*gently takes your face in my hands* hey. remember that fandom is for fun. if you're not having fun it is ok to step back. if you're intentionally making it unfun for others it is ok to step back. none of this is real. go sit in the sun and smell a flower. i love you.
Sometimes you hear a song and a fic pops into your head full formed. This is a trap. The fic may be fully formed in your brain, but you still Have to write it down. This is an important step that most people forget about.
c/w ੈ✩‧₊˚ loosely inspired by that trend ↑, minor drinking mentioned, father/son tension + yelling, language, pet names, possessive!rafe, praise, needy!rafe, mutual obsession, sitting in front of the shower watching you as foreplay, body worship, rough shower sex, dirty talk, begging + bicep around neck
4,233 words
“So how much was it?” Max asks, casual as ever. “The whole… situation.”
He grins when Rafe stays silent, the man choking the steering wheel like it’s the only thing keeping him from doing the same to his own flesh and blood, his blue eyes locked on the road ahead.
“That bad, huh? How much we talkin’?” Max goes on, words dragging and slurring together from too many shots. “Four? Five hundred bucks? Shoupe probably cut you a deal,” he adds, stretching out in the back seat, pulling his girlfriend in closer. “Can we stop for food—”
“Stop,” Rafe’s voice cuts through the car, making Max’s glazed eyes double, a nervous smile stretching across his lips with an uneasy laugh to go with it. “Stop. Talking.”
“Oh, c’mon,” Max adds, leaning forward, squinting, trying to get a better look at him through the dark. “What, you didn’t miss me?”
Rafe laughs, tight and cold. The obvious answer is yeah. The other answer—don’t push it. Not after blowing up my phone the second the wheels hit the ground, beggin’ for a get out of jail free card.
Nothing’s free. Not here.
“M’sittin’ on pins and needles, old man. What was it? Less than the sales tax on that watch you got on your wrist? Relax. You’re goin’ home to mom. That’s your thing, right? Focus on that. Forget about all this. You’re fine. I’m fine. She’s—” He squeezes his girlfriend’s hand, turning toward her. “She’s perfect, actually—”
“Shh—shut up, Max,” his girlfriend begs him, clamping her hand over his mouth, half-laughing, half-horrified, barely holding it together.
Max just smiles against her palm, pressing a lazy kiss into the center of it, utterly unbothered.
“A couple hundred? You got no clue, do you? You’re payin’ me back, Max.”
“Whatttt?” He chuckles, drawing out the word tipsily. “Probably wasn’t even that much—”
“Minor in consumption. One thousand dollars. Jacked it up to five to get it wiped off your record so you can play ball in the fall.”
“Damn… I mean, Kildare County’s finest is bendin’ over for five? That’s nothin’—”
“Nothing? Then take out your wallet. If five thousand isn’t a lot, let’s see it, kid. Hell, my pocket’s five K lighter—hand it over.”
Max lets out a short laugh, disbelieving, rolling his eyes. “I don’t just walk around with cash. Perks of bein’ old as fuck—SHIT!” Max yelps as Rafe slams on the brakes, sending the two of them jolting forward, your eldest getting clotheslined by the belt before thumping back against the seat with a thud.
“Enough,” Rafe’s warning breathes through the silence. Max buttons his lips, trying not to laugh, nodding his heavy head in compliance. “You’re thinkin’ about opening your mouth right now. Don’t fuckin’ do it. The only thing leavin’ your lips is a goddamn apology to your mother when we get home. You understand?”
Max nods again, exaggerated, shoulders shaking with laughter he’s biting back as he mimics zipping his lips shut.
“You called your mom?” Rafe asks, pressing down on the gas, glancing back through the rearview mirror.
Max gets smaller in his seat, letting his reaction speak for itself.
“WORDS,” Rafe barks.
“You told me to shut up,” Max howls. “I’m too drunk for this shit. What do you want from me, huh? You see? He’s acting unreasonable,” he pouts sarcastically to his girlfriend, who’s trying her best to check out of the situation to keep from laughing herself.
“Answer the damn question, Max.”
“I mean… yeah,” he mutters.
“In the middle of the night,” Rafe continues, eyes still forward, voice worn thin. “After she worked all week. After she had your friends at the house all spring break.”
Max drags a hand down his face, groaning tiredly. “I panicked,” he mumbles. “She’s… she’s nice to me.”
Rafe scoffs, sucking his teeth, letting his head fall back into the headrest in mental exhaustion. “Told you I was landin’ at midnight this afternoon—”
Max’s laugh cuts him off—like that’s when it clicks for him.
“I was busy,” he chuckles.
“Busy?” Rafe almost chokes on the word.
“Yeah, I wasn’t payin’ attention, alright? I was doing someone—SOMETHING,” he corrects himself, but his girlfriend’s face is already burning with embarrassment, Rafe’s blood boiling at your son’s response.
“Shut up, Max,” he breathes. “Just shut up.”
Rafe turns into the neighborhood as Max’s eyes sink lower, his heavy head resting against his girlfriend’s shoulder.
“Next time you screw up, you call me. Not her,” Rafe mutters bitterly, Max mumbling something that almost sounds like an apology.
“There’s still time,” he slurs from the back. Rafe doesn’t respond, just looks through the mirror, waiting for whatever dumb shit comes next. “McDonald’s is open for another two hours—”
“Oh, my god. Help me,” Rafe whispers, taking a sharp turn into the driveway before cutting the engine.
Rafe’s out of the car before Max can even lift his eyes, jaw still set, shoulders tight as he pops open the back.
Max, on the other hand, has no intention of getting out yet, still half-sprawled across the backseat, turned toward his girlfriend, his hand sliding up her neck, fingers catching in her hair as he leans in. “You’re—” He stops, laughing under his breath, shaking his head as he looks at her. “Like, do you know how hot you are? S’fuckin’ crazy. This is, like—”
“Out,” Rafe grunts.
The two stumble out a moment later, Max reaching for her again, but Rafe has other plans. His leather duffle bag hits Max square in the chest—knocking the air out of him, killing the moment. He lets out a short, offended scoff, slinging it over his shoulder.
“What the fuck,” Max chuckles, side-eyeing Rafe as he steps around him to grab his briefcase. “That felt targeted—”
“It was,” the words leave Rafe cold and final as Max rolls his eyes.
He glances back at his girlfriend, immediately reaching for her again, his hand finding hers. “Such a bitch when he’s mad, holy shit.”
Rafe’s hands come up in defeat. The solace waiting on the other side of the door is the only thing keeping him from boiling over. The pressure in his head throbs, tension wound tight through his shoulders.
He pinches his eyes shut, then looks back, blowing it out slow as the two of them follow behind, all six-foot-four of your son swaying with each step on the cobblestone.
“Tomorrow,” Rafe calls over his shoulder, “you’re cleaning out that fucking boat.”
Max groans immediately. “Oh my God,” he drags out, head tipping back. “No, I’m not. That’s biohazard-level shit. Here—” Max stuffs his hand in his back pocket, fishing out his wallet, thumbing through his cash. “How much is the cleaner, like twelve? Fifteen hundred?”
Rafe looks back at him, disgusted—that little jab about being “old” and carrying cash instead of cards still tasting sour.
“What?” Max chuckles teasingly.
“You’re unbelievable, kid. Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” Rafe spits as he tugs open the front door. “Your money doesn’t mean shit to me. You will work. You will sweat. Manual goddamn labor. Do you understand me?”
“Manual labor?” Max asks like the words are foreign. “Shit’s gonna take all day. I got obligations—”
“A thank you,” Rafe cuts in with a heavy sigh. “Thank you, I’m sorry, and yes sir is all I should hear leavin’ your lips right now for savin’ your ass.”
“You’re acting like that isn’t the first thing I said. Ain’t I supposed to shut up anyway?”
“I don’t know how you do it. Run,” Rafe mutters, glancing at Max’s girlfriend—and for the first time all night, it lands. Max scowls back at him.
“Thank you,” Max mutters, shuffling his feet along the marble floors. His girlfriend jabs him in the side, forcing an “I’m sorry” out of him as the three of them move into the kitchen.
“You need to apologize to your mother. You better hope she’s awake—” Rafe stops mid-threat.
On the counter sits a note.
It is placed right where he would see it the moment he walks in, next to a bottle of something expensive with a tumbler already set beside it.
He reaches for it, a smile already curling at his mouth when he sees the handwriting.
The tension does not break—it rolls out of his shoulders all at once, his head tipping back as that smile cracks clean through everything.
Max lets Rafe’s bag drop with a thump, gripping the banister of the staircase for balance as he looks back at his girlfriend, muttering about only taking a minute.
“Don’t,” Rafe says.
A groan leaves Max from somewhere deep in his chest as he braces for another lecture. “What, Dad? Oh my God—”
“Don’t go up there.” Rafe lets out a quiet chuckle under his breath as he folds the note in half and slips it into his pocket before grabbing the glass and the bottle, pouring himself a double as he heads in the same direction Max was going.
“You told me to apologize like five seconds ago—”
“Yeah,” Rafe cuts in easily, “and now I’m telling you to get lost.”
Max looks back at his dad, baffled and wasted. “What the fuck is happening?”
Rafe does not answer. The amber liquid catches the light as he lifts the glass to his lips and takes a slow sip.
“Did you talk to your mother?” Rafe asks. “Or did you just call her?”
“She didn’t answer.”
“Good,” Rafe hums, the liquor already warming his throat, the weight of the night lifting off his shoulders.
“Can I just apologize—”
“I’ll give you five hundred dollars,” Rafe interrupts, “if you make this easy and don’t ask me one more fuckin’ question.”
Max blinks at him. “You’re serious?”
Rafe lifts a finger to his lips, silencing him with a sharp, sarcastic look.
Max bites his cheek, holding it in for the moment.
“It’s killing you, I can tell,” Rafe adds, amused now. He reaches into his wallet, pulls out five hundred dollars, and flashes it between two fingers. “One of the many perks of bein’ an old fuckin’ man. The others are waitin’ upstairs, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Rafe does not slow as he moves up the steps, his stride noticeably lighter now. Max’s mouth opens as Rafe walks past him, heading up the stairs, tapping the cash against his chest on the way by to make his point clear.
“You should get some sleep,” Rafe adds, taking out his phone to let you know that he's on his way, the text sends, and the next few words leave his lips like an afterthought. “You’re still cleaning the boat tomorrow.”
“What the fuck,” Max mutters, shifting his focus to his girlfriend, looking for sympathy from anyone at all.
She shrugs and steps toward him as he mutters something under his breath that makes her roll her eyes while he reaches for her. Max, being Max, is already over it, trying to salvage what is left of the night.
“Hey,” Rafe calls down one last time.
Max freezes, his arm already wrapped around her waist, the other hand cupping the back of her neck, halfway to a kiss.
“Yeah?” He answers, distracted.
“She’s got the guest bed,” Rafe says, nodding toward Max’s girlfriend. “You’ve got the floor in the twins’ room.”
“No. Dad—”
“Good luck tonight, buddy,” Rafe continues. “You’ve got monsters under the bed, glasses of water at two a.m., and a wake-up call at five.”
“You serious?”
“And if you even think about knocking on our door before ten a.m.,” Rafe adds, almost friendly now, “I’ve got five cars, a bucket, and some soap waitin’ for you. Don’t fuckin’ test me. I missed you.”
The last two words land softer, more honest than anything else he has said all night. Max lifts his hand and flips him off from the bottom of the stairs.
“Love you too, buddy,” Rafe chuckles.
He takes the stairs two at a time out of habit, but by the time he reaches the landing, he slows, his hand dragging along the railing as the house finally quiets behind him. The noise from downstairs fades out, replaced by something softer.
Light music floats through the hallway like a whisper, pulling him the rest of the way without much thought. His phone buzzes once in his hand, the screen lighting up with the message he already knows is there.
The text—𝙷𝚞𝚛𝚛𝚢.
By the time he reaches your door, the music is clearer, warm light spilling faintly from underneath, cutting a soft line across the floor.
He slows, his shoulder angling toward the frame as he listens. He doesn’t go in right away. There’s movement on the other side, the soft scrape of something being dragged across the wood.
He exhales quietly through his nose as he lets himself settle into it. His mouth pulls at the corner, something restrained and knowing, because whatever you are doing in there, it’s for him.
He pushes the door open slowly. The room is still dark except for the light from the bathroom. He leans into the doorframe, shoulder braced against the hardwood, arms crossed over his chest as he watches you.
You’re already moving, beckoning him closer with a look, positioning the chair at the threshold. No hesitation in the way you move, no second-guessing what you want, like the fantasy’s already been playing out in your mind.
Your hands fall away from the chair once it’s set, and as you straighten, the robe slips from your shoulders, fluttering to the floor, knocking the breath out of his chest as you slip out of sight.
He walks across the bedroom. Music hums low, the sound of the shower cutting through it.
He rounds the corner as you test the water, pointing to the marble floor right in front of the glass shower door.
A quiet chuckle slips out of him under his breath as he reaches for the chair and drags it forward by the back two legs, scraping softly against the floor. His focus doesn’t shift once—unwavering as he watches every move you make behind the glass.
He positions the chair where you told him to, adjusting it until it feels right—lined up the way he wants it, before he sits. He leans back into it, one arm draped loosely over the backrest as he settles, already halfway gone just looking at you.
He takes a slow sip of the brown liquor, letting it sit on his tongue for a breath before swallowing. The bottle rests on the floor as his hand comes up to his tie, loosening it without looking, pulling it open just enough to breathe easier.
He leans back further, legs spreading, head tipping just enough to get comfortable.
The water hits your body, running down in little rivers as he takes another drink, soaking in the moment that you built just for him.
He threads the silk the rest of the way open—tie laying loose against his chest—his fingers moving to the top button of his shirt first, popping it open, then the next. Each one undone with the same steady pace.
“Look at you, huh?” He asks through a proud smirk. “All this for me?”
Your eyes fall, catching the glint of gold at his throat, your initials resting against his skin, dewy from the heat of the room, sitting right where they belong.
His shirt opens further, exposing more of him. He shrugs it off his shoulders, his tanned skin on display; black slacks fitted to perfection still slung around his hips, black loafers tapping ever slightly to the sound of the music playing overhead.
He tips his chin toward the soap, subtle, like he doesn’t need to say anything for you to understand exactly what he needs.
You reach for it, fingers wrapping around the bottle as he pours himself a little more, the sound of the liquor hitting the glass soft under the music.
The soap hits your palm, pooling in your hand, the sight of it enough for his hand to drop to his belt, big fingers working it loose.
You work the soap between your hands slowly, letting it build before you bring it to your skin. Your hands move over your arms, your shoulders, slower than it needs to be.
You trace your collarbones before drifting inward, circling your tits before you squeeze. “You’re unbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. His eyes fall with your hands as they move down your waist, circling your hips.
A smile breaks across his mouth, tongue gliding along his bottom lip as he watches the suds rinse away, that steady beat he’d been keeping with his foot, now moving faster than the tempo as anticipation builds.
He lets out a low whistle when his finger comes up, twirling it just enough to let you know he wants the picture of you from the back. The look on his face is smug and hungry when you do just that—a look in his eye letting you know that he’s getting off on the power too. The idea that no one else gets this version of you—no one has it as good as him.
Your back arches, water sliding down your spine.
You look over your shoulder, watching as he sets his tumbler down, glass hitting the marble with a clink.
He leans forward slightly in the chair, his elbows resting on his knees as he watches you, gaze dropping briefly before lifting again, heavier now.
You turn around and step closer, closing the distance between you and the glass, your hands coming up to rest flat against it, body following until you’re pressed into the cool surface.
He looks at you again—then lets out a breathless, lust-laced laugh, his head dropping between his shoulders. Shivers run down your spine, nipples tightening against the cool glass.
You hold his gaze as your fingers spread against the glass. He lifts his hand and taps once against the glass. “Jesus, baby…” He mutters, his voice deep and rough. “I fuckin’ missed you.”
You let out a soft laugh, seeing just how undone he is, the heat of your breath catching against the glass, fogging where it hits.
You drag your fingertip through the fog, slow and deliberate, curving it into his initials. “You’re killing me,” he groans like something so simple did more damage than anything else you’ve done so far, his hands tightening like he’s holding himself back from breaking—wondering how much longer he can just sit there and watch.
You turn around again, ass sliding along the glass as you look into his eyes, giving him a shameless glimpse of your pussy. He lets out a quiet, disbelieving huff of a laugh, shaking his head once.
“That’s not—” He sighs, cutting himself off, dragging his hand down over his face before he looks back at you, harder now. “That’s not fair. I’m being so good for you.” His voice dips. “Don’t make me come in there.”
You smile, and he does too like that’s a threat you’d cash in on in a heartbeat, your body physically aching for contact—for his lips on yours.
Your hands move again, raking up your ass as you walk away, and he swears under his breath, the steam thickening between you.
“I can’t sit here and watch you like this,” he breathes. “I need you. You hear me? I need you.”
You hold his gaze as his hand comes up flat against the glass.
“I hate leaving you,” he adds, deep and needy. “Doesn’t feel right when I’m not here.”
You step a little closer to the glass, lip tucked between your teeth, water rolling down your curves. Your fingers curl around the glass shower handle, and that’s more than enough for him, the man rising to his feet, kicking off his dress shoes, shoving his slacks down his thighs in one motion.
“You’re mine,” he says, steady and certain, his forehead almost brushing the glass now as he waits.
You look down at him, cock stretching the material of his briefs, chest rising and falling fast, and you know he’s done waiting. You crack the door and his hands curl around the band of his boxers, heat spilling into the bathroom, hitting him all at once.
He steps in, closing the distance between the two of you, consuming you completely—his big body tangling with yours, cupping your cheeks in his rough hands, kissing you hard and deep as the water rushes between you.
His bare skin presses against you—warm and firm—his stiff cock nestled between your thighs as his tongue slides between your lips, your mind going hazy with it.
“There’s my girl,” he murmurs, his hands following the water lower, landing on your hips.
“I missed you,” you breathe between kisses and he smiles against your lips.
“Yeah?” He asks. “You got no idea how much I missed you.”
Rafe turns you around, pulling you back into his chest, his mouth already finding your neck, your shoulder, the space just under your ear, making your knees weak.
“Let me have this, yeah?” He asks as he takes his cock in his fist, tracing your folds like you wouldn’t have begged for it anyway if he made you wait.
You arch your back, giving him the perfect angle to trace your pussy, lips falling open as the thick head of his cock presses at your entrance, teasing you before pushing himself in fully.
Your moans fill the shower, bouncing off the walls as his long, thick dick stretches you wide—filling you to the brim. He squeezes your hips in his hands; his body flush against yours, pinning your body to his.
He exhales against your skin, warm and heavy, feeling the weight of you in his arms. “Fuck,” he murmurs. “How do you—” He cuts himself off, burying himself in your neck like he doesn’t even have the words for it. “How do you always feel this good?”
“Fuck, Rafe,” you sigh, like you finally got your fix, head falling back to rest against him. “I needed this—I needed you.”
He groans as he tips you forward a little, drawing back his hips, rolling them forward again, stroking deep. “You got me all fucked up,” he mutters, wet skin clapping against yours. “Couldn’t even sit out there for five fuckin’ minutes without losin’ it—”
The squeal that leaves your lips cuts him off, eyes rolling back at the sound as your pleasure courses through you.
“That’s it, huh?” He asks, a wicked smile pulling at his mouth as his hips snap a little harder.
“I’m close,” you manage, your voice catching on the way out, barely steady.
“Yeah,” he breathes immediately, low and rough against your ear. “Me too.” The words break past his lip, his control thinning down to nothing now. “You feel too good.”
He reaches his hand down, wrapping an arm around your chest, the other sliding around your hip, making you gasp when his big fingers press and circle your clit, the arm across your chest moving higher—binding around your neck as he fucks up into you, the pressure around your throat making you see stars.
Your head turns to the side, finding his mouth, and he’s right there for it, swallowing his name as it whimpers out of your lips.
“C’mon,” he mumbles into it. “Give it to me.”
Your body gives, finally, the tension snapping all at once, your breath breaking as you let go, and he’s right there with you, his grip tightening, his head tucking close as he floods you with his release.
He holds you through it, his arms softening just enough for you to breathe fully, pulling out with a heavy sigh, not giving you enough space for you to get away—but you wouldn’t imagine it. He just keeps you there, breathing against your skin as you do the same.
He hums along with the music playing overhead, barely heard under his breath as he rocks with you ever so slightly, the sound of his voice vibrating against your skin.
“We’re sleepin’ in tomorrow,” he murmurs, his voice low and close.
You let out a breathless laugh, feeling his smile spread along your own because you don’t believe him—that’s wishful thinking. “Are we?”
He hums out a yes. “Max said he’s got ’em in the morning,” he adds.
“Our Max?” The words leave your lips like the punchline to his joke, whispered against his lips.
A quiet chuckle slips out of him, his hands sliding down your body, taking hold of your hips. “Kid’s got a girlfriend. He’ll survive breakfast.”
He pulls back just enough that his eyes find yours—smiling like it’s his favorite thing in the world.
“So…” You start, his eyes falling to your lips.
“So,” he echoes.
“Guess we’re not in a rush then.”
He tilts in, pulling you to him like a magnet, kissing you tender and soft. “Does it look like I have any plans to rush tonight, baby?” He murmurs as he turns you toward his chest.
“No,” you whisper, reaching up to wrap around the back of his neck, guiding him back in again.
He'll have you sit on his lap naked, just so you'll get his jeans dirty. Something about it really makes his cock throb.
Or, he'll fuck you on his fingers while wearing his favourite pair of gloves before a mission, just so he has something to lick and smell when he gets lonely—and you do get a helluva fucking when your scent wears off his gloves sooner than usual. As if you can control that.
After one too many punishments for that though, you pushed him down and sat on his face while he wore his balaclava. Practically waterboarding the bloke with your arousal. Simon always loved when you were just as perverted as he was.
The thing that turns you on disgusts you the most? You'll be bent over in your kitchen, garden, laundry; and Simon'll come up behind you, shove his fingers in you before pulling them out before you can properly register what he's doing, walking off and sucking his fingers with a pleased hum.
You've scolded him for it countless times, yet the pervert doesn't care. Smiling at you in a way that from any other man? It would make your stomach twist in disgust. But from Simon? You can't get enough.
And yes, he is in fact the type of guy to pull your asscheeks apart so he can lick his thumb and press it against the spasming ring of muscle,
"If she keeps winking at me like this, I'll have to fuck her too." Growled in your ear while you whine in disgust, as if you don't have a pretty little collection of plugs in the back of your dresser already.
You and Simon just loved pretending like you were being corrupted by him.
⛧°. ⋆𓌹♰𓌺⋆. °⛧
Buy my cat a treat? (•˕ •マ.ᐟ
Might change my divider, and way of colouring text. I dunno guys. Anyway hiiiii lol please don't sound me for not posting until now. Can women be sounded? God I hope not.
Synopsis: You had a wonderful childhood with the Waynes. You’re sure you did. So why do they insist that they neglected you?
✧˖°.⊹࣪˖^._.^ฅ⊹࣪˖°.✧
You could say with absolute certainty that your childhood was a normal, happy, and loving one.
You started out with only you and your mother. Your mother and your (previously unknown) father met each other at a charity gala, and you were conceived when they had a one night stand together. Your mother lost contact with the man, going through all nine months of pregnancy alone while working her job as a supermodel.
As a result, she raised you alone, for the first five years of your life. Her supermodel career took you and her all around the globe, from France, to Japan, to Romania, to Spain, to every country and city in the world.
Sure, due to the amount of traveling, you and your mother were rarely home. You knew the layout and amenities of every five star hotel with the back of your hand. You knew the best local cafes in every fashion capital of the world, and every foreign and home luxury that your mother’s career brought you.
But you only ever knew your mother, as you never got a chance to befriend any other child for longer than a month.
To compensate, your mother spoiled you. With gifts, affection, quality time, everything she could. But she could never stave off your longing for connection.
🩷🩷🩷
One night, you woke up to a police officer shaking you awake.
Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you blearily looked at the silhouette of the man. The officer pulled the string on the bedside lamp, crouching down to your level.
“Hey little one… how was your sleep?” The officer gently asked with a concerned glint in his eye.
You told them that you slept alright, and ask the officer about your mother. You looked behind the man, to see the empty bed across from yours. That’s odd, usually your mother is back at the hotel from her gigs by the time you’re awake.
Other officers were shuffling about in the hotel suite, looking through your mother’s things. They didn’t bother to be gentle; dumping out your mother’s luggage, shifting through piles of her clothes, looking through drawers… the sight made your blood boil.
The officer gently coaxed you to follow him, gently packing your things as he led you outside.
A day later, you were being flown to Gotham with a social worker.
🩷🩷🩷
Meeting your biological father at the GCPD was a hell of an experience.
One minute, you were coloring with the nice social worker lady, the next, you were face-to-face with Bruce Wayne.
You’ve only ever seen this man in the news, on talk shows, and everywhere in advertisements for Wayne Enterprises. Never once did it cross your mind that you could be his biological child.
Bruce crouched to your level, smiling gently at you with kind eyes. He took your small, chubby hands into his.
“Hello, (Name). It’s wonderful to finally be meeting you.” He softly greeted you with a warm smile. “…You will be staying with me from now on.”
Next thing you knew, you were in his stupidly extravagant car. An older gentleman, introduced to you as Alfred, drove you and Bruce through the Wayne Manor gates as multiple people rushed to greet their newest family member.
🩷🩷🩷
The first few months after your mother’s death were hard. Grief struck you down, and the newness of having a father, siblings, and a butler affected you gravely.
Thankfully, you had your new family to help you through it.
Bruce and you became close, the both of you going through the seven stages of grief together. You with your mother, and him with the recently deceased Jason. While Dick was in Bludhaven most days, he made an effort to show up and spend time with you as often as possible.
Dick taught you some gymnastics, Barbara often took you out to lunch, Steph and you frequently went shopping together, you and Alfred baked and watched movies together, and Tim taught you coding.
Slowly, but surely, you integrated yourself with this family. Although they weren’t as openly affectionate with you as your late mother was, you knew for a fact they loved you.
About a year or two into your stay at the manor, you began hearing about a new vigilante… different from the bats and birds you knew…
The Red Hood.
Suddenly, everyone was in a rush to speak to this man.
🩷🩷🩷
One day, you were in your bedroom. Everyone was out on patrol, and you were snuggled up in your armchair. Since you weren’t a vigilante like everyone else, you were able to relax at home while your family gets their hands dirty. A book was in one hand, and a cup of tea was in the other.
As midnight fell, the book absorbed you as you were swept away in the words. So enthralled with the book, that you didn’t register the sound of a grappling hook against your window. A pair of boots landing on the windowsill. A lock pick, and they were in your room.
You look up.
There, standing in all his glory, was Red Hood. He tilted his head as he observed you, the room, and the book and tea in your hands. A chuckle rumbled through his throat.
“The old man really spoils you, huh?” He teased, sitting down on the corner of your king sized bed. He eyed your simple, yet comfy and expensive clothing, your vast room draped in shades of your favorite color, and all the toys and books you have littered around.
You ask who he is, observing the broad, masked man.
“Just an old friend of Bruce’s. I’ve heard about you, and I wanted to meet ya.” He replies. He looks at the book in your hand curiously.
“What’cha reading?” He asks.
You show him the cover. Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen. You inform him that it was your late older brother’s favorite book. That you never got to meet him, but wish you could’ve.
“…What do you think of it so far?” Red Hood awkwardly asks, shuffling in his seat.
You tell him your thoughts and opinions on it. He tells you his thoughts and opinions on it.
The rest of the night was filled with chatter from your new friend.
🩷🩷🩷
It was odd, when Jason finally returned to the family. Odd, but welcome. You and Jason became close, the both of you bonding over your love of reading.
You continued being the token civilian of the family. You shared recipes, gardened, and watched old movies with Alfred. You pulled Bruce from his work to go outside and take you to parks. You ate fast food and practiced gymnastics with Dick. You volunteered at the library so you could chat with Barbara. You recommended books and started a mini book club with just you and Jason. You listened to Tim’s ramblings about his cases and theories. You watched Steph try on clothes while she gossiped to you about random things. You practiced ballet with Cass, once she joined the family.
Damian’s arrival was… certainly something.
When you brought cookies you baked with Alfred to Damian’s room, you were met with a sword and a glare.
“Tt, so you are my blood sibling. Pathetic.” The small 12 year old threatened fourteen year old you.
Bruce, who was walking by, immediately rushed and pulled Damian away from you, loudly scolding him for pulling a goddamn sword on his sibling.
Of course, having been more assassin than child at the time, Damian didn’t think much of his father’s scolding.
The next month or so, Damian was cold and haughty towards you. Of course, that’s because he was cold and haughty to everyone, but it still hurt. You were starting to think that you’d never have a relationship with your younger brother.
That is, until he saw you painting.
You were outside in the gardens, watercolor paints surrounding you. A watery paper sat in front of you, splattered with a gorgeous depiction of the gardens surrounding the manor.
Damian was outside, playing fetch with Titus, when he saw you. Curious, he approached you.
“…What’s that?” He asked.
You smile, showing him the watercolor painting. He scanned the amateur, but lovingly crafted painting.
Picking up the paper, he scowled upon seeing the water pooled under it.
“You’re using too much water. Here, let me show you…” He grabbed a paper from the pile, sitting next to you and starting to show you proper watercolor painting techniques.
You and Damian spent hours outside as he taught you how to use watercolor properly, and you and him painted the surrounding animals together.
By the time you were called into the dining room for dinner, Damian was dumping animal facts on you as you absorbed every scrap of information.
🩷🩷🩷
Later on, Duke was added to the ever growing family. Just like everyone else, you and him bonded. You were the first to welcome him, eager to have another person living with you at the manor full-time. You and him found out that you both loved video games, so you and him started gaming with each other every week.
Your weeks were filled with various activities and hangouts with everyone. Sometimes, their vigilante lives made them have to cancel on plans with you. Sometimes an Arkham breakout made them miss your events, like your band concerts or your science fair presentations. However, they always returned with an apology and an offer to celebrate and hang out.
Your numerous days of studying with Duke and Tim finally paid off, earning you a wonderful GPA and a chance to speak at your high school graduation as valedictorian of your grade.
As the family watched you accept your diploma and shake hands with the teacher, they clapped deafeningly loud. While Dick and Tim weren’t able to attend because of a recent bank robbery, they sent their congratulations.
After the graduation, everyone went out to celebrate you. A nice, upscale restaurant had a reservation calling your name, and you sat eating your favorite foods with your family.
…Including Dick and Tim, who both ran into the restaurant looking like hot messes, with hastily thrown on civilian clothing.
Obviously, they threw you a graduation party two weeks afterwards. With cake, presents, and music echoing throughout the manor backyard. This time, everyone was there and accounted for, partying with you and your friends.
And a few months later, your siblings crushed you in a bear hug as you all stood in the airport, ready for you to fly out of state to your chosen college.
As you were showered with hugs and kisses from all of your family members, you boarded the first class area of the plane with confidence that you were dearly loved, missed, and connected with your family.
Surely, they’ll be fine without you… Right?
✫・。.⋆˚ੈ✩‧₊࿐࿔
I know, I know. There isn’t much yandere in this first chapter. But this chapter was mainly to set the stage for the rest of the story, and I wrote this whole thing in one sitting. Next chapter will have a bigger focus on everyone, including the members that didn’t get much of a focus. Just bear with me, k? Please send asks about my fic, I’m starved of attention/hj
"Be not afraid" you say to the startled angel as you crawl out of its shower drain. It doesn't know how you got there, or whether you know what those words mean. It doesn't like the thought that you know that you frightened it. Maybe you've just heard those words before and assumed that that's just the sound you're supposed to make when you greet someone.
John "christ, kid, slow down—" price who can hardly keep up with his younger partner in bed. He's gotten used to distracting you with his mouth or hands, you even broke his pride down enough to invest in toys after begging for a fourth round in a day. He's old and hasn't exactly prioritized his health, which means he often ends up on hid back breathing through his teeth while you ride him to your heart's content.
Vs
Simon "another? C'mon, please love I'll be good–" riley who even in his forties has the energy and want to bend you over every surface he can manage. Seriously, you're pretty sure his dick his permanently half-chubbed. You, the one nearly half his age, have to shove him away and whimper before he lets up to go take a cold shower. He says its all the love he has for you, you're pretty sure he's just a freak.
Bruce Wayne, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Damian Wayne giving their girl the princess treatment…
warnings : only slightly suggestive in these? tooth rotting fluff, the boys are whipped for their girl, female reader, mentions of feet, golden retriever type boyfriends fr
Taglist : @i-dearbambi-dxx | please let me know if you want to be tagged in any of my ongoing works!
note : my first time ever writing a request >.< actually had a lot of fun writing this and will defo do more in the future :)
Based on this request
Bruce Wayne has zero ability in restraint when it comes to spoiling his girlfriend—you. If there’s anything he sees you looking at, humming in consideration of buying at all, he’s whipping out his card and he’s buying it without hesitation.
“What’s this?” You ask, shrugging off your outdoor coat and handing it to a patiently waiting Alfred in the foyer. The butler takes your coat and folds it in his arms, his greying brows raising with intrigue at the expensive designer box in Bruce’s hands.
Bruce holds the box out for you to take, and you do so without hesitation. Though, you give a suspicious look to him before delicately removing the lid and pushing aside the crinkling tissue paper inside.
You gasp as you reach in and reveal the backless designer dress you had stared at for a millisecond yesterday at the store.
“Bruce!” You squeal, eyes sparkling in adoration for the gift. Alfred wordlessly takes the box from your hands as you fly forwards to wrap your arms around Bruce’s midriff. Bruce only chuckles, fondness in his expression, pure adoration for your reaction and you in general.
“Do you like it?” Bruce leans down and presses a lingering kiss to your temple. His fingers, calloused and blemished from the years of his work as Batman, trace patterns into the skin under your shirt. You do your best to conceal a shiver at the touch, but nothing can slip past the detectives trained eye.
You hum. “I love it. You didn’t have to buy that for me—it must have cost a fortune.”
An ironic statement considering Bruce Wayne is the richest man in Gotham. A billionaire philanthropist sitting pretty on a wealth dating back several generations.
Bruce shakes his head and presses his lips again to your skin, this time lower and nearing your mouth. “Money doesn’t matter,” he assures, his voice lowering to a husk. “You’re worth every penny I’ll ever spend.”
You tilt your head back and lift yourself onto your toes, lips gently colliding with his. He reciprocates immediately, his fingers digging into your waist while he holds you steady. Then, he breaks the kiss and glances over at the box that Alfred is still holding—where he’s still standing nearby and not at all looking embarrassed by the affection.
You follow his gaze and rest your head to his chest. “I should try it on—make sure it fits.”
Bruce reaches over and takes the box from Alfred with a small “thank you”.
He turns his steely blue eyes down to meet yours, and you try not to shudder under the intensity of his gaze, the way his eyes sharpen in that way he’s plotting something.
“You absolutely should try it on,” he encourages after a beat, his smile turning deliciously wicked before he adds: “then we can see how it looks on my bedroom floor.”
~*~*~
Dick Grayson is constantly on the move. He’s never known the ability to stay in one place; his thoughts are constantly running in overdrive with plans for the future. And that’s not limited to his role as a leader or vigilante, it also shows in his relationship.
“This was wonderful,” you say with a breathy sigh, closing your eyes as the golden sun sets over the horizon. The final rays of light glow upon your face, a warmth that feels like the sky itself is placing kisses across your skin. “Thank you for planning this, I’ve had an amazing time.”
Dick bumps his shoulder into yours, his hand moving from behind him to rest on your thigh. His thumb moves in small circles, a soothing motion that simply makes you melt at the touch.
“I’m glad you’ve enjoyed yourself,” he admits, his smile as beautiful as the sunset itself. “I was thinking of a shopping date tomorrow—and then we can watch that new movie you were talking about last week. I was also thinking dinner at that new Italian place that opened up last month.”
You turn to look at him, amusement barely concealed in your fond smile. “Another date? Dick, you’re going to go bankrupt if you keep spending your money on me like this. You know I’m perfectly happy with lazy days with you.”
Dick leans his head down and nuzzles his nose against yours, his lips brushing your own. You lean into him and chase the kiss, but his hand reaches up and holds you in place. He knows if he kisses you now he won’t be able to stop, and there’s still more to this night that he planned. Instead, he rests his forehead against yours and closes his eyes.
“I know, but you’re my girl and I want to spoil you,” he admits. He doesn’t sound ashamed by that at all, and the genuineness in his voice melts your entire body into a puddle. “Let me enjoy spoiling you. Please.”
You pretend to hum in thought. “Alright. But you’ll have to let me spoil you at some point, okay?”
There’s a woosh of air and suddenly you’re on your back on the picnic blanket, one hand braced next to your head while the other settles onto your hip. His legs cage you in, and he swoops his head down to press a deep, loving kiss to your lips. You reciprocate without hesitation, a hum vibrating your throat at the unfiltered taste of him. And just as you’re turning to goo underneath him, just when that familiar fire is sparking low in your stomach, he pulls away and steals all the warmth with him.
“You existing is enough for me,” Dick says, his voice low and husky and absolutely addicting.
You reach your hands up and thread your fingers through his thick, dark locks. If he were a cat, you’re sure he would have started purring, just from the way his eyelids droop at the pleasant sensation.
And then Dick is no longer above you. He tucks himself at your side and pulls you into a hug, ensuring the both of you are angled in a way to see the sky perfectly. “Are you ready for the show?” He asks.
You try to look at his face for clues, but find nothing. So you look back to the sky curiously, just as the first star shoots across the darkening background. You gasp in delight at the sight, awed by the series of stars that follow.
“Shooting stars,” you whisper, your hand reaching to rest on Dicks chest. He encases your hand with his own, his thumb rubbing gentle circles across the your fingers.
“Make a wish, baby,” Dick tells you, his head tilting to the side to gauge your reaction.
“I don’t need to wish for anything.”
Dick hums, a little confused. “You don’t?”
You roll to the side and lift yourself so you’re sitting on his lap, legs straddling him and pinning him to the floor—not that he’d fight to be above you, he loves every angle of yourself that you give. You lean down and press your lips to his, devouring him before trailing kisses down his jawline. He groans at the tingling feeling each kiss leaves behind on his skin, craving more.
You stop and lean back, your hand coming up to cup his cheek. “Everything I’ve ever wished for in the past—those wishes were all granted the moment you came into my life, Dick Grayson.”
A shooting star flies across the skyline behind you, and in that very same moment Dick makes the wish that this moment will last forever.
~*~*~
Jason Todd is quiet with his displays of devotion. He’s always felt things more strongly than others, and maybe it’s because he missed some vital development points during his teen years—but his devotion to Gotham, his home city, his love for the people seeps into his love for you.
It’s early evening when you arrive home from work. Sweaty, exhausted, rosy cheeked and desperate for a shower; you lock the door behind you and kick your shoes off into a messy heap. You don’t even bother heading to the lounge room at the end of the hall, because you’re so tired and desperate to just collapse in bed and sleep for the next twelve hours.
But as you enter your bedroom, fingers fumbling with the button on your jeans, you pause in the threshold and blink slowly at the bouquet of flowers placed neatly on your side of the bed. A beautiful arrangement of red and pink roses, tied at the stems with a red ribbon that looks utterly perfect. You shuffle further into the room and scoop the bouquet from the bed, a knowing smile on your lips.
Then, footsteps approach from behind, and two buff arms encase you from behind. Your back presses into a solid chest, and you tilt your head until you’re staring up into the adoring, beautiful eyes of your boyfriend, Jason.
“Was work okay?” Jason asks, his lips brushing against the crown of your head.
You hum and close your eyes, basking in the warmth of his love. “It went,” you answer shortly, not wanting to discuss your gruelling day as a waitress. Instead, you lift the bouquet higher to draw Jason’s eyes to it, and you watch in delight as he briefly looks away from your face and to the flowers.
“Do you like them?” He whispers, leaning down again and kissing your forehead once more. Needy and uncertainty disguised as lazy confidence—you’ve been with Jason long enough to know his tells; the way his eyes crinkle at the corners with worry, the way his lips twitch downwards in an effort to not frown.
“I love them,” you tell him honestly. Without fully breaking free from his hold, you manage to swivel in his arms so you’re standing chest-to-chest. He’s looking down at you still, and you take advantage of the position and brush your nose against his. “I’m going to need more vases, though.”
Jason raises a brow. “More vases? You already have an entire cupboard dedicated to them,” he points out, confused.
You stifle a laugh and pull from the embrace, slipping your hand into his and tugging him out of the bedroom. He follows without question, eyes wide with curiosity as you lead him into the kitchen.
You pull open the cupboard under the sink to reveal very empty shelves, where you like to store the glass and ceramic vases. At the back corner is a cobweb and a tiny spider weaving in the middle, making the most of the vast empty space. You gesture to the shelves with an amused smile, watching as Jason’s face drops in realisation.
“Oh. Where did they all go?”
You resort to staying quiet as you squeeze his hand and take him on a tour around the apartment. There you point out the ceramic vase and flowers on the centre of the coffee table, and then to the glass vase with flowers on the decorative table underneath the window. The bookshelf next to the hallway has two more vases filled with flowers, looking just as fresh as when Jason had presented them to you two days ago.
But you’re not done, even as realisation starts to dawn on Jason’s face. You lead him to the bathroom, where another vase is perched next to the sink, where lilies spill out over the top. Next, you show him to the bedroom, where a vase and flowers are sitting pretty on your dresser, by your vanity table next to the mirror, and one sitting on the window.
You slowly turn to look at Jason, your smile teasing and easy. “Hm—I wonder where my vases have all gone?” You ask with a teasing lilt.
Jason huffs a laugh and pulls you back to his chest. “Okay, I get it. I buy you too many flowers. If you’re expecting me to apologise then you’re out of luck.”
You conceal a snort of laughter and shake your head. “Apologise? Jason, this is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. I can’t imagine ever being upset at the fact that I’ve run out of vases.”
You lean up to press a gentle kiss to his lips. He presses back into you, his eyes sliding shut at the warmth of your mouth against his. He pulls away briefly to gaze down at the roses in your hand.
“They’ll die if we don’t put them in some water,” he mutters, sounding sadder than you’d ever expect a large man such as himself to be at flowers. “Maybe we can put them in a jug for now and I can get some new vases tomorrow?”
You hum in thought. Then, you turn your gaze to your bed and a bright idea sparks behind your eyes.
“I need to take a shower,” you tell him, lifting the bouquet up for Jason to take. He does without hesitation, but he doesn’t look any less confused about it. You continue, “why don’t you decorate the bed for when I finish up? I hear roses always look pretty as petals scattered on sheets.”
Jason opens his mouth to say something, then he immediately shuts his mouth again. The apples of his cheeks morph into a shade of red, and the corners of his mouth twitch upwards into a boyish smile. He gives a firm nod and presses a kiss to your mouth once again, then gently pushes you away so you can go and shower.
“Go shower, baby. I can handle a little bit of decoration. But don’t take too long, yeah?”
~*~*~
Tim Drake can’t exist longer than a few minutes without needing to be in some form of contact with you. Whether it’s through texting updates about his day—including asking about yours, even if you’re doing the most basic, mundane of tasks—or draping his body over yours. There is no scale, because he’s simply content to be with you regardless.
“Your muscles are so tight…”
You strain through a hum of agreement as Tim works his long fingers into the arch of your foot, his thumbs pressing hard and tender to roughly soothe out the tension that’s been bothering you for the better part of your day. You fight a groan at a particularly sensitive spot, one that feels both painful and like instant relief—like pressing on a bruise repeatedly and not learning your lesson that it’s sore.
Even though it was Tim who insisted you sit down and let him ease the stress from your muscles, you still feel riddled with guilt at the fact that you’ve indirectly pulled him away from one of his many detective cases.
“You don’t have to do this,” you remind him softly, brows scrunching together as he starts a circular motion beneath your toes. It takes every ounce of your strength to not openly whine at the sensation. “I can just go and soak in the bath like I usually do.”
Tim shoots you an accusing stare, like he’s offended at the very suggestion. “Like you usually do?” He echoes back, scandalised by the mere thought. He doesn’t ease up with his ministrations, but instead presses firmer into your foot. “You’re telling me you deal with this a lot?”
You watch as he lowers your left foot and begins showing the same amount of attention and care to the right. He dollops a generous amount of lotion onto his pale hands, rubs the cream to spread it evenly, then begins the circular motions to your other foot. The entire process is Heavenly and unmatched, and you question why you’d never recruited him for foot massages before now in the first place.
“Sometimes,” you answer softly, a soft sigh leaving your lips as he digs the pads of his thumbs into another tense spot. With every motion you can feel the discomfort roll its way out your foot. “I don’t want to pester you with how busy your job is.”
Tim tuts and shakes his head, his black hair brushing his pale forehead. “Unbelievable,” he grumbles, like your selflessness is an inconvenience to him, “I can’t believe this whole time you’ve let yourself be uncomfortable when I’m literally right here and capable of helping you.”
You slyly lift your left foot and poke his cheek with your toe, hoping for him to grumble some more. Instead, Tim catches you by the ankle and begins pressing gentle, tender kisses up to the middle of your shin.
“Tim—“ you whine, attempting to tug your foot back so make him stop.
But Tim doesn’t let go, and instead he starts pressing kisses to your right leg for good measure. An even distribution of love and attention for every inch of your body—the very body he worships and would be damned if he had to live a day without.
“Let me take care of you,” Tim mutters, his nose nuzzling into your skin.
~*~*~
Damian Wayne shows his love in the most oddest of ways. Through his childhood of being raised in the League, he had to learn that attachment to others could be exploited and used against him. But after meeting his girlfriend—you—several years after moving to Gotham City to live with his father, he threw himself in the deep end in exploring how to show affection and unlearning the negative repercussions of forming attachments.
“Beloved,” Damian calls out, his voice as sharp as the blade he has hidden at his side, “where are you going?”
He stands in the threshold from the corridor to the lavish foyer, his dark brows furrowed against tanned skin. He watches as you finish buttoning up your autumnal jacket, mind running with replays of the conversations he has held with you over the past few days in search of an explanation for why you’re leaving. But when he finds no such recollection, his heart skips a beat.
You peer up at him through long lashes, your lips tugging into a gentle smile at the sight of his tight expression. “My friends planned a last-minute shopping trip,” you explain softly, offering the reassurance he refuses to admit he needs. “I’m about to head out to meet with them. I think we’re getting lunch, too.”
Damian’s shoulders drop a fraction with relief, but his posture remains steadfast in the way it was vigorously trained to be as a child. “I see,” he mutters, his hand already reaching to his pocket to retrieve the black leathered wallet. The motions are familiar as he flips it open and slips out the credit card with ease, his eyes waiting and expectant of you.
You blink at the offer and sigh. “Dami—you don’t have to give me your card,” you remind him, your gentle hand reaching up to touch his wrist and direct it away. “You spoil me so much already.”
Damian frowns. “I fail to see the issue with that,” he counters, clicking his tongue at your refusal. “Is it wrong for me to provide for you?”
“No, no it’s not. It’s cute. But I don’t want you thinking you have to give me your card every time I go out with my friends,” you say, closing the gap and standing almost chest-to-chest with him. You guide your hands up his arms until they loop around his neck, silently prodding him to lean down until your lips brush close to his. “You already pay for everything when it’s just us. I can fund my own spending habits when I’m with my friends.”
Damian shakes his head and then brushes his nose against yours. You inhale his scent, heart fluttering at the scent of his cologne. “I don’t think I have to,” he corrects without missing a beat, his green eyes boring into your own. It’s then that you feel his fingers brushing the skin of your cheek, a motion that’s loving and adoring. “I want to, my love. Let me spoil you.”
Arguing with Damian has always been futile, so you relent without putting up a fight or attempting a logical argument.
Instead, you suggest the next best thing that you can possibly think of as repayment for his generosity:
“Then perhaps I’ll visit that one store you like so much?”
There’s an obvious pause on his behalf, an extra second taken as he visibly composes himself. His lips curl up at the corners, his eyes creasing. “What time can I expect you home?” He asks, the question feigning pure innocence.
Your eyes sparkle. “Early evening,” you murmur in promise, now standing on your toes to reach up and fully press a kiss to his lips. “Do you want your gift before dinner or after?”
Damian’s forehead presses to yours, and you feel his shuddering breath across your face as he visibly restrains himself. His fingers flex into your hips, a sign that he’s fighting himself to not force you to stay with him.
Instead, he pulls back and firmly places his credit card into your hand, his long fingers closing yours around the plastic. Then he guides your hand to his mouth and kisses each finger, like he’s willing his love into your digits.
“There is no limit,” Damian reminds you, his voice uncharacteristically soft. “I’d like a full show of everything when you come home.”
“Even the boring parts?” You tease.
“My love, there are no such thing as boring parts where you are concerned.”
