced at the file folder tucked under one arm and spoke again.

“Hey, Pepper?”

“Mm?”

“Send over the projects that need work on. All of them.”

The silence that followed was immediate and suspicious.

Then Pepper sputtered.

“Absolutely not.”

The girl smirked to herself as she rounded the final corner toward the coffee shop.

“Oh yes.”

“You are one person.”

“And?”

“And those projects are not yours.”

“They are now.”

“You do realize I’m going to tell the other board members you’re trying to steal all my work?”

The girl practically could hear the hand going to Pepper’s forehead.

“Pepper,” she said patiently, “you are overworked. I am in Gotham, awake against my will, and surrounded by paperwork anyway. This is a perfect arrangement.”

“You sound delighted by that.”

“I’m a multitasker.”

“You sound insane.”

“That too.”

Pepper let out a long, very tired sigh.

The girl could imagine her perfectly now: probably already at the office, probably coffee in one hand, phone in the other, trying to answer three emails and a problem from another continent.

“Fine,” Pepper said at last, resigned. “I’ll send them once I get to the office.”

“Good.”

“But only because you asked nicely.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You were charming. I’m tired. It counts.”

The girl laughed under her breath.

“Deal.”

The call ended on a faint mutter from Pepper about "reckless people with degrees and too much confidence", and then there was only Gotham again.

The girl lifted her eyes toward the coffee shop window just as she reached the door.

Inside, the same old lady behind the counter looked up from a stack of napkins and immediately brightened.

Her face lit in recognition.

Not of the mask.

Not of the suit.

Just of her.

“Morning, sweetheart,” the woman called out warmly. “Back again?”

The girl’s expression softened instantly.

“Wouldn’t be Gotham if I didn’t come back here eventually.”

The old lady chuckled as she pressed the order slip down with one hand. “Same drink as always?”

“Same drink as always.”

“I know better than to ask if you’ve started sleeping normally yet.”

The girl put a hand over her chest in mock offense. “That sounds offensive.”

“It’s observational.”

“That’s worse.”

The old woman gave her a knowing smile and turned to make the coffee.

The girl leaned against the counter while she waited, eyes drifting over the little shop she had spent so many mornings in before everything got too complicated to keep pretending her life was simple. The window seats still had the same faded cushions. The plant by the register was a little more alive than she remembered, but only barely. A barista she didn’t know was restocking pastries in the back while some early commuter sat hunched over a laptop and looked deeply committed to being miserable before sunrise.

Gotham was still Gotham.

It just looked better with coffee in hand.

When the woman slid her cup across the counter, the girl thanked her and paid generously enough to make the old lady shake her head.

“You spoil me.”

“You deserve it.”

The woman snorted. “That sounds suspiciously like something your father would say.”

The girl froze for only half a second before she smiled politely and turned away.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” she said lightly, but her voice sounded a touch too careful.

The old lady smiled anyway. “Be safe out there.”

She gave a small wave in return and stepped back into the street.

Warm coffee in hand. Morning light on the pavement. Gotham waking slowly around her.

For about six whole seconds, she convinced herself this might be an easy day.

Then she bumped directly into someone’s chest.

The coffee slipped from her hand.

Her entire body went rigid for the briefest second.

The cup should have hit the ground.

It did not.

A hand shot out and caught it with startling precision before it could spill even a drop.

Silence.

The girl stared up.

The man in front of her stared down.

They both opened their mouths at exactly the same time.

“I am so sorry—”

“Sorry—”

And then both of them stopped.

A beat.

Two.

Then they both laughed.

It was the kind of sudden, ridiculous laughter that only happened when two people realized the world had nearly made them spill coffee on each other at seven in the morning.

The man adjusted his glasses slightly, looking sheepish in a way that was somehow disarmingly sincere.

“Wow,” he said, letting out a breathless chuckle. “That was almost very bad.”

The girl smiled despite herself and accepted the coffee back when he offered it.

“Only almost?”

“Well,” he said, glancing at the cup and then back at her, “I’m hoping the coffee is still salvageable.”

“It’s Gotham,” she replied. “We’re all salvageable in theory.”

That earned her another laugh.

The man rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. “Clark Kent.”

She blinked once, then gave him a curious look. “That sounds fake.”

He laughed again, this time more openly. “Yeah, I know. I get that a lot.”

She held out a hand. “I’m—”

She paused.

For one small second.

Not because she didn’t know what to say.

Because technically, she knew far too many things about who she was and who she had been and who Gotham thought she was.

Instead she just gave him the name she was using today.

“--[Fake Name].”

Clark shook her hand politely, and the moment his fingers closed around hers, something in his expression sharpened with interest. Not suspicion exactly. More like the look of a man whose curiosity had just been handed a live wire.

“You sound like you know Gotham pretty well,” he said.

The girl tilted her head. “That obvious?”

“It’s the way you moved.”

“Oh?”

“You looked at the sidewalk before you stepped into the crowd,” he said, smiling slightly. “And you didn’t hesitate when you hit the bump in the curb.”

She stared at him.

Then she snorted. “You noticed all that in three seconds?”

Clark shrugged with a small smile. “I write for a living. Observation is kind of the whole thing.”

“Are you one of those annoying people who turn everything into a story?”

“Only professionally.”

“Terrifying.”

“Thank you.”

She smiled into her coffee.

Then he glanced at the cup in her hand. “I really am sorry about that.”

“You already said that.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“Fine,” she said, finally letting him off the hook. “Repayment accepted.”

His shoulders relaxed by a fraction.

Then he gestured toward a nearby bench outside the coffee shop. “Do you have time to sit for a minute? I promise I’m not trying to be weird.”

She looked at him.

Then at the bench.

Then back at him.

“Clark,” she said carefully, “you are already being weird.”

He looked mildly offended. “I’m being polite.”

“Same thing.”

That made him laugh, and against her better judgment, she followed him over to the bench anyway.

The morning air was cool but not unpleasant. Gotham’s streets were slowly waking around them, the city still half-drowsy beneath the pale light of early day. A bus rolled past at the far end of the block. Someone shouted from the corner of a deli. Somewhere above them, a window slammed shut.

Clark sat with careful distance, coffee in both hands like he was trying not to appear too eager.

It did not work.

He was very clearly eager.

“So,” he said after a moment, “you’re from Gotham?”

The girl gave him a flat look over the rim of her cup.

“Was it the accent, the posture, or the complete lack of surprise at being nearly assaulted by a pedestrian?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “Maybe all three.”

She took a sip and leaned back slightly. “Yeah. Born and raised.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Oh?”

“You all look like you’ve either survived three wars or are about to start one.”

She barked out a laugh.

“That’s one way to describe Gotham.”

“And the coffee shop lady knew you.”

“I used to come here a lot.”

“Before?”

“Before I got busy.”

Clark gave her an amused look but didn’t press.

Instead he asked, “So what do you do now?”

The girl studied him for a moment.

He had kind eyes, she decided.

Annoyingly kind eyes.

The sort that made it very difficult to lie with confidence.

“I’m kind of a consultant,” she said at last.

That was technically true.

Just wildly incomplete.

Clark’s eyebrows rose. “A consultant?”

“Mhm.”

“For?”

She smiled innocently. “Trouble.”

Clark stared at her.

Then laughed under his breath again. “That is somehow both mysterious and useless.”

“I try.”

“Well, I’m writing two things right now,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “An interview with Mr. Wayne and a piece on the Ghost of Gotham.”

The girl went still.

Only for a second.

Just long enough for the words to settle.

The Ghost of Gotham.

So that was what the city was calling her now.

Interesting.

She hid the reaction with a small tilt of her head. “That sounds dramatic.”

“Gotham does dramatic very well.”

“Apparently.”

Clark glanced at her carefully. “You’ve heard of her?”

She considered the question for a beat.

Then she leaned back and smiled faintly.

“Maybe.”

His expression became immediately more alert.

“Do you know anything about her?”

The girl lifted one shoulder in a loose shrug.

“Depends on what you’re trying to find out.”

Clark’s smile turned almost sheepish. “I’m trying not to sound like I’m asking for classified information from a stranger at breakfast.”

“You’re already failing.”

“I know.”

She laughed again, setting her cup on the bench beside her. “What do you want to know?”

Clark’s gaze sharpened with interest.

“Anything useful.”

“Useful for what?”

“For the article.”

She hummed thoughtfully. “You’re not actually asking about Gotham, are you?”

Clark paused.

That pause was answer enough.

He looked mildly guilty. “I’m asking about her too.”

“Thought so.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again as if reconsidering how much to admit to a stranger.

Finally he said, “Most of the public sightings are… inconsistent. There are clips, but no interviews. Very little direct contact. A lot of people online think she’s a myth.”

“She’s not.”

“I figured.”

“The thing is,” she said lightly, “if you ask the wrong people about her, you’ll get half the story and all the drama.”

Clark smiled. “And if I ask the right people?”

“You’ll get something closer to the truth.”

He sat up straighter immediately. “That sounds encouraging.”

“It’s not.”

He laughed again.

She folded her hands around the paper cup and looked out toward the street.

“If you want my honest opinion,” she said, “the people who’ve actually seen her probably remember her more clearly than they’re willing to admit.”

Clark watched her carefully now. “What makes you say that?”

She glanced at him.

“Because Gotham doesn’t forget its heroes. It just gets weird about them.”

That earned a quiet huff of amusement from him.

Then he asked, “You seem to know a lot about the city.”

“I do.”

“Where do you think she’d show up?”

The girl considered that.

The morning breeze moved lightly between the buildings.

She could feel the city around her. The pattern of roads. Rooftops. Fire escapes. Alleys.

Old instincts returned easily when Gotham was involved.

“She’d hit the places nobody wants to walk alone,” she said after a moment. “The dark corners. The old industrial blocks. The poorer districts first. The places people ignore until something gets loud enough to make them look.”

Clark took a note on a little pad like this was all very normal and not deeply suspicious.

“You’re telling me her patrol pattern?”

“You asked for useful.”

His mouth twitched. “Fair enough.”

“She’d avoid the obvious routes if she were smart.”

Clark glanced up from the pad. “Would she?”

The girl gave him a dry look. “Wouldn’t you?”

He smiled faintly. “Probably.”

“That’s why you’re a good reporter.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was one.”

The conversation drifted from there.

He asked careful questions.

She answered carefully.

Not enough to reveal herself.

Enough to help.

He seemed more interested in her thoughts than in the article, which she found mildly suspicious.

Not dangerous.

Just suspicious.

Eventually Clark leaned back and tapped the pen against his notes. “You’re helpful.”

“I’m concerned that you’re acting surprised.”

“I’ve met a lot of people in this city already. Most of them are either angry or lying.”

“That’s because it’s Gotham.”

“True.”

He tilted his head slightly. “You’re not from here anymore, are you?”

The question landed softly.

But it still landed.

She held his gaze for a second, then smiled without warmth.

“Not exactly.”

Clark seemed to sense the boundary and immediately eased back. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.”

He nodded once.

And then, because apparently he had a terrible sense of timing or a very good one, he asked, “Do you plan to stay?”

She looked back down at her coffee cup.

The city was brighter now. The sky a washed-out gray-blue above the rooftops.

“I don’t know yet.”

Clark accepted that answer without pushing.

They sat in comfortable silence for a minute after that.

Then she stood first.

“I should get back.”

Clark looked up. “Already?”

“I have work.”

He smiled. “So do I.”

“You should probably start with the easy stories first.”

“Oh? And which ones are those?”

She glanced down at him with a half-smile.

“Not Gotham.”

That made him laugh again.

He rose to his feet as well and tucked his notes away. “Thanks for the coffee conversation.”

“You’re welcome.”

“And for the tips.”

“You’re welcome again.”

“Would it be too much to ask for your number in case I need more local insight?”

She gave him an unimpressed look. “You really are annoying.”

“I’ve been told.”

“By whom?”

“Usually my editor.”

“Fair.”

She considered him for another second, then gave him a small shake of her head. “Maybe another time.”

Clark looked amused rather than disappointed. “That’s not a no.”

“It’s also not a yes.”

“I’ll take it.”

She slipped her headphones off and gave him a brief nod before turning toward the apartment blocks.

“Nice meeting you, Clark Kent.”

“Likewise,” he said, smiling gently. “Stay safe out there.”

She snorted. “In Gotham?”

“That sounds impossible, yes.”

“Exactly.”

Then she headed home.

.

.

.

By the time she reached the apartment building, the city had shifted into its midmorning rhythm.

People were moving quicker now. Cars lined the street. Somewhere nearby a store owner was lifting the metal shutters off their windows. Gotham’s day had properly started.

She climbed the stairs quietly, coffee in hand, and let herself into the apartment with the spare key Dick had insisted on leaving her.

The moment the door swung shut behind her, she knew something was off.

It wasn’t a loud feeling.

No broken glass.

No obvious footprint.

No scent of smoke or violence.

Just a subtle shift in the air.

The kind that set every instinct in her body sharpening all at once.

Her hand moved toward the inside seam of her jacket automatically.

She took one step further inside.

Then another.

Her eyes flicked across the room.

Nothing looked disturbed at first glance.

The couch was still tidy.

The books were still arranged on the shelf.

The kitchen counter was still clean.

The apartment seemed normal.

Too normal.

Her jaw tightened.

Then she noticed the bathroom door.

It was open.

Not wide.

Just enough.

She stopped moving.

The silence stretched.

Then she sighed, tired and very much not amused.

“You aren’t as slick as you think,” she said flatly, setting her coffee down on the nearest table. “Come out now before I drag you out myself.”

For several seconds, nothing happened.

Then the bathroom door swung wider.

An eleven-year-old child stepped out first with all the confidence of someone who absolutely believed he had done nothing wrong and would die before admitting otherwise.

Behind him, Alfred Pennyworth appeared with an expression that was equal parts fondness, resignation, and mild alarm.

The girl’s entire face changed in an instant.

Her brows drew together.

Her mouth parted slightly.

And then she just stared.

“Alfred…?”

The old man looked at her like he had been waiting years for that exact moment.

“Good morning, miss.”

The child beside him crossed his arms and looked at her with immediate suspicion.

The girl’s attention snapped to him next.

The boy had sharp features, dark eyes, and the kind of posture that suggested he thought the world was beneath him while also secretly wanting someone to challenge him just so he could prove it.

She knew that posture.

She knew that glare.

She knew that face in a way that made her stomach drop straight through the floor.

And in the shocked silence of her own apartment, the only thing she could manage was a breathless, disbelieving whisper.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

A/N: Nother day another chapter! Tmr there whont be one sadly though because I will be busy. Hope you all enjoyed the chapter (Also cliffhanger muhaha)

Taglist: @crys4l   @cantbecreative @whimsiecat @ilocuras24, @throughmylifetimesiwatchtheworld 

[noctisiss]

The Ghost Beside The Bat

A batman x vigilante! reader

Summary: "She still didn’t know how long she planned on staying in Gotham. A few weeks? A month? Longer? She honestly hadn’t decided yet. But while she was here, she intended to make herself useful."

-> Bruce Wayne x vigilante!reader , Dc x Marvel crossover, recounting of old memories, Slight Overthinking but not rlly dwelled into it, Batkids being themselves.

I <- II

The GCPD building hadn’t changed at all.

That was the first thing she thought as the elevator doors slid open with a low metallic ding.

The bullpen looked exactly the same as it had years ago.

Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead. Detectives shuffled between desks buried beneath paperwork and half-empty coffee cups. Phones rang constantly somewhere in the background while tired officers argued quietly over reports. Rainwater still streaked against the tall windows from the earlier storm, leaving Gotham looking blurred and gray outside the glass.

Same old Gotham.

Same old GCPD.

The girl slipped her cold hands deeper into the pockets of her suit as she stepped out of the elevator.

God, she was still thankful she had pestered Tony for usable pockets.

The black and red tactical suit sat comfortably against her skin beneath the oversized hood pulled over her head. The rain had stopped nearly an hour ago, but she kept the hood up anyway. It covered more of her face. Made her harder to look at.

Not that anyone really knew her identity anymore.

Switching from a full cowl to a domino mask years ago had helped with that.

Still, old habits died hard.

Her boots moved quietly across the bullpen floor as she glanced around the room. Most people were too busy working to notice her immediately.

At least at first.

One officer passed by carrying a stack of files.

“Evening,” she greeted absentmindedly.

“Evenin—”

The man stopped mid-step.

She kept walking.

A second later she practically felt the double take burning into the back of her skull.

The corner of her mouth twitched upward slightly.

Yeah.

That reaction never really got old.

She’d gotten used to it years ago.

The whispers.

The stares.

The way people looked at her like they were seeing a ghost.

She shook the thought away quickly before it could settle too deeply.

Focus.

She wasn’t here for nostalgia.

As much as Gotham still clawed memories out of her whether she wanted it to or not, she came here for information.

She still didn’t know how long she planned on staying in Gotham.

A few weeks?

A month?

Longer?

She honestly hadn’t decided yet.

But while she was here, she intended to make herself useful.

And unfortunately, disappearing for years to join the Avengers tended to make old intel connections slightly outdated.

Not to mention…

She didn’t exactly have the same resources anymore.

The Batcomputer.

Wayne tech upgrades.

Batman’s surveillance network.

The endless stream of gadgets Lucius built.

She still had her own equipment, of course.

Tony had practically thrown advanced Stark tech at her for years despite her constant complaints about it.

But compared to what Gotham used now?

Some of her old gear that she used back then belonged in a museum.

The thought made her snort quietly to herself.

Dick had left maybe twenty minutes earlier.

And yet she was already wandering through the apartment like she expected it to disappear if she looked away for too long.

The bedroom hit hardest.

She paused in the doorway slowly.

The old bookshelves.

Stacks of case files.

Photographs pinned carelessly onto the walls.

An old hoodie Dick left behind hanging off the corner of her desk chair.

It all looked painfully familiar.

Like stepping into a preserved version of herself.

And somehow that was worse than if the apartment had changed completely.

Because she had changed.

God.

She had changed so much.

New York had changed her.

The Avengers had changed her.

Loss had changed her.

Natasha’s and Jason's death alone had carved something permanent into her chest.

And yet this room still looked like it belonged to someone younger. Someone who still thought exhaustion could be fixed with coffee and stubbornness.

Her gaze drifted toward the old wardrobe instinctively.

'Would the hidden compartment still work?'

The second she successfully opened it, her breath caught painfully in her throat.

Her old suit stared back at her.

The old batsuit.

Black armor with dark red accents running along the ribs and forearms. The cowl rested neatly beside it exactly where she’d left it years ago.

Even the gadgets remained organized.

Smoke pellets.

Old grapples.

Baterangs.

Shock discs.

Every piece carefully maintained.

Like someone had been taking care of them.

Waiting.

Her chest hurt so sharply she had to grip the edge of the compartment.

She could only think of one person who would do this.

Bruce.

Of course it had to have been Bruce.

Who else would preserve something like this so carefully?

Who else would refuse to let it decay?

Her fingertips brushed lightly across the old cowl.

Memories hit instantly.

Bruce adjusting the cape after a mission.

Jason stealing smoke pellets because “they looked cool.”

Dick falling dramatically off furniture while trying to imitate her grappling techniques.

Alfred scolding all of them equally.

Her throat tightened.

A cough nearby snapped her out of the memory immediately.

—

Back in the present, she looked up sharply.

Commissioner Gordon stood a few feet away near one of the darker corners of the bullpen, coffee cup in one hand and a deeply unimpressed expression on his face.

“I didn’t think I’d see you this fast again,” he admitted while walking closer.

She relaxed slightly.

“Miss me already?”

“That depends,” Gordon muttered. “Should I be worried?”

“Probably.”

“That answer does not help my blood pressure.”

She snorted softly.

Gordon stopped in front of her before crossing his arms. “Why are you here? Don’t get me wrong,” he added quickly, “I’m glad to see you, but you were never exactly the type to hang around GCPD voluntarily.”

She rolled her eyes beneath the hood.

“I’m here to see if there are any ongoing cases requiring extra attention.”

Gordon tilted his head slightly.

“Don’t you and Batman have a special comms channel for that?”

The question hit like a knife sliding carefully between ribs.

Her body went rigid before she could stop it.

Silence stretched.

Her gaze dropped briefly toward the floor.

God.

Even hearing Batman mentioned still did something awful to her chest.

Gordon noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

He’d known both of them too long not to.

His expression softened slightly.

Before he could say anything—

“Dad?”

Barbara’s voice cut through the moment.

“Is everything okay?”

Fuck.

The girl straightened automatically.

She turned just as Barbara rolled closer in her wheelchair.

For one brief second both women froze.

Barbara’s eyes widened immediately.

Recognition hit almost instantly.

Then warmth followed right after it.

A small smile spread across Barbara’s face.

The girl felt her own expression soften in response before she even realized it.

“It has been quite a while since I’ve seen you, Barbara.”

Barbara laughed softly under her breath.

“Yeah,” she admitted. “You could say that.”

The girl walked closer carefully while Gordon quietly stepped aside.

“You look good.”

Barbara raised an eyebrow immediately. “Liar.”

“You look less sleep deprived than your father.”

“That’s an extremely low standard.”

“Still counts.”

Barbara shook her head fondly. “God, I forgot how sarcastic you are in person.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It absolutely is.”

The tension eased almost instantly after that.

Comfortable.

Familiar even.

Like no time had passed at all.

Which honestly made her chest ache a little more.

Gordon cleared his throat after a moment. “Right. Cases.”

Barbara immediately groaned. “You really know how to ruin emotional reunions.”

“It’s a gift.”

The girl huffed out a laugh.

“I’ll make copies of the active investigations for you,” Gordon continued while glancing toward his office. “Wait there. It’ll be more comfortable than standing in the bullpen all night.”

“I can stand just fine.”

“You got stabbed by aliens recently.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Why does everyone keep bringing that up?”

“Because normal people don’t get stabbed by aliens.”

“Skill issue.”

Barbara snorted loudly.

Gordon looked exhausted immediately. “You’re all impossible.”

“You raised one of us,” Barbara pointed out helpfully.

“I regret many things.”

“Wow.”

Barbara and the girl headed toward Gordon’s office together while Gordon himself went to retrieve the files.

And almost immediately the whispers started.

At first she ignored them automatically.

Whispers in Gotham usually meant one of three things: danger, fear, or gossip.

Most weren’t worth paying attention to.

But then—

“Holy shit…” “Is that really her?” “No way.” “I thought she left for good.” “She looks exactly the same.” “Older though.” “Thank God…”

Her steps slowed slightly.

The older officers recognized her immediately.

Not the suit.

Her.

Even with the different mask.

Different armor.

Different city carved into her posture.

They still knew.

And somehow that affected her more than she expected.

Not fear.

Not suspicion.

Relief.

Warmth.

Like Gotham itself was quietly welcoming her home.

Her chest tightened unexpectedly.

Barbara noticed.

But thankfully didn’t comment on it.

Once inside Gordon’s office, she held the door open automatically while helping Barbara maneuver inside easier before shutting it quietly behind them.

Silence settled for a moment.

Then Barbara looked at her carefully.

“I saw what happened.”

The girl blinked. “Hm?”

“The fight....With Thanos”

Oh.

Barbara’s expression softened.

“I’m glad you’re okay.”

Something painful flickered briefly through the girl’s eyes.

Because okay wasn’t exactly the word she’d use.

But still—

She smiled softly anyway.

“Thanks.”

Barbara studied her for another moment before speaking again.

“You looked terrifying by the way.”

She barked out a surprised laugh. “That’s your takeaway?”

“You literally fought aliens and survived being blasted through rubble.”

“Tony called that ‘a minor inconvenience.’”

Barbara stared.

“…You know what? Suddenly Bruce makes more sense.”

That made both of them laugh.

And just like that the conversation became easier.

They caught up slowly.

Barbara filled her in on Gotham updates.

The girl talked vaguely about New York while carefully avoiding certain subjects.

Natasha.

The snap.

The years lost.

Too painful.

Too fresh.

Barbara noticed the avoidance but thankfully didn’t push.

Then eventually Barbara leaned back slightly.

“You should reconnect to Oracle.”

The girl blinked. “Barbara—”

“I’m serious.”

“I don’t know how long I’m staying.”

“So?”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes you do.”

The girl opened her mouth.

Barbara pointed at her immediately.

“Nope. Don’t even start. You’re operating solo in Gotham after years away. You absolutely need updated surveillance support.”

“…I hate when you’re logical.”

“I learned from the best.”

“You absolutely did not.”

Barbara grinned.

Eventually—after far too much persistence—the girl finally sighed exhaustedly.

“Fine.”

“YES.”

“You’re unbearable.”

“And yet you still love me.”

Unfortunately true.

Then Barbara’s expression shifted slightly.

More hesitant now.

Careful.

“…Hey,” she started softly. “Can we talk about Jason for a sec—”

The office door opened immediately.

Barbara nearly slumped in defeat.

Gordon entered carrying a dangerously large stack of files.

“Good lord,” the girl muttered. “Planning to bury me alive?”

“You asked for Gotham crime reports.”

“I suddenly regret asking.”

Barbara quietly mouthed: Later.

The girl noticed.

And immediately understood what that conversation would’ve been about.

Jason.

Her chest twisted painfully.

No.

Not tonight.

Not yet.

She wasn't ready to reopen that wound yet

While Gordon explained the files, Barbara subtly pulled out her phone beneath the desk.

" The Don’t Tell Bruce "

BrainCellHolder: she’s literally sitting in dad’s office rn Overworked Intern: WHAT Rabid Chihuahua: Photographic evidence required. BrainCellHolder: you people are insufferable

Barbara quickly snapped a subtle picture.

The girl stood near Gordon’s desk flipping through files beneath the dim office lighting, hood lowered slightly now, expression focused.

The chat exploded instantly.

Walking Flashlight (duke): SHE LOOKS SO COOL??? Barbie Bat: OH MY GOD SHES PRETTY Shadow Gremlin: :) Overworked Intern: OMG SHES OPERATING IN GOTHAM FR THEN? Hoodrat: … Hoodrat: Did you talk to her?

Barbara hesitated briefly before typing.

BrainCellHolder: Kinda BrainCellHolder: got interrupted before i could mention you

Silence followed for a second.

Then:

Hoodrat: …oh

Barbara’s expression softened sadly.

Overworked Intern: bruce knows right Walking Flashlight: there’s no way he DOESN’T know. Its Bruce were talking about. Rabid Chihuahua: Father has been significantly more silent than usual. Barbie Bat: OH MY GOD HE DOES KNOW Overworked Intern: THIS IS SO MESSY Shadow Gremlin: :)

Barbara physically snorted.

“Something funny?” Gordon asked absentmindedly.

“Not even remotely,” Barbara muttered.

Eventually, after nearly forty more minutes of explanations, warnings, and Gordon insisting she not try fighting entire gangs alone anymore—

(which she absolutely ignored)—

The meeting finally ended.

She gathered the files carefully into one arm.

“Thanks,” she said sincerely while adjusting her hood again.

Gordon nodded once . “Be careful out there.” The girl node then went to hug Barbara. She hugged back immediately

Barbara added quietly: “And seriously. Oracle comms.”

The girl sighed dramatically. “You are relentless.”

“Correct.”

“…Fine.”

Barbara grinned victoriously.

The girl shook her head fondly before finally heading toward the rooftop exit.

Cool night air hit her immediately once she stepped outside.

Gotham stretched endlessly below her.

Dark.

Beautiful.

Broken.

...Home.

For one long second she simply stood there breathing it in.

Then she moved.

She sprinted toward the edge of the rooftop before leaping cleanly into open air.

The grappling hook fired instantly.

The line caught.

And suddenly she was flying between Gotham’s buildings again like she’d never left at all.

What she didn’t notice—

was the dark figure standing silently several rooftops away.

Watching.

Batman remained completely still as she disappeared into the city skyline.

His jaw tightened beneath the cowl.

She moved differently now.

More lethal.

More precise.

Years with the Avengers had changed her fighting style slightly.

But Gotham still remained underneath it.

Always Gotham.

Bruce’s gaze lingered on the spot she’d vanished from long after she was gone.

Then, quietly—

almost painfully—

He followed.

A/N : Nother chapter yippeii! Hope you all enjoyed it ! The inspiration for this is going wild while I rewatch THE Batman. gulp

Taglist: @crys4l

[noctisiss]

The Ghost Beside The Bat

A batman x vigilante!reader

Summary:"The apartment looked untouched.Not abandoned. Not frozen in time in the creepy, dust-covered way she had expected after years away. No. It looked lived in. Maintained. Preserved. Like someone had been waiting for her to come back." or reader returns to her Gotham and Dick helps her settle in.

-> Bruce Wayne x vigilante!reader , Dc x Marvel crossover, recounting of old memories, Slight Overthinking but not rlly dwelled into it, angst if you look at in that way, Batkids being themselves.

PROLOGUE<-I-> II

“Dick… when you told me my old apartment was still usable…” she trailed off slowly as she stepped further into the apartment, rainwater still clinging to the edges of her boots and coat. “…I did not think you meant it like this.”

The apartment looked untouched.

Not abandoned. Not frozen in time in the creepy, dust-covered way she had expected after years away. No. It looked lived in. Maintained. Preserved.

Like someone had been waiting for her to come back.

Her chest tightened painfully.

The old bookshelf still leaned slightly to the left because she had never gotten around to fixing one of the legs. Books sat in uneven stacks exactly the way she used to leave them after long nights and longer patrols. The couch by the window still had the faded blanket thrown over one arm. The kitchen light still flickered faintly when turned on.

Even the stupid mug with the chipped handle was still sitting beside the sink.

She stared at it for a long moment.

“Yeah,” Dick said casually behind her, carrying another box inside as if her entire world hadn’t just tilted sideways. “Bruce and Alfred kept it maintained.”

She blinked and slowly turned toward him. “You say that like that’s a normal sentence.”

Dick kicked the door shut with his foot before setting the box down near the couch. “For us? It kinda is.”

“That’s concerning.”

“That’s our family for you.”

She huffed out a laugh despite herself, shaking her head as she crouched near one of the opened boxes. Her fingers brushed across old picture frames wrapped carefully in newspaper.

God.

It even smelled the same.

Rain.

Coffee.

Old books.

The faint lingering scent of cedar from the wooden floors.

Home.

“Still,” she muttered, standing again to glance around the apartment, “this is… a lot.”

“Well,” Dick said lightly, grabbing another box before she could even reach for it, “that’s on you.”

She narrowed her eyes immediately. “Excuse you?”

“You left.”

She gasped dramatically. “Richard Grayson.”

He pointed at her accusingly while backing toward the door again. “Don’t use the government name on me.”

“At least let me carry my own boxes.”

Dick stopped dead in the doorway.

Slowly, he turned around.

The sheer offense on his face nearly made her laugh again.

“Mom,” he said flatly. “Are you insane?”

She snorted. “I am not—”

“You got stabbed by aliens like a month ago.”

“Technically,” she argued, “it was only one alien...and his army”

Dick stared at her.

“You hear yourself, right?”

“I fought Penguin literally a few hours ago and made no mistakes.”

“Penguin is basically a warm-up exercise at this point.”

“That is incredibly rude to say about a crime lord.”

“That man waddles when he runs.”

She burst out laughing at that, the sound bouncing warmly through the apartment for the first time in years.

Dick’s expression softened instantly at hearing it.

God.

He had missed that sound.

She had missed him.

Not the Nightwing version of him.

Not the older, sharper, exhausted version the world got now.

Just Dick.

Her kid.

Even if he was now fully grown and significantly taller than her.

“Seriously,” he said, gentler this time as he nudged another box farther into the apartment. “You’re still healing.”

She crossed her arms. “I hate when you become a reasonable adults”

Dick grinned. “Too bad. You raised me.”

“That sounds fake.”

“Mhm.”

She rolled her eyes fondly before crouching again to unpack another box. Her movements slowed as she pulled out an old Gotham Gators hoodie she hadn’t seen in years.

A memory flashed through her mind immediately.

Bruce sitting at this exact counter at three in the morning.

Still bleeding from patrol.

Still refusing medical attention.

She had thrown the hoodie at his face after he complained the apartment was cold.

"You keep your windows open in November", he’d muttered.

"And you keep getting shot. We all have flaws."

Her fingers tightened slightly around the fabric.

Bruce.

Every thought of him still felt like pressing against an old bruise.

Painfully familiar.

Still tender after all these years.

She remembered him here too clearly.

Long nights at her kitchen table while case files covered every available surface.

Bruce silently drinking coffee while she argued with him about resting.

Bruce asleep exactly once on her couch after a seventy-two hour case, one arm hanging off the side while she quietly draped a blanket over him.

Bruce standing by her window while Gotham glowed below them, both too exhausted to speak.

Bruce laughing softly under his breath after one of her terrible jokes.

Bruce here.

Everywhere.

The apartment still carried traces of him no matter how hard she tried not to notice.

“Hey.”

Dick’s voice snapped her out of the memory.

She blinked quickly. “Hm?”

“You okay?”

She forced a small smile. “Yeah.”

Dick looked unconvinced.

But before he could press further, her phone rang.

She glanced down at the screen and immediately snorted.

“Speak of annoying people.”

Dick leaned over curiously. “Who is it?”

“Sam.”

Dick brightened instantly. “Oh tell bird-boy I said hi.”

“He can hear you.”

“I KNOW!”

She shook her head fondly before answering and putting the phone on speaker as she continued unpacking.

“Hellooo?”

“Hey,” Sam’s voice came through immediately. “You made it to Gotham safely?”

She barked out a laugh. “Sam. It’s Gotham. Nothing is safe here.”

A loud groan crackled through the speaker.

“You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah,” she said, smiling as she shoved books back onto the shelf with absolutely no organization whatsoever. “I made it home safe.”

On the other end, Sam exhaled deeply.

Like he’d genuinely been holding his breath.

“Good,” he muttered. “You should’ve texted sooner.”

“I did text sooner.”

“You texted: ‘made it to Gotham. I’m alive.’ Then disappeared for nine hours.”

“It’s called emotional mystery.”

“It’s called being annoying.”

“That too.”

Dick snorted loudly from nearby.

“Was that Nightwing?” Sam asked immediately.

“The one and only,” Dick announced proudly.

“You still alive over there?”

“Barely. She’s already reorganizing books by vibes instead of genre.”

“She’s a criminal,” Sam agreed solemnly.

“You’re both dramatic.”

“You raised him,” Sam reminded her.

Dick pointed triumphantly. “THANK YOU.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t stop smiling.

God.

She hadn’t realized how much she missed this.

The casualness.

The warmth.

People checking if she got home safely because they cared—not because the world needed something from her.

After everything with Thanos, the battle, the losses, the exhaustion still buried in her bones…

this felt painfully normal.

Sam’s voice softened slightly through the speaker. “How’s Gotham feel?”

Her movements slowed.

She glanced toward the rain-covered windows.

The city beyond them glowed in dim yellows and reds beneath the storm.

“Same,” she admitted quietly.

Dick looked over at her immediately.

“Still smells terrible,” she added lightly.

Sam laughed. “There she is.”

She leaned against the bookshelf with a quiet sigh.

“How’s your family?”

“Good. Sarah’s already trying to convince me to let her visit New York again.”

“She absolutely should.”

“You are a terrible influence.”

“I taught your nephews how to throw knives.”

“You WHAT?”

Dick burst into laughter.

“IN MY DEFENSE,” she started.

“There better be a good defense.”

“They were foam knives.”

There was a long pause.

“That is slightly better.”

“Thank you.”

“It’s still concerning.”

“That’s fair.”

The conversation drifted easily after that.

Sam updated her about Louisiana.

She asked about his nephews.

Dick chimed in constantly while helping unpack, occasionally stealing snacks from boxes she hadn’t even opened yet.

It felt easy.

Familiar.

Safe.

And for the first time in a long time, she allowed herself to relax into it.

Meanwhile, Dick quietly unpacked several framed photos from one of the boxes.

His expression softened immediately.

The first picture showed her sitting between him and Jason years ago at some tiny diner near Crime Alley. Jason looked deeply offended about something while Dick was laughing hard enough to nearly fall sideways. She had one arm around each of them.

Dick swallowed slightly.

The second photo was chaos captured in physical form.

Bruce.

Alfred.

Barbara.

Jason.

Dick.

Her.

All crammed into the Batcave while mid-argument over a case. Barbara had apparently taken the photo while everyone was distracted yelling.

Bruce looked one second away from developing a migraine.

She looked like she was making it worse on purpose.

The third picture made Dick still.

Bruce stood in the Batcave carrying her over one shoulder while she laughed so hard her face was buried against the back of his cape.

Bruce—actual terrifying Batman—looked dangerously close to smiling.

Dick’s chest hurt unexpectedly.

They had been so in love.

So stupidly, painfully in love.

And neither of them had ever said it.

He subtly snapped pictures of the frames with his phone while she stayed distracted talking to Sam.

Then he opened the Batfamily group chat.

The names lighting up the screen immediately looked ridiculous.

Overworked Intern (Tim) Rabid Chihuahua (Damian) BrainCellHolder (Barbara) Hoodrat (Jason) Shadow Gremlin (Cass) Barbie Bat (Steph)

Dick grinned and sent the photos along with the caption. "Look guys Jason can smile"

The chat exploded instantly.

" Don't tell Bruce"

BrainCellHolder: OH MY GOD??? Overworked Intern: NO FUCKING WAY Rabid Chihuahua: TT. Explain immediately. Hoodrat: … Hoodrat: That’s her apartment.

Dick quickly snapped another picture.

This one was simpler.

Just her.

Standing on a chair while trying to shove books onto the top shelf, one sleeve rolled up slightly, hair messy from the rain, looking completely unaware that half the Batfamily was currently losing their minds over the fact she existed in Gotham again.

Overworked Intern: SHE’S REAL???

BrainCellHolder: Tim breathe. Rabid Chihuahua: Father knows? DihforBrains: Nope :) Hoodrat: You’re joking. DihforBrains: Nope again.

There was a long pause.

Then:

Hoodrat: …she’s really back?

Dick’s expression softened.

'Yeah', he typed back after a moment.

She is.

Another long silence.

Dick understood immediately.

Jason blamed himself.

Of course he did.

She left after his death.

And even though none of them blamed him—not really—Jason had always carried guilt like it was stitched into his skin.

Meanwhile Tim was absolutely spiraling.

Overworked Intern: SHE HELPED TRAIN YOU??? Overworked Intern: SHE’S THE ONE FROM THE STORIES??? Overworked Intern: THE ROOFTOP LADY???

Dick snorted loudly.

“What?” she asked immediately from across the room.

“Nothing.”

“That sounded suspicious.”

“I’m always suspicious.”

“Fair.”

Rabid Chihuahua: Grayson. I require an introduction immediately. BrainCellHolder: Dami you sound like a Victorian child requesting a formal audience. Rabid Chihuahua: Silence.

Dick laughed under his breath before locking his phone again.

He glanced around the apartment one more time.

The apartment was alive again.

After years.

Even Bruce had stopped coming here eventually.

Not because he wanted to.

Because it hurt too much.

Dick knew that.

Alfred knew that.

Hell, the entire family knew it.

This apartment was haunted by memory.

By love.

By grief.

And now she was here again, moving through it like a ghost finally returning home.

The call with Sam ended not long after that.

“You better text this time,” Sam warned before hanging up.

“No promises.”

“Exactly why I worry.”

“Love you too, Wilson.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

The call ended with Dick grinning knowingly at her.

“You’re fond of him.”

She gave him a look. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking it loudly.”

“Can’t help that.”

She tossed a dish towel at his face.

Dick caught it easily. “Violence. Nice.”

“You earned it.”

He laughed before stretching dramatically. “Okay. We’re done.”

She looked around the apartment slowly.

Most of the boxes were unpacked now.

Books lined the shelves again.

Blankets folded over the couch.

Photos rested carefully on tables and counters.

The place no longer looked abandoned.

It looked lived in.

Like her.

Something warm and aching settled painfully in her chest.

Dick suddenly gasped dramatically.

“What?”

“You should make pasta.”

She blinked. “That was abrupt.”

“I miss your pasta.”

“You had my pasta three weeks ago.”

“Not Gotham pasta.”

“That sentence means nothing.”

“It means everything.”

She laughed softly, shaking her head as she walked toward the kitchen.

“Fine. Pasta.”

Dick cheered loudly like she’d just announced world peace.

God.

She had missed this.

Missed him.

Missed home.

Even if Gotham still carried ghosts around every corner.

Even if one of those ghosts wore black armor and haunted her thoughts every single time she looked out into the rain.

A/N: Raah I'm on a role but brain is braining. Also Taglist is open if ppl are wondering :)

[noctisiss]

The Ghost Beside The Bat

A batman x vigilante!reader

Summary: The city still remembered her. In whispered stories between criminals.In old rooftop graffiti.

In the empty space beside Batman. Bruce Wayne had spent YEARS convincing himself he could survive losing her. But fate had other plans.

-> Bruce Wayne x vigilante!reader , Dc x Marvel crossover. Description of blood and sometimes gore. Description of fighting, Slow burn romance. Kinda OOC Bruce but I am trying to keep his personality the same.

PROLOGUE -> I

Gotham always looked worst when it rained.

Not because it changed the city. Gotham had always been rotten in all the ways that mattered, had always worn its decay like a second skin beneath the glittering facades and crooked spires. But rain made it honest. Rain dragged every secret down the sides of brick and concrete. It turned neon into bleeding wounds across the streets below and made the whole city look like it was drowning in its own sins.

Tonight, the rain came down in sheets.

It battered against rooftops, hammered against windows, hissed over the metal ledges of fire escapes and billboard frames. Fog had rolled in with the storm and settled low between the buildings, thick enough to blur the skyline into ghosts. It clung to Batman’s cape, dragged cold fingers over the armor at his shoulders, and made every movement heavier than it should have been.

He moved through it anyway.

He always did.

Batman landed silently on the edge of a tower, cape snapping behind him like a black flag in the wind. Below, the streets shone slick and silver under the streetlights, the whole city reduced to reflections and shadows and the distant wail of sirens. Somewhere out there, there was chaos. Somewhere out there, there was a pattern he was beginning to recognize.

A little over an hour ago, Gordon had sent word that GCPD had brought in a few low-level goons from a Penguin operation gone sideways. One of them had been talking too much. One of them had been insisting, with the white-faced panic of a man who had seen something he could not process, that there had been another vigilante on the scene.

Not Batman.

Not Robin.

Not one of the usual ghosts.

A new name had reached the radio half an hour later. A new set of sightings. A new shadow moving through Gotham’s dark arteries with too much skill for chance.

Batman had told himself it was nothing.

He had told himself that new vigilantes appeared now and then, brief sparks of defiance before the city swallowed them whole or turned them cruel. He had told himself that every city had its imitators, its hopefuls, its fools.

Then he had walked into the interrogation room at GCPD and looked at the men on the other side of the glass.

That was when the lie started to crack.

The first one had a split lip and swelling around one eye. The second was missing two teeth. The third kept trying to avoid looking at Batman altogether, which only told him he was the one to ask first.

Batman stood in the narrow interview room with the fluorescents buzzing overhead and the cold institutional stink of wet uniforms, stale coffee, and fear.

He folded his arms.

The criminals in front of him looked smaller than they had on the street. They always did in rooms like this. Without an alley or a warehouse or a gun in their hands, all the bluster drained out of them and left behind the soft, ugly shape of what they really were.

Batman’s voice came low and flat through the cowl. “Start talking.”

The man with the split lip laughed once. It came out as a wet, nervous sound.

“About what?”

Batman took one step forward. “About the vigilante.”

The man’s eyes flicked away. “What vigilante?”

Batman’s stare did not move. “Don’t waste my time.”

The second man, the one missing teeth, swallowed hard. “We already told the cops—there was some chick. That’s all.”

Batman’s jaw tightened. “Describe her.”

All three of them exchanged glances.

The first one licked blood off his lip and made a face. “What, like… suit. Mask. Crazy as hell.”

Batman said nothing.

The man frowned, uncomfortable under the silence. “Black suit. Red too. Kinda tactical-looking. Layers, maybe? Like she didn’t trust one piece of armor to do the job. Had a utility belt, daggers, that kind of thing.”

Batman’s hand flexed once at his side.

“Mask?” he said.

“Yeah,” the third one muttered. “Domino thing. Like that bird guy—”

“Nightwing,” Batman said.

The man blinked. “Yeah. Him. But red. More red.”

Batman’s voice did not change. “Continue.”

The split-lipped one hurried to fill the silence. “She moved weird. Fast. Real fast. Like she already knew where we were gonna be before we did. Took out two guys before any of us even saw her coming.”

The second man nodded rapidly. “Yeah, yeah. No wasted motion. No showboatin’. Just… boom. Down. Next.”

Batman leaned in a fraction. “How?”

The man hesitated.

Batman’s stare sharpened.

“Talk.”

“She used the environment,” the third one said finally. His voice was quieter now, more uncertain. “Ledges. Shadows. Didn’t fight straight on unless she had to. One dude went for a gun and she—” He swallowed. “She disarmed him without looking at him.”

Batman’s thoughts stilled.

That was not unique. Not on its own.

But then the first man started speaking over him, trying to explain faster than fear could catch up.

“And she—fuck, man, she fought like she was dancing or something. No, not dancing. Like she already knew where everybody was gonna move. Like she could read us. She was watching the whole room while taking down three guys at once.”

Batman’s pulse had gone cold and sharp and terrible.

He knew that kind of fighting.

He knew the angle of it, the economy of it, the way every strike arrived exactly where it needed to and no harder. He knew the way she used momentum instead of muscle, the way she baited an attack and turned it into a weapon.

He knew the silhouette.

He knew the combat rhythm.

He knew it the way he knew his own scars.

His own voice came out quieter. “Show me the footage.”

The cops behind the one-way glass exchanged uncertain looks.

“Cops already got that shit already,” the one with missing teeth said. “You got access to them, don’t you?”

Batman straightened and turned for the door without another word.

Gordon was waiting outside the interview room with a file tucked under one arm and rain clinging to his shoulders from the walk in. He glanced up as Batman approached, then frowned when he saw the look on his face.

“You find something?” Gordon asked.

Batman did not answer immediately. He kept his gaze on the glass. On the reflection of the city in the slick window behind it.

“Yes,” he said at last.

Gordon’s brows drew together. “You look like you swallowed a live grenade.”

Batman’s mouth went tight.

Gordon studied him for a beat, old instincts humming under the exhaustion in his expression. “That bad?”

Batman’s cowl turned slightly toward him. “Where is the footage?”

Gordon gave him a long look, then held out the file. “Already had it pulled.”

Batman took it and moved past him without slowing.

“Bat—” Gordon called after him, then stopped himself with a sigh. “Hell of a night.”

Batman didn’t answer. He was already reaching the monitors.

The footage played grainy at first. Low light. Bad angle. A warehouse lit by flashing sirens and the orange bloom of nearby fire. Penguin’s men scattered in the frame like roaches under a light. Then a blur entered from the right side of the screen and the entire fight changed.

Batman froze.

It wasn’t the red accents, though he saw them immediately. It wasn’t the layered black tactical suit, though the construction of it was exactly the kind of thing someone would wear if they had learned the hard way that one layer of protection was never enough. It wasn’t even the domino mask, sleek over the upper half of her face, leaving her mouth and jaw visible while giving the rest of her expression just enough concealment to make the sight of her more haunting, not less.

It was the movement.

The way she stepped into the fight as if she had been there a thousand times before.

The way she pivoted around a man’s punch and drove him into the concrete without breaking stride.

The way she used both hands in quick, brutal efficiency, one to redirect, one to end.

The way she ducked low beneath a pipe and came up with a dagger already in her grip, red glinting in the industrial light.

Batman’s hands had gone perfectly still.

No.

His mind refused the thought before it could fully form.

No.

Then she kicked a man into a stack of crates and turned her head just enough for the camera to catch the line of her profile.

Batman’s breath stopped so abruptly it felt like the world had struck him.

It was her.

The room seemed to tilt.

His mind blanked out with such violent force that for one impossible second there was nothing at all—not the rain against the windows, not the humming monitors, not the ache in his ribs from yesterdays patrol. Only the shock of recognition, sharp and unrelenting, as if someone had driven a blade clean through the center of his chest and left it there.

Her.

Of course it was her.

Who else would fight like that?

Who else would move through a battlefield with that same impossible balance of fury and control, that same precision, that same refusal to waste a second on anything but survival?

Batman stared at the footage without seeing the next several seconds.

There she was.

Alive.

In Gotham.

After all this time.

After years of silence, of absence, of names that did not belong to Gotham and cities that were too bright and too far away and a life he had never been allowed to follow.

There she was.

His mind reeled backward all at once, dragging up memories he had buried so deep they had become part of the architecture of him.

Rain on another rooftop.

Her laughter, tired but real, over comms.

Her gloved hand snagging his wrist before he stepped into gunfire.

Her voice, sharp and amused, saying "You'll fall through the floors of the Batcave if you pace hard enough Bruce"

His throat tightened.

The footage kept playing.

She dropped one man with a sweep of her leg and disarmed another with a twist so fast the weapon flew out of his hands and clattered across the floor. One of Penguin’s men rushed her from behind and she sidestepped without looking, elbowing him into the ribs and following up with a blow that sent him into a metal support beam.

Batman’s chest felt too small for his lungs.

She was here.

And she was fighting alone.

No backup.

No warning.

No one but Gotham between her and whatever had dragged her back into the line of fire.

Before Gordon could ask for his opinion, Batman was already moving.

The report crackled over his comm a second later, one of the officers relaying a fresh sighting.

“Penguin’s getting hit downtown,” static hissed through the line. “We’ve got eyes on another vigilante—black and red suit, moving fast—repeat, that’s a solo takedown. She’s got Cobblepot cornered on the northside roofline.”

Batman was gone before the sentence finished.

He vaulted through the nearest exit, cape billowing behind him as he hit the rain again. Gotham’s night swallowed him in cold and noise. Wind tore at him as he grappled between buildings, moving on instinct more than thought. The city blurred under him, broken only by the flashes of police lights and the jagged pulse of lightning in the distance.

All he could think was her.

Not the name he had not said aloud in years.

Not the grief that had settled around that absence until he could almost mistake it for bone.

Just her.

Alive.

He should have known.

He should have known the city would not allow him even this small mercy. Not a rumor. Not a glimpse. Not a warning before the past came crashing back with blood on its hands and rain in its hair.

By the time he reached the target building, the fight was already ending.

Batman landed hard on the opposite roofline, boots skidding slightly on wet concrete. Ahead, through the rain and fog, he could make out the shape of the rooftop battle gone to its aftermath. Penguin’s remaining men were down in scattered heaps. One was groaning by the access door. Another had been tied off at the wrists and left collapsed against a vent unit, furious and humiliated.

And in the center of it all stood the vigilante in black and red.

She was breathing hard.

One hand rested at her side, the other held loosely at her thigh. Her utility belt was damp and gleaming under the rain, the layered fabric of her suit darkened almost to black except where the red caught the light at her shoulders, her ribs, the edges of her gloves. Water slid from the ends of her hair and down the line of her jaw. The domino mask left her expression half-hidden, but Batman did not need to see her full face to know the shape of it.

His body went utterly still.

It was her.

It was absolutely, unmistakably her.

The only person who had ever looked at him like he was not a weapon first and a man second.

The only person who had understood, without explanation, what it meant to stand in the dark and keep standing anyway.

The only person who had known him—not Batman, not Bruce Wayne in public, not the myth Gotham made of him—but all of him. The bruised parts. The ugly parts. The ones that hurt too much to name.

His mind went blank again, only this time it was not from shock alone.

It was from something far worse.

Hope.

Because she was here.

Because she was alive.

Because somehow, against every law of grief and time and reason, the person he had spent years learning to live without had come back to Gotham wearing red on black and the same impossible posture he remembered from another life.

She moved then, turning as one of Penguin’s men tried to scramble away.

Her voice cut through the rain, low and dry. “Bad idea.”

The man froze.

She seized him by the collar and slammed him back into the rooftop gravel with enough force to make the nearby vent rattle. “I’m trying to be polite tonight, and you’re making that very difficult.”

Batman’s chest tightened so sharply it almost hurt.

That voice.

Older, maybe. Rougher at the edges. But still unmistakably hers.

He stepped farther back into the shadows before she could look in his direction. Instinct. Reflex. Self-preservation, though he had long since forgotten what that meant where she was concerned.

Down below, sirens approached.

The first squad car pulled up at the curb and Gordon stepped out, rain immediately soaking through the shoulders of his coat. He looked up at the rooftop, then up again, and Batman saw the moment recognition hit him.

Gordon exhaled slowly.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, just loud enough to carry through the open space. “I’ll be damned.”

She looked over as he approached the stairwell door, one brow lifting slightly beneath the edge of her mask. “That’s a nice greeting.”

Gordon stopped a few feet away, hands on his hips, and shook his head in open disbelief. “You could’ve given somebody a warning.”

She tilted her head. “Would it have changed your night?”

“No,” Gordon admitted. “But it might’ve changed my blood pressure.”

She gave a short laugh at that, the sound carried away by the wind before it could settle anywhere.

Batman stayed where he was, hidden in the dark, every muscle locked.

Gordon looked her over once, professional first and human second, then gave a low whistle. “You really do have a habit of showing up when Gotham’s having a bad day.”

“You mean my timing’s improved.” Her mouth curved faintly. “I was trying to keep things interesting.”

“Mission accomplished.”

She glanced toward the unconscious goons. “Penguin’s going to need a new roof.”

“Sounds like a problem for the city budget,” Gordon said, then eyed her more carefully. “You planning on telling me how long you’ve been back, or are we doing the dramatic mystery thing tonight?”

Her shoulders rose and fell with a breath that might have been a laugh if it had not been carrying so much exhaustion in it. “Would it kill you to let me have one dramatic entrance?”

“Probably not,” Gordon said. “Though the paperwork would try.”

This time her smile was more real.

Batman felt something dangerous and aching twist low in his chest.

Because she was smiling.

Here.

In Gotham.

At Gordon.

At the city.

As if she belonged to it again.

As if she had ever stopped.

Gordon shifted his weight and looked up once more toward the rooftops, not quite at Batman’s exact position but close enough to make the moment feel exposed. “You stayin’ long?”

The question landed strangely. Casual on the surface. Heavy underneath.

Her answer came after a beat. “Long enough.”

Gordon huffed out a breath, like that was all the confirmation he needed. “That’s more than I expected.”

“Don’t sound so shocked.”

“I’m not shocked.” He gestured vaguely toward her suit, the mask, the blood on her knuckles. “I’m just adjusting to the fact that Gotham’s apparently decided to start returning old problems and old friends in the same week.”

Her gaze sharpened, just slightly. “You always were good at making things sound worse than they are.”

“I’m a police commissioner,” he said dryly. “It’s in the job description.”

A grin flickered at the corner of her mouth. “Still using that excuse?”

“Still works.”

She looked at him for another second, then gave a tiny nod toward the stairs. “You should probably get your people sorted out before one of Penguin’s idiots wakes up and starts crying about their civil rights.”

Gordon snorted. “That happened once.”

“That he admits to.”

“Hey.”

Batman almost smiled.

Almost.

Gordon followed her line of sight down to the incapacitated men and then back up. “You need medical?”

She glanced at her side, where the fabric over her ribs had darkened with rain and something else. “No.”

“That wasn’t an answer.”

“It was the only one you’re getting.”

He eyed her skeptically. “You always used to be better at lying.”

“Maybe I’m rusty.”

“Maybe you’re full of it.”

“Maybe you’re getting old.”

Gordon put a hand over his heart in exaggerated offense. “That’s cold.”

“It’s accurate.”

He laughed once, and for a second the rooftop felt almost normal. Almost warm. Almost like the world had not fractured open and revealed something Batman had spent years trying not to want.

Then she shifted, and her attention changed.

Her head lifted.

Not toward Gordon.

Not toward the cops below.

Up.

Straight toward the rooftop where Batman stood hidden in the dark.

For one impossible second, even through the rain and shadow and distance, he knew she saw him.

Not the cowl. Not the symbol. Not the shape of a vigilante in the dark.

Him.

His breath stopped.

His entire body locked on instinct, every nerve in him going unbearably still.

He could not have moved if he wanted to.

Shit, he thought, with a strange, hollow sort of disbelief.

She stared at the rooftop where he stood, the rain sliding over her mask, her posture changing in a way only he would have noticed. Subtle. Careful. Like she had found something she was not sure she was ready to touch.

Batman’s mind, which had survived everything from gunfire to gods to nightmares with claws, emptied completely.

Because she was looking at him.

Because after all these years, after every silent report and every blurry headline and every night he had let himself wonder whether she was safe, whether she was alive, whether she had ever thought of Gotham at all, she was looking right at him.

And he had never wanted anything as badly as he wanted to know what expression she was wearing under that mask.

What she was thinking.

If she was angry.

If she was hurt.

If she knew.

If she still—

His thoughts cut off before they could finish.

Batman moved first.

By the time the sound of her voice might have reached him, he was already gone, melting back into the rain and the dark before she could catch him standing there like a fool with his heart in his throat.

Below, Gordon was still speaking, still talking to officers, still doing what he always did.

But Batman was already moving across the rooftops, jaw tight, lungs burning, rain striking hard against his armor.

Because he had seen her.

Because she was here.

Because Gotham had given her back to him in the worst possible place and the most unbearable possible way.

And because for the first time in years, he had no idea what to do with the fact that the person he had spent all this time trying not to lose was standing in his city again.

Alive.

Close.

And looking up at him like she might have known exactly where he was all along.

A/N : Hope you enjoyed ut! Was kinda nervous because it diverts from the fics so far on my page. I also want to ask a question. Would you guys prefer if we were named Batwoman, Or a Name I come up with/or you guys do. I would like to hear some feedback :)

[v4mp1r3-d0llh34rt]

Girlhood is trying to figure out which fictional man you wanna read a fic abt before bed

[tonguetiedloser]

Mark You Red

SUMMARY: Reader makes Jason do a TikTok trend. Bat-siblings get to discover the big bad has a girlfriend he's totally whipped for.

PAIRING: Jason Todd x Fem! Reader TAGS: I was talking about this trend, fluff, a little mature but mostly fine, fatson todd mention, bruce wayne flies to tokyo cause he can, jason loves her but dosen't wanna be teased about it (harms his street rep) , a little ooc? , a little beta read 𖦹 Word Count: 1,718 𖦹 Ao3

"I can't believe you made me agree to this," Jason said, leaning back into the couch, making himself comfortable.  "As if you're not right where you wanna be," you shot back, straddling him as his hands naturally come to rest on your hips.  "I'm not complaining about-mmhm" he completely melts as soon as you shut him up with a kiss, your nails softly scraping the back of his neck the way he likes, making him groan into it. But you know Jason. Know exactly when he's about to turn an innocent little makeout shesh into toe-curling sex, so you were quick to pull away, determined not to get distracted. When you did pull away sucessfully, he looked at you as if you had offended him in 12 different ways. "Oh don't make that face Jace. It's not even gonna take like 10 minutes to get done with the vid!" You said, applying lip gloss as his eyes settled on your lips. "Hey, I'm all for giving up my body so you can do whatever you like with it. But leaving me high and dry for your private following of 50 is so mean," he said, hands disappearing under your top.

"You'll live." You smacked your lips, held his face in place and started peppering it with kisses. A wide smile found home on Jason's face, enjoying the attention. The concept of his face being ambushed like this was not foreign to him at all. Whenever you'd see him look at home and comfortable, you'd literally pounce on him.  When he's lying under the blankets in winter, his hoodie cocooning his face. Boom your on him. He's cooking something, his brows furrowed in concentration. Boom your on him. He could be doing the most mundane things, like watching a movie with you. BOOM your on him again. He never knows when it's coming, but he knows it's inevitable. So it's safe to say he has taken a liking to being handled like this by you. Hell, he loves it even. When you're done painting him red. You pull back to observe your masterpiece. "Hmm you look nice..Wanna see?" You say grabbing ur phone and snapping multiple pictures. Jason was smiling like an idiot, content to just be there. Just being yours like this. You turned your phone to show him how he looked. "I personally think I should do this more often" you said proud of your craft. “That so?” His brows lifted lazily, fingers tightening on your hips as he kissed you again. Today was a good day.

"GUYS." Stephanie's voice cut through the coms, "Nobody leaves directly after patrol tonight. I have something to show all of you." Just by Steph's tone, everyone guessed this was going to be entertaining. A string of 'you got it', 'yep' and 'what for?' followed. Cut to the infamous Batcave. All of them had busied themselves. Damian was polishing his katana, Tim was arranging case files, dick on the worn-out couch scrolling on his phone, Cassandra was in the training area and Jason leaned against one of the support beams, eating popcorn. The only person they were waiting on was Bruce. And all of them were getting impatient because Stephanie was too giddy and bouncy for their liking.

“Can you relax?” Jason finally asked. “You’re pacing like you planted explosives somewhere.” to which Stephanie scoffed with a smirk "Oh! Talk all you want Todd...for now."

Before Jason could even ask what she meant by that, Dick suddenly groaned dramatically from across the cave. “Well, we waited for nothing. Bruce is flying to Tokyo.”

Tim’s head snapped up instantly. “Why would he text you that and not me?” Already offended, he pulled out his phone only for it to be snatched by Stephanie. "Not right now drake" “Everybody. Huddle up. Now.” She said a bounce in her step as she made her way to her phone.

"I'm about to show you. The cutest thing you've seen in a minute." She turned the phone around to show the video you had posted earlier that day.  Jason felt his ears get warm actively. The screen shook slightly as you tried to fix ur lipstick yourself only for Jason’s hand to enter frame, big fingers tilting your chin up with absurd gentleness.Then came the worst part. Jason’s face. Not the bruised-up, helmet-wearing crime lord terror one Gotham knew. No. This was domestic Jason. Soft Jason. The Jason who looked at you like you’d personally invented sunlight.

Covered in red. God he looked so whipped. Pin drop silence through the cave. The first to react was Damian, springing off his seat to get a closer look "Is that Todd?!" and Stephanie nodded, squealing, "Aren't they so fucking cute!!" Before Damian could give his insight, Jason cut in, "What the fuck, Steph! How'd you even get the video??" Dick chimed in, "No better question. Since when do you have a girlfriend and why does it look like only I didn't know about her!" tim piped up "I didn't know either!" Damian nodded as well, "Why would you not tell us?" "Just because! That's not the point right now. The point is that Steph is hacking into my girlfriend's account to get at me!" Jason said, standing up and taking the stage, "Wow, chill, I'm not hacking into anything, damn. Is it that hard to believe I'm mutuals with her?" Jason scoffed as if that had personally offended him, "no ur not." She just gave him a flat look. "...you are." He says, dropping back to his seat. Dick asked the necessary question, "How do ya know her, Steph?" Stephanie shrugged casually "We've been volunteering for the same animal rights NGO for the past month and became friends. Then I see him pick her up one day and well..." Jason ran a hand over his face. "I think it's very sweet." Cassandra spoke up, "You both look good together." Considering Cassandra rarely ever spoke, the atmosphere had quieted down to listen to her properly "Thanks cass. You're sweet. Maybe teach that to these assholes." Jason replied bringing the tension back in."We haven't made fun of you even once. Why the fuck are we assholes?" Tim asked annoyed.

"Because you were thinking it,” Jason shot back immediately, pointing accusingly at all of them like a man defending himself in court with nothing but wounded pride and vibes. "I can feel it in the air. Every single one of you is gearing up to make fun of me."

They exchanged looks.

“Can we replay the video?” Dick asked hopefully, already halfway off the couch and reaching for Stephanie’s phone.

Jason looked horrified. “Absolutely not.”

Too late.

Stephanie had already restarted it.

Dick clutched his chest dramatically. “My Littlewing grew up so fast.” Jason groaned, “I hate all of you.”

“You look like you’re about to serenade her.” Tim added.

“They look married,” Stephanie corrected. And god help him. Jason just hopes he was only feeling warm and not looking the part. Damian, meanwhile, was staring at the phone with narrowed eyes like he’d just witnessed cryptid footage. “That cannot be Todd.” Jason scoffed. Cassandra tilted her head slightly, watching the paused frame. “You look calm.” The words actually made Jason pause for half a second. Because that was the thing, wasn’t it? He was calm around you.

Then Dick ruined the moment instantly.

“Wait, wait, pause when he's in frame!”

“DON’T.” Dick gasped, “Oh my God. He’s got the eyes.” Jason crossed his arms stubbornly. “You guys are overreacting.”

“Are not” Damian said immediately.

“You called me emotionally constipated three days ago!” 

“You are. This is simply...unexpected character development.”

Tim leaned back in his chair with a smirk. “Honestly, I thought your version of romance was just threatening people slightly softer.” To which Tim received a 'what-the-fuck-dude' look Jason groaned and leaned back against the beam again like a man moments away from faking his own death. Unfortunately for him, the hyenas smelled weakness. Tim held a hand out toward Stephanie. “Lemme see the account.”

“No,” Jason warned immediately.

“Too late,” Stephanie chirped, tossing Tim the phone.

Jason lunged. Cassandra smoothly stuck a foot out. Jason stumbled mid-step while Tim escaped with the phone like a victorious raccoon stealing bread. “Traitor. You're supposed to be on my team.” Jason accused. Cass only blinked innocently.

Tim scrolled for exactly five seconds before letting out a low whistle. “Damn.” Jason narrowed his eyes. “Drake.”

“You’re in every other post”

“Drake.”

“There’s one where you’re asleep.”

“TIMOTHY.”

Dick perked up instantly. “THERES A SLEEPING JASON TODD PHOTO?!” Jason started moving again, but Damian intercepted him this time, grabbing the back of his jacket with deeply unnecessary force.

“You will sit,” Damian ordered.

“What are you, twelve or a Bond villain?”

“Yes.”

Dick had now migrated from the couch and was fully invading Tim’s personal space to look at the phone too. “OHHH this one!” A photo from the funhouse where the mirror had made jason look stretched and small (honouring fatson todd here.) Stephanie grinned,  “Read the caption.” Tim chuckled, "He's 2 apples tall.” Everyone broke out laughing.   Jason looked like he was entering cardiac arrest. 

Tim spoke up, "Dude, we have proof Jason isn't  just a big tough GUY!" 

Damian, however, was still staring at Jason. “You let her post this?” Jason frowned. “I'm no one to tell her what she can and can't post?” Another question “She openly displays affection for you in front of strangers.” Jason answered warily, "...yeah?” “And you permit this.”

Jason blinked slowly. “Do you think she’s my hostage? I love her. She's her own woman.”

Damian nodded in deep thought.

Dick slung an arm around Jason’s shoulders before he could escape again. “Face it, little wing. You’re down catastrophically.” Jason immediately tried shrugging him off. “Get off me.” “Nope. I’m embracing this growth.”

“This isn’t growth.”

“You smiled.”

“I smile.”

Dick’s expression softened instantly beneath all the teasing as he got off jason “You really love her, huh?”

The cave quieted again. No jokes this time. Jason looked away first. Which was answer enough already. But then he muttered, quieter this time:

“More than anything.” The words settled through the cave strangely gently.

Then naturally.

“Anyway when’s the wedding?”

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ a/n: First Jason fic! I hope this wasn't too stretched! Do you guys like it?

❥𝖨𝖿 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝖾𝗇𝗃𝗈𝗒𝖾𝖽 𝗂𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝖼𝗈𝗆𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝖺𝗋𝖾 𝖺𝗉𝗉𝗋𝖾𝖼𝗂𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽. 𝖳𝗁𝖾𝗒 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗅𝗒 𝗄𝖾𝖾𝗉 𝗆𝖾 𝗆𝗈𝗍𝗂𝗏𝖺𝗍𝖾𝖽!!

[ramen8008]

Wonder Woman: Batman, we could make good use of Nightwing with this. Would you call him?

Dick, who's filling in for Bruce as Batman: I'll call him

---

Hal: you've gained some muscles

Jason, dressed as Nightwing: I started working out

Hal: Damn. What's the routine cause I just saw you last week and you look completely different.

Jason: steroids

Dick, as batman: *chokes on coffee*

---

Superman: We might need someone who's good with guns, hm... Hey Nightwing you're in contact with redhood, right? Could you have him come?

Jason, as Nightwing: ... I don't see why not

---

Wonder woman: this security is an issue we need someone who can hack this system long enough for us to get pass

Superman: hey hood, any chance you can give red robin a call?

Tim, with 5 inches of padding, as redhood: on it

---

Hal: isn't robin usually with you all?

Flash: yeah we could use him with this one

Superman: Red Robin, would you call in Robin for us?

Damian, in red robin costume: he's dead

[cherbicdollie]

MEETING ROOM 3

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader x Bruce Wayne

wc: 1.1k

CW: Collar play, consensual objectification, DP exhibitionism, overstimulation, degradation praise, public risk

The Watchtower was alive with morning activity when you stepped out of the lift. League members passed you in the hallways—Diana with a nod, Barry with a wave, J'onn with an unreadable glance. You kept your chin up, but your thighs were still sore from last night, and the collar was cold against your throat.

Black leather. Silver buckle. Simple. Devastating.

You'd found it on your bed when you woke, a note attached in Bruce's sharp handwriting: Wear this. Come to room 3. Don't be late.

You hadn't been late.

Meeting Room 3 was a small conference space near the main hub—glass walls, transparent blinds, visible from the corridor if anyone cared to look. Not exactly private. That was the point.

The door slid open.

Bruce sat at the head of the table, cowl off, arms crossed. Clark stood by the window, cape draped over the back of his chair, his shirt loose, his tie undone. Both of them turned when you entered.

Bruce's eyes went straight to the collar.

"Good girl," he said, and your cunt pulsed. "Close the door."

You did. The lock clicked.

Clark crossed the room in three strides, his hands finding your waist, pulling you into his chest. He pressed his lips to your temple, his breath warm.

"You look beautiful," he murmured. "I couldn't sleep. Kept thinking about you."

"I could tell," Bruce said dryly. "You were up all night pacing." He stood, circling the table, his presence filling the room. "But we're not here for sentiment. We're here to discuss rules."

"Rules?"

Bruce's hand came up, fingers brushing the collar. "This means you're ours. But being ours comes with conditions. First: discretion." His thumb traced your pulse point. "No one on this station knows what you are to us. You will not tell them. You will not show them. When we pass in the hallways, you will act professional."

"Second: availability." Clark's hands tightened on your hips. "When I call you, you come. When Bruce calls you, you come. No excuses. No hesitation."

"And third," Bruce said, stepping closer until you were sandwiched between them, "you will take whatever we give you. Even if it's hard. Even if it hurts. Even if you think you can't. Because you can. You will."

You swallowed. "Yes."

"Good." Bruce's hand slid down, palming your ass through your trousers. "Now. About last night."

Clark's lips found your neck, kissing just above the collar. "I think we need a second round. Just to make sure the rules sink in."

"You think she's ready?" Bruce's voice was mocking, but his eyes were dark with want.

"She's dripping already," Clark said, his hand sliding between your legs, pressing against your clothed cunt. "I can feel it."

Bruce grabbed your wrist, pulling you toward the table. He swept the datapads off, not caring where they landed, and bent you over the polished surface. Your hands splayed out, your ass in the air, the cold glass biting into your cheek.

"You want to use our little fleshlight again?" Bruce said, unbuttoning his trousers. "Show her who she belongs to?"

"Yes." Clark was already behind you, his belt undone, his cock springing free. "But I want her mouth first."

They moved you like a doll. Clark lifted you, turning you, sitting you on the edge of the table with your legs dangling. He stood in front of you, his cock level with your lips. Bruce moved behind you, his hands on your shoulders, spreading your knees.

"Open," Clark said.

You did. He slid in, not gently, not slow. His cock filled your throat, stretched your jaw, and you gagged around him. He groaned, his fingers tangling in your hair, holding you in place.

"Look at you," Bruce whispered, his thumb pressing against your wet pussy lips. "Soaked. Already so fucking soaked." He pushed two fingers in without warning, curling them, hitting that spot that made your vision blur. "You love this. Being passed between us. Feeling like nothing but a hole to fill."

You moaned around Clark's cock, and he bucked forward, fucking your throat in shallow thrusts.

Bruce removed his fingers, licked them clean, and positioned himself behind you. His cock slid through your folds, teasing, just the tip pressing in and out.

"Please," you gasped, pulling off Clark's cock just enough to speak. "Bruce—please—"

"Please what?"

"Fill me. Use me."

He thrust in. All the way. You screamed, but Clark pushed back into your mouth, muffling the sound. Bruce's balls slapped against your ass, his rhythm punishing, each stroke deep enough to make your belly ache.

Clark's hips matched Bruce's pace. They used you in tandem, a machine of flesh and heat. Clark's hand tightened in your hair, holding you down on his cock until you couldn't breathe, then let you up just enough to gasp before pushing back in.

"Close," Clark whimpered, his voice breaking. "Bruce, I'm so close—"

"Hold it." Bruce's command was absolute. "She hasn't come yet."

Clark sobbed, his hips stuttering, but he didn't stop. Bruce reached around, his fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles while he fucked you.

"Come," Bruce said. "Now."

You shattered. Your cunt clenched around Bruce's cock, your body convulsing, and Clark moaned into your mouth as you bit down on his shaft. He came too—hot, flooding your throat, his cum spilling from your lips and dripping down your chin.

Bruce pulled out, flipped you onto your back, and pushed back in to your cunt. He fucked you through the aftershocks, your legs over his shoulders, his face inches from yours.

"One more," he growled. "Give me one more."

"I can't—"

"You can." He drove into you, deeper, harder, his forehead against yours. "Take it."

You came again, a raw, broken scream that you couldn't suppress. Bruce followed moments later, buried deep, pumping you full until it overflowed, dripping onto the table.

He stayed inside you, breathing hard. Clark leaned down, kissing your forehead, then your lips, tasting himself on you.

The door chimed.

All of you froze.

"Meeting Room 3," a voice said from the speakers—Diana's voice. "I need to review the deployment reports. Is anyone in there?"

Bruce's eyes met Clark's. Clark's hand clamped over your mouth. Bruce pulled out of you slowly, cum trickling down your thighs, and pulled your trousers up with practiced efficiency.

"Occupied," Bruce called, his voice steady. "We'll be done in ten."

A pause. "Very well. I'll come back."

Her footsteps faded.

Clark let out a breath. "That was close."

Bruce looked at you, covered in their cum, collar still pristine, eyes glassy. "That's the last time we do this in a public room."

"Liar," you whispered.

Bruce smiled. It was rare. It was beautiful. "Yeah. Probably."

He helped you off the table, steadied you when your knees buckled. Clark wrapped his cape around your shoulders, pulling you close.

[dontyouworrydaddy]

Hi hi idk if u're still accepting smau reqs but i rlly love ur batfam + wally smau JSHDJSH if not feel free to ignore

But what if... Poly!superbat texts, like... I imagine their conversations would either be full of gossip abt gotham AND metropolis, photos from both clark and reader about their day bcs it reminded them of each other and bruce just sending likes or heart reacting, steamy ones bcs either bruce or reader was being a brat during a gala, UGHHHHH I LOVE THEM IF U COULDN'T TELL KAHDJWHHS

stay hydrated dear 🫶💜!

CRANK IT!

featuring: Bruce Wayne x Clark Kent x gn!Reader

warning: poly relationship, suggestive (MDNI, 18+!!!), gossiping, fluff

A/N: AHH THANK YOU SOOO MUCH!!! Since this is my first time writing a poly fic I really hope you like this and turned out the way you imagined it <33 Also, excuse me for the format change. The other app wouldn’t allow me to create a groupchat :(

[browniesforsale]

The Wayne Family Does A WIRED Autocomplete Interview

pairing: batfam x batmom; Bruce Wayne x fem!reader warning: Usage of Y/N (it's unavoidable here), Bat siblings, Bruce Wayne has a sense of humor (who knew), talks of pregnancy, Tim Drake missing spleen, light cursing (there might be grammatical error sorry) wordcount: 3, 184 author notes: my YouTube watch history is going to be fucked with this series. Anyways I hope you guys like it.

[Batfamily Interviews Masterlist] | next interview ->

The video opens with with a short in the moment intro. It the Wayne Family, they don't know that the camera started to roll. In the first row from left to right sit you, Damian, Cass, and Duke. Behind in the second row sits Bruce, Jason, Dick, Tim, and Stephanie. Jason is messing with Damian by barely touching his earlobe. Damian flinches at the feel of a ghostly touch.

"Todd!" Damian yells. Which cause Damian and Dick to both laugh.

You turn in your seat to swat Jason's hand away, "Can we behave for once?"

The camera cuts before showing the Wayne again, but this time all facing the camera sitting nicely as this time they were informed that the video had started.

"Hello, we are the Waynes and this is the WIRED Autocomplete Interview." Bruce introduces.

Autocomplete suggests the most common searches on the internet

"I still don't quite understand the rules of this…" Bruce admits to his children.

Stephanie groans, "B, we went over this."

So WIRED asked the Wayne family some of the Internet's burning questions

Jason holds the board and angles it in a way that it faces the camera. The board display that of a Google search with Bruce Wayne typed into the search bar and four questions coming up in the search. Part of the sentence was hidden under a white tab.

"So these are like the most searched questions from Google and you have to answer them." Tim explains.

"Is there a right and wrong answer?" Bruce asked.

Tim and Steph both shake their heads, "No."

"Just answer the question however you want." Stephanie said.

Jason pulls the first tab off to reveal the hidden part of the question. "Is Bruce Wayne…richer than Lex Luthor?"

"Um…I think I'm generally considered richer than him in wealth, I mean I'm certainly richer than him in other aspects…like having hair…"

The crew begins to laughs. Jason makes a 'boom' sound as he pretends to drop a bomb.

"Shots fired." Dick said.

You were sitting there pinching the bridge of your nose trying your best not to laugh.

"You know lots of things" Bruce said smugly.

"Why is Bruce Wayne…afraid of bats?" Jason read off the next questions.

"Are you really afraid of bats?" Duke asked turning in his chair to look at Bruce.

"Okay…I wouldn't really say afraid…." Bruce started before you interrupted.

"No, you still have some fear for them." you corrected.

"When I was seven, maybe eight, I fell down an old well that was part of the property that I wasn't suppose to be at. Ended up being part of a cave system and there was a flock of bats that swarmed and attack me." Bruce stated.

"Wait are you serious?" Stephanie double checked.

"When aren't I?" Bruce said sarcastically.

Jason reveals the next question, "Does Bruce Wayne…have living family?"

Stephanie gasps, "Kate. We love Kate." The other nod in agreement.

Bruce throws a hand up, "My cousin, Kate from my mother's side. Who was actually with me when I fell down that hole and may or may not be the reason." Bruce gives a dead stare to the camera.

"Clip that." Steph said towards the crew.

Bruce gave a confuse look, "What?"

"B, again we talked about this!"

You were still hung up on what Bruce said, "Wait no she wasn't. Kate was living in Europe at the time."

Bruce put a finger to his lips in a 'shushing' motion.

"Alright last question," Jason annouced, "Is Bruce Wayne…batman. That's the age old question right there."

"Bruce is never beating the batman allegations." Dick said.

"Not I am not Batman. I hate that guy." Bruce states.

Jason throws the board somewhere off camera.

The next broad gets passed and it had Dick's name on it. Damien holds it, while you peel off the tabs and read the questions.

"Alright is Dick Grayson's name Dick." you read off.

"Yes actually his full name is Dick-wad." Jason answer for his older brother.

Dick slaps the back of his brother's head. "It's Richard." There was a pause before Dick speaks up again, "Why is Dick short for Richard? Who came up with that?" Dick asked, genuinely curious.

"In the Middle Ages, it was a trend to rhyme things. Rich or Rick was actually the shorten name for Richard, but then Rick evolved into Dick." Alfred answer somewhere off camera.

"That was the infamous Alfred Pennyworth everybody." Jason said.

You read the next question, "Where is Dick Grayson…from?"

A unison of 'o's' sounded from Dick's left (camera right).

"Aren't you like…technically not from anywhere?" Tim asked.

"Kind of, I was born into a traveling circus, so there was like actual city to like call home because the circus was home." Dick explained.

"So nowhere?" Stephanie clarified.

"Your birth certificate actually says Star City because that's where the circus was heading next." Bruce mentioned.

Dick pauses and leans forward to look at Bruce, "They told me that they lost it."

"I have my ways." Bruce said.

"Okay, two more question." you say. "What happened to Dick Grayson?"

Dick looked towards the camera confuse, "Did something happen to me that I'm not aware of?" This makes Stephanie and Jason laugh.

"I think they are talking about the circus accident, honey." you say.

"Oh like what to me after the…oh well to make a long story short, I got adopted by a grumpy rich guy that had no idea what he was getting himself into by taken in a kid that lived in a circus his entire life."

"Never in the history of ever did someone had to child proof chandeliers." Bruce said.

"Is that why the chandeliers are all bolted like that?" Duke asked.

"Yes, because Dick kept swinging on them."

"You know everyone thinks that Jay was the trouble, rowdy kid, but it was actually Dick." you pointed out. "Alright last question…you wanna read it Dami?"

"Dick Grayson…butt contest?" Damian read out.

Dick hides his face while his siblings laugh at him.

"So…" Dick began to say, face still hidden behind his hand. "So Teen Vogue put me in a contest for who had the greatest ass or something like that." Dick removes his hand from his face. "They had Nightwing also in that contest and it was down between me and him and I lost…which is utter…crap. I definitely have the better ass, but yeah that's that." Dick explained.

Damian tosses the board lightly off camera and another board was handed to Duke.

"Damian this one is yours." Duke said. "Is Damian Wayne…vegan?"

"Vegetarian. They are entirely different despite what people might think." Damian informs with a matter-of-fact voice.

"Is Damian Wayne…" Duke begins the next question before Damian can go into detail about the difference between vegans and vegetarians. Duke pulls back the tabs and slightly laughs at it before speaking. "Is Damian Wayne a test tube baby?"

Jason fell towards Dick in a belly laugh. Stephanie was also laughing and clutching onto Tim for support. Damian crossed his arms in a pout and you pulled him in and gave him a little frown.

"Oh wow, how did you guys get Tim's search history?" Jason joked. Tim threw his hands up in defense.

"I think they are confusing me with the clon-" you covered Damian's mouth before he could say too much.

"Is this really what people are searching?" Bruce asked.

Jason straighten up and wiped tears from his eyes, "I think that's the best question we are going to get this entire video."

"No Damian is not a test tube baby." you answer as you removed your hand from Damian's mouth.

"Well…" Tim began and that seem to set off a vocal stim amongst the siblings.

Damian glared daggers at his brothers.

"Stop it." Bruce warned.

"What is Damian Wayne's…favorite animal?" Duke read.

"All of them, it's hard to chose a favorite." Damian states.

Cassandra leans over and whispers something into his ear. It was the first time she had say anything the entire video. Though she is know to be the quite one and not one for speaking.

"Cassandra said that I should mention all of my pets that I have." Damian repeats what Cass said to him.

"You have have like 20 animals." Tim said.

"This is gonna be a minute." Dick stated.

"There's Alfred The Cat, he a tuxedo cat so it makes him look like a butler. So I named him after our butler. Ace and Titus are mostly father's pet Doberman, but they like me more. Then there is Bat-Cow, she has marking on her face that make it look like she is wearing a mask like the bats and then I'm gonna count Grayson's dog Haley because I watch her a lot and then…" Damian turns to look at Bruce. No words where exchanged between the two, but you knew what Damian was asking. "And then there is Goliath, he's a dragon bat."

"You just unintentionally answered the next question." someone says off camera.

Everyone looked towards Duke as he pulled off the tab to the last question.

"How many pets does Damian Wayne have?"

"Are you fucking psychic or something, Cass? Jason asked looking at her.

Cass gives a knowing smile.

The next board was pass and Stephanie grabbed it.

"Oh this should be good." she said and looked at Tim, who was beside her. "Is Tim Drake…" she pulls the tab, "Gay?"

"I lied I think Tim's questions are going to be the best." Jason said.

Tim sighs, already over it, "Yes, bisexual. Next question."

"Does Tim Drake…" Stephanie reveals the rest of the question and instantly falls out of the chair in laughter. Everyone was confuse.

"Wait what did it say?" Dick asked leaning back to look at Steph who was on the floor.

Tim snatched up the board from her and read it. "Does Tim Drake have a spleen..okay you know what, we're done."

Tim tosses the board and walks off screen. Stephanie was now in tears on the ground. Dick and Jason were now also laughing. Cass was smiling, laughing silently.

"Drake is very sensitive about his spleen." Damian said.

"Tim, baby, come back." you say.

Bruce looks back at Stephanie, "Stephanie…" there was a bit of amusement in his voice.

"Steph, honey." you said.

The was a cut in the video, everyone was in recovery form laugh, Stephanie was wiping the tears from her eyes and every once in a while she would threaten to start laughing again, but would compose herself.

"Okay look the whole spleen thing." Tim began and this time Jason was the one to break, "Jason!"

"I'm sorry, the situation was funny." Jason said.

"Okay so I got stabbed. When you live in Gotham there is a fifty percent chance you are going to get caught in something." There was some gasps from the crew. "Hold on, don't gasps yet. I kept it a secret. Bruce and mom where out of town along with Alfred," Bruce could feel his blood pressure rise the more Tim tells the story, "So I tried to take care of it myself. Ended up getting an infection from it, got really sick. Dumb and dumber had to take me to the hospital, where I had to get my spleen taken out."

You and Bruce were shaking your heads.

"This is where we also learned that Tim is like a freaking Victorian child. A common cold could actually kill him." Dick said.

"Should also mention that Bruce had to demand to get your spleen back and now we have it in a jar." Stephanie said.

"Yeah, so that is the spleen story, so now everyone stop talking about my spleen." Tim said to the camera.

"Tim Drake coffee order." Stephanie says.

"Black coffee with half a pound of sugar." you say.

"It is not that much sugar." Tim corrected.

"Timothy." you said with a stern voice.

"It's a lot of sugar." Tim said, defeated.

Stephanie reveal the last question, "Tim Drake's age."

Tim went to answer, but Jason stopped. "Hold up, hold up. I think we should have the old man answer this."

"I know how old all of you are." Bruce stated.

"Do you though?" you looked back at your husband. He looked at you offended.

"Dick's 25, Damian is 11, Duke is 16, Jay you're 19…"

"That sounds like a question." Jason stated.

"It wasn't. Cassie is also 19, older by two weeks. Tim and Steph are 18."

You looked surprised, "Wow, I'm surprised, you normally get them mixed up."

"Jason's turn." Dick says holding the board. "Is Jason Todd…Bruce Wayne's biological son?"

Jason rolled his eyes, "Really."

It should be noted that Bruce and Jason were sitting the exact same way with their arms crossed and a scowl on their face.

"Multiple blood test have been done and we can confirm, for now at least, that Jason and Bruce have no biological relations." you state.

"I think it's the fact that DNA test have to even be done." Tim said.

"You guys do scarily look alike though, even Dick, Tim, and even Cass have some resembles." Duke said.

Cass got your attention and started to sign to you.

"Do you remember when we found that one picture and we all thought it was Jason, but turns out it was actually just a young Bruce." you translate Cass' signing.

"I don't see it." Bruce says looking at his children, which makes the crew laugh.

"Is Jason Todd…dead?"

"Only on the inside." Jason says and he moves before you could wack him because he just knows. "Um…I was. Well I was presume dead anyways."

"Dude has a whole grave and everything." Stephanie said.

Dick pulls the tab back to the third question, "What happened to Jason Todd?"

"That's a loaded question." Tim says.

"A lot." Jason states.

"And final question," Dick says, "Why did Jason Todd go missing?"

"Oh my gosh," Jason blurts out, which makes some laugh. "I ran away, I was a kid. Stop Googling me, please." Dick throws the board behind him.

"Oh goodness is it my turn?" you say looking at the board Bruce was holding.

"How did Y/N Wayne and Bruce Wayne meet?" Bruce askes.

"The most rom-com way ever." Dick said.

Bruce made a face, "I wouldn't say that."

"Bruce didn't like me when we met." you say. The news of this makes the children gasps. You nod, "Yeah He tried to find ways to get rid of me actually because he didn't think I was needed. I was hired on as Bruce's assistant though really I was working for Alfred cause someone didn't want to run their own company." you dissed.

Bruce lean down to kiss the top of your head, "I'm glad my attempts weren't successful, my love." he said.

Jason reads the next question, "How did Bruce Wayne propose to Y/N Wayne?"

"Well it was suppose to be a surprise, but someone couldn't keep their mouth shut and crash the proposal site." Bruce grumbles.

Dick had a guilty look on his face, "Listen I was excited, I didn't know it was suppose to be a surprise."

"I quite literally told you that it was when I tucked you into bed that night."

"To answer the question though, we went to the Gotham Botanical Garden because there was a new statue exhibit that were like copy of famous renaissance sculpture, but I had to pretend like I didn't know what was happening because Dick told me that night before leaving for dinner." you said.

Bruce has the board back in his hands now, "Y/N Wayne's birthday."

"Yeah Bruce, when's ma's birthday?" Jason asked.

"It was one time…" Bruce address.

"One time too many." you said giving him a look.

"It's May twenty-second." Bruce said.

"Is Y/N Wayne…" Bruce lifts the tab, but puts it back when he read what underneath it.

You furrow you eyebrows at him, "What?"

Jason leans over Bruce to pull the tab away, "Pregnant." An uproar started which causes you to laugh.

"There is already enough of us!" Steph exclaim.

"There's no way this is how you tell us." Tim adds.

Duke and Cass where beaming compare to Dick, Jason, Tim, and Stephanie. Damian's expression was unreadable.

"No I am not pregnant." you say.

"You're smiling!" Jason points out.

"I was just laughing."

"I'm not convinced."

"Last board." Duke announces.

"Last board!" the rest children said (minus Damian and Cass) in various different ways.

"Alright. How to get adopted by the Wayne family?" Tim reads off.

"Be an orphan or semi-orphan." Dick said.

"Have a lot of trauma." Tim adds.

"And you too just might be picked up off the streets by Bruce Wayne." Jason finishes.

"Or you can be like me and just stick around long enough that you eventually get you own room and become a dependent on taxes." Steph says.

You laugh at your children's antics while Bruce just shakes his head. Something that he seems to do a lot through the video.

"How many kids are in the Wayne Family?" Duke reads the next question.

"Legally or…" Bruce asked, which makes the crew laugh. "Legally everyone here minus Stephanie who, beyond contrary belief, won't let us adopt her. So don't let what she says fool you."

Stephanie beams.

"Does the Wayne Family own Gotham?" Dick reads.

"No." Bruce answers, "We are one of the founding families, but none of us really own anything. Gotham is run by the people…I just help fund it."

"The Wayne family corrupt." Jason reads.

"Again no." Bruce restates, "My father made questionable choices, but it was all driven by the love he had for my mother."

"And it seems the apple doesn't fall far from the tree." Jason said as he grabs Bruce's shoulder.

The last broad gets flung somewhere off screen.

"Well that's it, I hope everyone was satisfied with our answers." you say.

"Thank WIRED for having us and apologizes to the crew members that were almost taken out by flying boards." Bruce said.

The children all wave to the camera and the video ends.

922 Comments

@ rollinghills

Bruce's face the entire time during the pregnancy question, oh she is definitely pregnant.

@ tessabp17

Not them throwing Bruce under the bus the entire time.

@ clairebear646

Why didn't Stephanie, Duke, or Cassandra have a board??

→ @ tjt5841

Cass is really private, Duke is also private and still new to the family, he's just being foster by the Waynes, and Stephanie is just there.

@ nicodegallo

Stephanie is essentially a squatter in the family. She has squatter rights lol.

@ bee2free

No because Damian looks the least like Bruce and he is the only one actually related to him.

→ @ justiceforjay007

They all look so alike, I forget that none of them are related to one another

→ @ snaillover365

Tim and Cass could literally be twins

add. notes: Lore is ovbiously changed because the internet/people can't know that the Wayne are in fact the Batfamily.

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