After a long day of work, Damian relaxes at the thought of you waiting for him on your shared bed, or even on the living room sofa.
It comes to a surprise when he comes home to you chasing around a dog the size of his shoe. He’s so confused that he just stands near the door, staring at what the hell he just walked in on.
You didn’t notice him yet. The dog had Damian’s sock in his mouth. You weren’t sure how it got ahold of it, but he did. And you needed it back.
It was when the dog shimmies under the sofa when you finally spot your boyfriend standing in the doorway. A surprise gasp leaves you. Of course you didn’t notice him. He’s light on his feet.
A huge grin replaces the shock look when you realize your boyfriend is home from work. “Dami!”
He catches you when you jump into his arms. He’s unsure why you are hugging him like he was gone for months, but he embraced it anyways, nose in your hair and smelling your scent.
“How was work?” You ask, planting kisses all over his face. A small smile tugs the corner of his lips. “Crazy day I bet?”
“We can talk about that later,” he stated, feeling something rub against his shoe. “I think there is a an important matter we should address.”
“What do you mean?” You question, completely forgetting about the dog that finally came from under the couch and is now snuggling your boyfriend’s shoes.
“My love.”
“Hm?”
He glances down and so do you.
Shocked, you untangle yourself from Damian and grab the puppy before it could run away. And with a smile almost taking up your entire face, you hold the pup out to him.
“What is it?” He trades looks between you and the puppy that looked anything but.
Your face drops. “It’s a dog, Dami. I was at the shelter earlier today and saw him. Apparently no one wanted him.”
“I can assume why.” He answers.
He’s looking at the puppy, desperately trying to find a cute thing about it then wondering what you saw about this thing that made you want it.
Think of a lollipop that’s been dropped on a carpet. That’s what the dog looks like to Damian. Not very adorable is it?
You gasp and smack his bicep. “He only had a day before getting put down. You know I couldn’t just leave him there. It wouldn’t sit right in my heart, y’know?”
“I think he’s well past his time.”
“I’ll have you know that he’s five months old. That means he’s still a puppy and a very adorable one at that.” You argue, ignoring your boyfriend’s distaste for your new puppy.
“Isn’t that right? Aren’t you a cutie?” You coo, nuzzling your nose against the puppy’s.
“Well,” he finally sets his suit jacket and briefcase on the table near the door. “If you want to keep it around then very well.”
He didn’t understand your attachment other than saving it from an early death, but for you? He’ll accept literally anything.
You lean up and plant a chaste kiss to his lips. Then before he say anything, you turn on your heel, accidentally whipping him with your hair as you did.
“His name is Charlie, by the way.” You say, your voice carrying throughout the house.
“Dear god it has a name.” He mutters under his breath, though because you know your boyfriend and his smart mouth, you hear him.
“Damian!”
“I apologize, my love.” He’s quick to say, following you down the hall.
Hiiiii! I was wondering if you could do a Batboys x female Reader where they notice everything about their girlfriend, like them changing their shampoo or getting a haircut
Something’s… Off
Includes: Bruce Wayne, Clark Kent, Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Conner Kent, Tim Drake, and Damian Wayne
Summary: With your past partners, small changes have never been a problem. You would get a haircut, or change your preferred scent, or change your food schedule and even when you begged them to notice they would ignore it. That was before you decided to date one of the most observant people on the planet.
A/N: Nothing quiet like a 1:30am post. ANYWAY, Anon! Sorry about the wait, I like to ruminate on some requests (so they sit and I stare at them for like.. eons) and wait for the vibe to strike. But, this is one of my favorite genres of headcanons so I knew it was coming. Thank you so much.
TRIGGER WARNING FOR CLARK: Discussion of dieting. No details are mentioned regarding the reader's weight or the type of diet and Clark is… grumpy about it. Read carefully and skip if you need to (You look amazing today btw).
Bruce Wayne:
This man noticed you changed your preferred fragrance the moment you walked out of the bathroom.
And to be totally honest with you, he hates it.
The new bottle could smell like the nectar of the gods themselves, and he wouldn’t like it at the beginning.
Any changes in your relationship, Bruce isn’t overly fond of in the beginning.
Not that he would tell you that.
He would prefer to sit in his own brooding nature than confess something so frivolous.
But, he’s gonna try and make you stop using it in his own way.
His go-to is just buying you the old one.
“Bruce? Did you get me a new perfume?”
His head pops into the bathroom before going on some random tangent about a sale and he saw you were getting low.
You pick up on this pretty quick, and address it (usually before he can piece together a coherent excuse.)
“Dearest?”
He stops his excuse and moves to make direct eye contact as you hold the bottle ajar with a tilt in your head.
“You don’t like the new one do you?”
He shakes his head fervently, “No of course not, its very… expensive-”
“Bruce”
He sighs before glaring at the new bottle like it caused the issue, “It… doesn’t smell like you. I like how you smell. This one is… rich. It smells like everyone at a gala. I just want you.”
You nod your head, “Okay. I can switch back if you want? I just wanted to try and fit in a bit more with your ritzy friends.”
You walk over and sling your hands around his neck, “To be honest, I didn’t like it that much either.”
This sets things in motion.
Bruce (despite his public persona) loves to publicly buy you things.
So a compromise is struck and you are wowed by Bruce’s dedication to thoroughness and research in regards to every part of his life.
Including… this damn perfume hunt.
You figured you would hit one store.
OH NO.
You go to every perfume place in Gotham and then he goes online.
Money isn’t an issue and Bruce wants to find the best.
So he goes… and goes… and goes
Alfred is involved, rooms are filled, and Christmas gifts are handled till the 2050s.
So you start fancy, then average, then niche.
It takes over a year for Bruce to find one that smells like.. You
BUT you found it.
And to be honest? Bruce killed it.
Clark Kent:
Clark knows something different…
But Lord help him… he can’t place it.
You look the same, smell the same, but something.. Off
You don’t notice his confusion or frustration for a while.
Until you realize he keeps squinting at you.
From casual conversations to catching his stare from across the room.
Eventually it pisses you off enough that at dinner you throw a bread roll at him.
“Clark quit it!”
Clark shakes his head like he is trying to knock it out of his brain, “Sorry, honey.”
“What is up with you? It’s like you're trying to figure out an abstract painting.” you ponder stealing the roll back.
“Did you do something different?” Clark asks, leaning forward, obviously fighting the urge to stare.
You laugh, “I need you to be more specific,”
“I don’t know. Something is different.” He gestures over to your whole body.
You look down at yourself, “Um… Nothing overly much. I think I’m more tan, I got a new lunch box at work, and OH I started a new diet?”
Clark's expression changes immediately.
“Diet?”
You nod, “Ya! It’s been going pretty well so far. I’ve been-”
Clark slumps a bit.
You pause, “Hey? What happened?”
Clark straightens back up at your question, “It’s not that… ugh. I don’t want this to come out wrong.”
You both wait as Clark collects his thoughts.
“I love you.” He blurts.
Your eyes widen, “I.. love you too?”
“No..” He shakes his head, “I love you. I don’t want anyone else. Is there a reason you are doing this? A health concern, self-improvement, or a test in human resilience? Because, I love you and I don’t want you to change for a reason that would make you feel worse in the long run.”
You grab his hand from across the table, “Clark, that’s very sweet. But, I’m fully grown. I promise I’m being careful.”
He nods, “Thank you, sorry I can’t turn it off sometimes. Tell me all about it!”
Dick Grayson:
Dick would be the one to feed into this skill.
Everything new he notices… gets a compliment.
Loves the new nail polish
That perfume? Gorgeous.
Your moms new dress? Drop dead.
You love how much he notices everything.
Until you get that haircut.
The haircut to end all haircuts.
You HATE it.
It's too long and too short somehow and it kinda has bangs?
It’s like the hair stylist couldn’t make a decision.
Your coworkers claim it barely noticeable (which does not help)
Your best friend says your being dramatic
You have convinced yourself this is the end of your year.
You've relegated your next 3 months to beanies or just shaving it all off… until
You walk into your boyfriends apartment ready to FUCKING RANT.
And this man, god help him, can’t stop staring at you.
You take his silence as confirmation that its that fucking bad.
But you have to give him a five minute reboot.
He loves it.
Loves it
Which would be more reassuring if he could form a complete sentence other than “your hot”
You're sitting on the couch contemplating the shears in Dick’s bathroom before Dick tilts your head up and kisses you.
It's hard and surprisingly forceful.
He is about to tell you just how much he loves it… for quite a while.
Apparently your tragic haircut has become the greatest thing that's happened to him all week.
Jason Todd:
Despite his avoidant tendencies, Jason is well aware of your schedule and your favorite things.
This includes your favorite necklace.
The one he made for you on your first date.
It was supposed to be a joke.
An old bolt had fallen off his bike.
Poor thing was entirely stripped through and was likely shot through by one of deadshots microscopic bullets.
He placed it in your hand saying, “He’s gotta bolt, but he's expecting that back next time.”
Jason spent the entire time cussing himself out for the pun. Blaming spending too much time with Dick and his “bullshit jokes”
So imagine his surprise when almost a month after you met him for a random coffee break with that damn red bolt on a chain around your neck.
After his retelling of the event you wear it frequently, mostly to piss him off, but also because it's become one of your favorite memories.
So when you stop wearing it, Jason notices.
You come up with various excuses, “Forgot it today”, “had to take it off at the gym” etc.
Until he walks in on your anniversary and finds you under your bed searching like a mad man.
“Doll?”
Your head shoots up.
BUMP
“FUCK” You slide out from under the bed rubbing the back of your head.
You lock eyes with him as he holds your gift and a bundle of flowers, “Jay! You’re early.”
He nods, “Lookin for something under there?”
You blink a few times before your head hangs in shame, “I lost the bolt. I took it of a few weeks ago to shower and poof.”
You run a hand through your hair, “I-I kept hoping it would just show back up if I looked hard enough but…”
You huff, “God. I’m sorry Jay.”
He slides down next to you and delicately hands you the box, “Can you open that for me?”
“Jay-”
He shakes his head, “Just open it… please?”
You sigh before popping off the small ribbon.
Inside stands your old necklace and something new.
“I know this guy who can turn old bullets into studs, but I wanted to make sure they matched. So, I borrowed it”
Inside the small box stands two earrings used bullets morphed into a flower.
You look up at him.
Something in your eyes softens Jay almost immediately.
Ever the adverse to overly happy moments, Jay changes topics, “Do you know how long I had to wait to snipe that thing? You guard it more than the MET-”
You don’t let him finish quickly putting on the bolt and the matching studs and pulling him in for a hug.
“Thank you Jason.”
He pauses before embracing you, “Anytime, doll.”
A/N: For those curious, these are the studs I had in mind (I have no clue about this company btw, as always do research before you buy. Give money to who you support): https://bulletbloom.com/products/380-cal-small-bullet-plume-earrings?variant=30975828361294
Tim Drake:
Tim loves a good routine.
The only thing he loves more than his own is yours.
The perfectly tempered coffee he places on your desk each morning.
The dramatic thump of your keys when you get home at 6:15-6:30pm
And his favorite is your designated Tim cuddling time after dinner but before patrol.
And today?
He is leaning on that schedule of yours hard.
Banking on the dinner conversation and those minutes on the couch.
Today was utter shit.
So he sits on the couch and waits.
Happily thinking about holding you in his arms and ignoring the drama at WE and whatever the Riddler is up to tonight.
Until you sit in the armchair…
On the other side of the living room.
You sit with your hands in your lap smiling that joyful smile of yours and ask, “What do you want to watch tonight?”
“No”
You reel back a bit, “No?”
He taps the couch cushion, “That isn’t your spot.”
A laugh bubbles up your throat, “You were just complaining about someone at work touching you. I figured you wanted space?”
He shakes his head before standing up and lightly dragging you over to the couch, “That, angel, was a 60 year old man I had never met before rubbing my shoulders. You are my favorite person on the plant. Not the same thing.”
You continue your laugh before cuddling into his chest, “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize how sacred cuddle time was to you.”
He shrugs, “schedules are there for a reason.”
Conner Kent (A/N: Reader as a nose piercing)
You change your shampoo.
It’s not even worth a passing thought.
Just a different shampoo because the store was out of your usual brand.
You don't even mention it.
There isn't really anything to mention.
Then Conner walks into the kitchen the next morning.
And immediately points at you.
"You're different."
You freeze.
"What?"
"Different."
"...How?"
Conner squints.
You watch him mentally sort through possibilities.
Then his eyes widen.
"Oh! Your shampoo."
Silence.
You stare.
He stares.
"What about my shampoo?"
"It smells different."
You laugh.
"Conner, no."
"Conner, yes."
He wanders over and immediately buries his face in your hair.
"Definitely different."
You shove him away.
"Stop sniffing me!"
"I'm investigating!"
"You're being weird!"
"I'm being thorough."
His hands settle on your waist as he leans in again.
"It's coconut." He says
"Coconut and shea butter." He says confirming
You, with little hope in his assessment, check the bottle sitting on the counter.
Coconut and shea butter.
"How did you know that?"
Conner shrugs, "I can hear your heartbeat from three blocks away. Shampoo isn't exactly challenging."
You stare at him.
Then he tilts his head.
"Wait."
"Oh no."
"You changed your conditioner too."
"CONNER."
Then he pauses.
“There’s something else too."
"Oh come on."
His eyes narrow again hiding the growing smirk.
"That's not your usual nose ring either."
You huff and raise your hands in exasperation.
"There it is."
Damian Al-Ghul-Wayne(aged up):
Damian is not vocal about noticing changes.
When directly asked, he'll simply nod or shake his head.
"Did you notice I got my hair cut?"
A glance.
"Yes."
That's it.
After a while, you stop asking.
Not because he doesn't notice, he clearly does, but because getting information out of him feels like interrogating a government agent.
So when you decide to try a new perfume, you don't bother mentioning it.
You spray it on before meeting Damian for lunch and think nothing of it.
Halfway through the afternoon, while the two of you are walking across campus, a guy passing by smiles.
"Hey, your perfume smells really nice."
You blink.
"Oh. Thank you."
The compliment catches you off guard enough that you can't help smiling.
Unfortunately, Damian is standing right there.
The boy leaves.
Damian stares after him.
"...What?"
"Nothing."
You make it about fifteen feet before he starts.
"For the record. The jasmine suits you better than the vanilla one."
You nearly trip.
"What?"
"The vanilla scent lingered longer."
He says it casually.
"As did the citrus one before that."
You stare.
"The one from February was far too sweet."
"February?"
Damian looks confused.
"As in four months ago."
"You remember my perfume from four months ago?"
"Of course."
You stop walking entirely.
Damian sighs.
"The new haircut also frames your face better."
"..."
"The silver earrings are superior to the gold pair."
"..."
"And the nail polish you removed yesterday matched most of your wardrobe."
You can only blink at him.
Because suddenly every tiny change you've made over the past several months is being cataloged and evaluated.
"You noticed all of that?"
Damian's expression softens just slightly.
"And for future reference, beloved, I noticed all of those things the day they happened. "
I WAS THE ONE WHO REQ THE POLY SUPERBAT AND U SERVED POOKIE TYSMMMM😭🫶💜
Now if you're up for it, how would each batboys—and anyone else from DC that you write for honestly— would be offended or go with the flow if you call them dude, bro etc etc either out of nowhere, because reader is excited, or just to see their reactions LMAO idk if this has been done b4 😭
stay hydrated!🫶💜
Do not call me that!
featuring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Wally West
Helllooo I love ur writing ! Can you pretty please do Dick / Jason / Wally SMAU where the reader is really clumsy but like hella embarassed about it, so she’s always covering giant bruises and the boys think it’s something else and she has to come clean and admit she’s just clumsy
Thank youuu
where did that come from…
dick, jason, & wally x gn!reader
the boys ask you where your mysterious bruise(s) come from
content: established relationship with dick and wally, pre-relationship with jason, allusion to (assumed) abuse with jason, bruising, I kiiinda divulged from the ask (I'm sorry) and I realized after I made them but this flowed better in my brain, I hope you still enjoy!! <3
hi! i adore your smau so so much! i have a request bc i found this hilarious in a way, smau how about reader asking the batboys to hold it while they pee? but if you feel uncomfortable by this request please just skip this. thank you!
Can I hold it?
featuring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Duke Thomas, Bruce Wayne
warning: MDNI!, suggestive!
A/N: Hiii I’m really glad you enjoy the smaus & I love your Idea! <33 Hope you like this one🫶🏻
Texting him after work put you in a bad mood: featuring my fav batboys: Jason, Bruce, and Dick
cw: suggestive themes (Jason/Bruce), cursing, bullying, mentions of therapy
CHARACTERS: DICK GRAYSON, WALLY WEST, JASON TODD, ROY HARPER, TIM DRAKE.
Summary: You cry over something super ridiculous that doesn’t need crying over.
Warnings and tags: kinda ooc, slice of life, reader is just emotional
A/n: does anyone else genuinely cry over tiny things or is it just me? Idk I just cry over every little thing. Can’t find my shoes? I’ll cry about it. Lose my lipgloss? I’ll cry about it. I think I need mental help. I have a part two with Hal, Bruce, Conner, Clark, and Duke. If this does okay I’ll post it as well!!
DICK GRAYSON — Spoiler alert!!!
“Baby, I’m homeee,” Dick’s voice calls in a singsong voice, “Patrol was actually insane tonight. It was one of the rare occasions Jason joined us and to my luck, Tim was there too. Anyways, when we got back to Wayne manor, Tim thought it would be a good idea to—”
He pauses and frowns when he realizes that you aren’t listening. Settling down his keys on the counter, he reached for the fridge door.
“Okay, well, since I need to talk about it anyways, I’ll just pretend like you’re listening. Right, so Tim thought it would be a good idea to leave yellow graffiti cans on the ground, which— what the fuck does he need yellow graffiti cans for— anyways, said graffiti cans exploded when Alfred ran them over, and ended up turning Jason’s bike yellow. Which sort of ruins the whole concept of Red Hood and makes the whole thing just go off vibe. So then, Jason—”
He was only halfway done pouring orange juice into his glass when he heard a quiet sniffle coming from the living room.
“Baby?” He asks with concern, before dropping the glass on the counter and moving to the living room.
You’re curled into the couch and the tv is paused mid-scene. The room is dim and dark except for the glow of the screen, and your face isn’t visible— because you’re crying into a pillow. It’s suffocating and your cries are muffled, but for some reason it feels better than crying in the open. Dick moves towards you slowly.
“Hey sweetie,” he starts, crouching beside the couch.
You finally lift your face from the pillow, and the moment he sees you, his expression drops with concern. The sight of you makes his chest tighten; tears have soaked into the fabric beneath your cheek, leaving your skin flushed and damp, lashes clumped together with lingering tears that still cling stubbornly to the corners of your eyes.
His hand comes up automatically, brushing damp hair away from your face, his brows pinching together as he looks at you.
"What happened?"
You hesitate— how could you tell Dick that you were crying this much over something utterly ridiculous? When you finally speak, it comes out small and embarrassed.
“I spoiled it.”
He sits closely beside you and the couch dips a little more.
“The show?” he asks.
You nod once, eyes flicking to the paused screen in frustration.
“It was the ending,” you say after a second, voice catching slightly. “I didn’t even mean to see it. I was avoiding it for so long. And I’m just sad that I’ll never get to experience it properly now. Like ever. It’s just ruined. Forever.”
It’s quiet now, and you feel even more embarrassed. Really? What are you, 5 years old? Who cries over a show— and not even because the ending was sad, but because they spoiled the ending?
“Oh,” he says eventually, “That really sucks.”
You wipe at your face quickly, annoyed at yourself for it.
“It feels stupid,” you admit. “It’s just a show.”
Dick shifts a little closer, shoulder almost brushing yours, “okay, well then, you just have to spoil it for me too— and then we’ll watch it together. Then it’s ruined for both of us.”
You finally laugh, “that’s ridiculous.”
“No it’s not,” Dick frowns, “Cmon, that way you won’t be alone! And ruining it for someone else might help you take your frustration out, how about that?”
You hesitate for a second before telling Dick everything, and he listens intently to it all, and even searches up some extra details to ruin it even more for himself. The rest of the night is a lot more comforting than your miserable evening. Dick made hot cocoa, and after the two of you finished the show, you decided to rewatch Home Alone. Christmas was months away, but holiday films always lift everyone’s spirits.
WALLY WEST — A VANILLA CUPCAKE? THE AUDACITY!!
When Wally walks into the kitchen and sees you, standing at the counter, completely absorbed in whatever is sitting in front of you, his first instinct is to smile. You look cute. Cute enough that he immediately abandons whatever thought he was having and makes a beeline for you instead.
"Hi, baby."
The greeting comes out half muffled against your hair as he leans in, pressing a kiss against the side of your head, then another against your temple, an arm already wrapping loosely around your waist. Usually you'd laugh, or lean into him, or complain about his clinginess while trying not to smile. Instead, he feels you stiffen, and pulls back immediately. His stomach drops.
"Sweetheart?"
You turn around.The second he sees your face, every coherent thought leaves his brain. Your eyes are glassy with tears, lashes damp and clumped together. Your cheeks are flushed, tear tracks still visible against your skin despite however many times you've clearly tried to wipe them away. Your bottom lip trembles slightly before you bite down on it, like you're trying very hard not to cry any harder than you already have. Wally's heart sinks, immediately.
"Hey, hey, hey," he says softly, both hands finding your arms. "What's wrong?"
You pause. “It’s vanilla”
He frowns with confusion, “vanilla?”
You nod, “It’s— it’s vanilla.”
When he still looks confused, you point to a small box of cupcakes on the side.
“I know it’s stupid, I mean who cries over cupcakes?” You say,”it’s just that— I wanted strawberry cupcakes, so I door dashed them this morning, but an hour later they said they ran out. So then I went to this other bakery that was half an hour away and when I got there they said they removed strawberry cupcakes off the menu. So then I went to a local bakery and they accidentally gave me chocolate first, so I corrected them and they still messed it up and now—“
You sniffle and sigh, “Now I’m stuck with these.”
You went to three bakeries?"
You nod miserably.
"Three."
"And you didn't think to call me?"
You blink.
"What?"
Wally looks genuinely baffled.
"Why didn't you call me?"
A small laugh escapes you.
"Uh cause like it’s a cupcake? What am I supposed to say ‘Wally can you drop all your superhero business and bring me some cupcakes?’."
“Yes.”
“Wally.” You roll your eyes.
"I'm serious."
“You’re being dumb.”
His hands settle on your arms.
"But you still should've called me."
Before you can answer, Wally presses a quick kiss to your forehead. Then he disappears, like, literally— one second he’s standing next to you and the next? He’s vanished. .
You blink.
"...Wally?"
Nothing. The kitchen remains empty. You stare at the space where he was standing. Less than ten seconds later, a gust of wind rushes through the room and Wally reappears. And in his hand is a strawberry cupcake.
JASON TODD — stupid pigeon
Jason spots you sitting on the bench before you even turn toward him. You’re angled inward, hands tucked in your sleeves, watching the ground as tears drop from your eyes and hit the concrete. His stomach immediately drops and he inches closer towards you with concern.
“What happened?” he asks.
You point slightly at a small figure a little close ahead. Jason directs his gaze to follow your finger, and it lands on a pigeon a few feet away, pecking at the ground stupidly.
“I tried to feed it,” you say quietly, “and it didn’t want to eat. So then I thought, ‘hey maybe it’s just not hungry’, but guess what? Some other woman gave it bread, and it ate it willingly. Which means I’m the problem.”
Jason stares at the pigeon for a moment before looking back at you, his eyebrows slowly pulling together as he tries to process what he's hearing. The pigeon, completely unaware that it's currently being discussed, continues pecking at the pavement without a single thought behind its eyes.
"That one?" he asks, pointing at it.
You nod miserably, already feeling ridiculous all over again now that you've said it out loud. Who cries because a bird didn’t want to eat the food they gave them?
Jason squints.
"That's the bird we're talking about?"
"Jason."
"No, because now that I'm looking at him properly, I think this might actually be the bird's fault. I mean look at it— were his parents siblings or something? Why the fuck does he look like that? "
Despite the tears still clinging to your lashes, you let out a small, disbelieving laugh.
"It’s not the bird's fault."
"I don't know," Jason says, leaning back against the bench. "Look at him. He looks rude."
You wipe at your face, shaking your head.
"He doesn't look rude. I wanted to feed him because he looks sweet.”
"He absolutely looks rude. Look at the way he's walking around."
He indicates to the pigeon, who’s waddling to the left of a garbage bin now.
Jason watches it with visible suspicion.
"See? He obviously thinks he’s the Jacob Elordi of pigeons or some shit."
Another laugh escapes you before you can stop it and the tightness in Jason’s chest eases slightly. when he'd first seen you sitting here, tears dropping onto the concrete while you stared at the ground like your heart had genuinely been broken, he'd thought something terrible had happened. For a second, he'd been preparing himself for a family emergency, a horrible phone call, bad news—something. Instead he'd found you devastated over a pigeon. An annoying, ugly, self-entitled, bratty pigeon who lacked common manners, to precise. It was quite frankly ridiculous.
"Listen," he says, nudging your knee lightly with his. "If that bird looked at you and decided not to take the food, that's a reflection of his character, not yours."
You groan and bury your face in your hands. Was he seriously lecturing you about a pigeon’s character?
"You're making this worse."
“Im serious,” Jason continues, “I dunno if his parents left him when he was younger or what, but he has serious issues. Or maybe his girlfriend’s cheating or sum shit. Or maybe he got caught cheating. He looks like he has serious commitment issues. Can’t hang around any good people cause they’ll have a good influence on him.”
By now you're trying and failing not to smile, and Jason decides that's enough. He settles back against the bench, satisfied with the progress, while the pigeon continues wandering around several feet away.
"Besides," he adds after a moment, glancing toward it again, "that thing probably eats cigarette butts. I wouldn't take its opinion too seriously."
ROY HARPER — STUPID SANDWICH
Roy finds you in the kitchen with your back turned toward him, standing so still that he notices something is wrong almost immediately. At first, he assumes you're concentrating on whatever's sitting on the counter in front of you. Then you swipe at your face, and his stomach drops.
"Baby?"
You don't answer right away. Roy is already moving closer when you finally turn around, and the second he sees your face, he knows something has upset you. Your eyes are glassy, cheeks flushed, and there's a look of pure embarrassment mixed in with the sadness, like you're already ashamed of whatever explanation you're about to give him.
"What happened?" he asks gently.
You point toward the plate on the counter. Roy follows your finger and immediately finds himself staring at a grilled cheese sandwich. He looks at the sandwich and then at you and then back at the sandwich.
"...Am I missing something?"
A miserable sound leaves your throat.
"It folded."
Roy looks down again. The grilled cheese has partially collapsed on itself. One side slid when you transferred it from the pan, leaving the bread tilted slightly and the cheese hanging awkwardly out the side. He stares at it for another second before looking back at you.
You groan.
"I know."
"No, hold on."
"It's stupid."
"Maybe."
You stare at him.
"Well, that’s not what you’re supposed to say.."
"But I still need context." I can’t say crying over a sandwich isn’t dumb unless I have context.”
Despite yourself, a small laugh slips out.
"What happened?"
You lean against the counter and sigh.
"It took me forever to make. I burned the first one, then I dropped the spatula along with the next sandwich on my fucking foot, then I had to start over, and this one was finally perfect." Your eyes drift back toward the plate. "Then it folded."
For a moment, Roy just looks at you and suddenly he understands. It's not really about the grilled cheese is it? . It's about the first grilled cheese and the spatula but also whatever kind of day leaves a person one bad sandwich away from tears.
Without warning, he reaches forward and picks the sandwich up off the plate.
You blink.
"What are you doing?"
Roy turns it slightly, studying it from different angles like he's conducting some serious investigation. His eyebrows slowly pull together.
"This is bad."
You stare.
"What?"
Roy nods solemnly.
"This is such a tragedy."
He emphasizes the word ‘such’ just like you do when you’re yapping to him about something. He even threw his head back a little. A laugh escapes you throat, and Roy continues to stay in character. His expression would make someone think he’s at a funeral.
"Roy."
"No, seriously."
He points at the sandwich, wagging his finger around.
"Look at him."
"Him?"
"He fought so hard."
You cover your face with secondhand embarrassment, then drop your hands after realizing you were the one who was crying over this same sandwich less than five minutes ago.
"Roy."
"I mean, his father got burned."
You can hear him trying not to laugh.
"Roy."
"His brother fell, along with that nasty ass spatula."
Your shoulders are already starting to shake with laughter.
"But he made it.."
"Oh my God Roy, stop it”
Roy shakes his head sadly while continuing to inspect the sandwich, trying to stay in character.
"And after all that, you had the audacity to judge him?"
A laugh bursts out before you can stop it, and suddenly you're laughing even harder than you were crying earlier. Emotions work in funny ways. One second you’re crying and the next you forget what you’re crying over. Roy grins immediately, relief washing across his face at the sound.
"Finally, oh my goodness,” he smirks, “yknow how hard I had to stay in character just so you would laugh?”
You point at him accusingly.
"You are sooooo annoying."
"No, I’m not? You’re the one laughing at my jokes. So, if I’m annoying, then you’re annoying for laughing at an annoying person's jokes. Annoying, annoying, woah it doesn’t even sound like a word anymore."
You roll your eyes, but you're still laughing. You now understand why Dick hates third wheeling with the two of you, Roy is right. You’re both super obnoxiously annoying, but hey, at least you’re annoying together!!!! He’s also correct about annoying not sounding like a word anymore. Roy looks back down at the sandwich one final time before giving a disappointed shake of his head.
"Honestly, I don't think he'll ever recover from this."
"Stop."
"I'm just being realistic.hes gonna get eaten anyways?”
"Okay wait— how do you know it’s a guy?”
Roy pauses, deep in thought, “because no matter what, the woman is always right. Only a guy sandwich could be screwed up this bad.”
Another laugh escapes you.
Roy looks unbearably pleased with himself and then, before you can stop him, he takes a bite.
You gasp. "Hey!"
He points at you while chewing.
"See? Delicious."
"That was mine."
Roy shrugs.
"Our sandwich."
You groan loudly and shove his shoulder.
He just laughs and takes another bite anyway.
TIM DRAKE — MISSING FANFIC ALERT!!!
a/n so, like a week ago yours truly did cry over a fanfic she couldn’t find and it’s still missing. I’m gonna feel like a piece of me is missing for the rest of my life. Fuck u tumblr.
Tim lets himself in quietly, expecting the usual sounds that mean you’re home. He waits for you to yell at him to come give you a kiss, he waits for you to jump into his arms, but neither of his two favorite things happen. When he looks up properly, he sees you curled into your desk chair, knees pulled to your chest, face buried in your arms, shoulders shaking in uneven little breaths that don’t quite settle and his chest tightens immediately. He’s across the room in seconds, worry flooding his brain.
“Hey,” he says.
You shift when you hear him, just enough to lift your head, and the moment he sees your face, his expression changes. Your cheeks are damp, lashes stuck together, eyes red and swollen from crying long enough that it’s started to feel like a headache. There’s a mess of wiped tears on your sleeve, and you look immediately embarrassed to be seen like this— which you are. Because you’re crying over the most utterly ridiculous thing of all time. Tim stops beside you.
“What happened?”
You shake your head.
“It’s stupid.”
He doesn’t move, he just stands there waiting for you to tell him what went wrong, so he can fix it immediately.
“My tabs are gone,” you say quietly.
Tim blinks. “Gone?”
“My browser crashed,” you add, voice catching. “Everything disappeared. I checked history, everything. It’s not there. And I know it’s a stupid to cry about, but everything’s already just so frustrating yknow? Like nothings going right today. And then this happens. I had 97 tabs Tim!! 97!!! And now they’re all gone. And I had a bunch of important stuff saved, recipes, articles and it all just vanished.”
Your fingers twist in your sleeve.
“And uh there was a fanfic,” you admit after a second, quieter now. “And I can’t find it again. I don’t remember the title or the author or anything. I just remember reading it and now it’s gone. And I just wanted to know how it ended and now it’s too late.”
A shaky breath slips out of you.
“It sounds so stupid,” you mumble, “who cries over losing some dumb fanfic?”
Tim looks at you for a moment, then crouches beside your chair, hugging your waist.
“It’s not stupid,” he says.
You let out a humorless little breath. “It is. It’s just a fic.”
His gaze flicks once to your laptop, then back to you.
“You’re upset,” he says, “therefore it’s not stupid.”
“I’m crying over a stupid fanfic,” you mutter, “and it isn’t canon.”
Then Tim quietly reaches for your laptop.
You hesitate, but you don’t stop him.
He opens it, already moving through everything with a focus that settles the room in a different way. History. Nothing. Tabs. Nothing. Search. Nothing. Your stomach sinks a little more each time the screen refuses to give anything back. Then you quietly kick yourself for still feeling sad over such a little thing.
After a few minutes, you slump slightly.
“I told you,” you say quietly. “It’s gone.”
Tim doesn’t answer right away. He just leans back slightly, thinking, then turns his attention to you.
“Say what you remember,” he says.
You do, reluctantly.
A line. Then another piece. Something about tone, something about the characters. Tim nods once and goes back to typing. You watch him for a while, still sniffling, still wiping at your face every so often, the embarrassment sitting heavy in your chest because this is ridiculous. It’s just a piece of fan fiction. You know it is. You know normal people don’t usually cry over lost internet stories like this.
The absurdity finally catches up to you properly. A laugh slips out and you cover your face.
“This is so embarrassing,” you mutter, but it comes out halfway into another laugh.
Tim glances at you. The corner of his mouth twitches slightly, but he doesn’t comment.You shake your head, still laughing under your breath now.
“I’m actually crying over a fanfiction. I’m genuinely mortified.”
“You were upset,” Tim says simply, still typing.
“That doesn’t make it less insane,” you reply, wiping at your cheeks again, but your voice has softened now.
A few more clicks and then he stops and turns the laptop slightly toward you and… it’s there. The fanfic is fully open, as if it didn’t just cause you to have a complete meltdown.
“…No way,” you whisper.
Tim just shrugs slightly. “You remembered enough.”
Another laugh slips out of you, this one more real.
“You’re unreal,” you say, still staring at the screen.
“Mm.”
You lean back in your chair, laughing at the absurdity. Tim closes the laptop gently, and you reach for him, tugging at his sleeve, indicating that he should sit next to you. When you’re both settled into the chair, he looks at you for a second before letting you sprawl over him and rest your head in the curve of his neck. His hand settles at your back, and the two of you just sit there.
Okay so I sincerely apologize for barely posting, but I swear I’ll post more now!! Also omg 350 followers already?! That’s insane omg. Ily all so much 🥹😋💗
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.
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?”
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.
buff!l blurb inspired by @/oghostfucker’s beautiful art work bc i can’t get it out of my head >_< :: https://www.tumblr.com/oghostfucker/807267147611029504/some-buff-l-sketches-for-this
💬 11 🔁 184 ❤️ 900 · Some buff L sketches for this
“I’m hitting the gym, would you wanna come with?”
“Why?”
You pause in your steps, turning back to look at your boyfriend who had been sitting quietly in his chair, knees to his chin while his thumb pressed gently against his lip.
Perhaps not the right person to ask…at least you think? You’d never really seen L work out, and that was understandable due to his occupation—but it was a Saturday, and you knew he had nowhere to be.
“To stay fit?” You chuckled, walking back over to his hunched over figure. The blue light reflected in his eyes, highlighting the bags beneath them and his pale skin color.
“Hm.”
You hesitate for a moment before leaning down to place your chin on top of his shoulder, your lips close to his skin.
“Come on, why don’t you come? It won’t hurt. Besides you’ll make for great company.” You give his cheek a quick kiss as a little…persuasion.
“Please?”
“I wasn’t asking earlier why you would go to a gym…I was questioning why you would go to a public one? Hundreds of people enter in and out, it’s plain unsanitary.”
You almost laugh at his response, but when he tilts his head to look at you, you give him a confused look. “What do you mean public? You’re acting like you have your own private one.”
“..I do.”
You lift yourself back up, standing straight.
“What!? I didn’t know this—When did you work out so frequently you had your own gym?”
“Regularly. I didn’t think it was important..”
He slowly ascended from his chair, towering over you as he scratched his ankle with his other foot.
“You knew I went almost every week, how come it didn’t make itself relevant then?” When he stayed silent you didn’t even bother scolding him…
“Come on let’s go there then! I wanna see!”
“If you insist…”
Oh and you insisted greatly. Fortunately for you, you were stubborner than even the smartest detective in the world, and when you arrived? You could barely contain your excitement.
“How could you have been hiding this from me!” You squealed, running around the space like a little kid. Different kinds of machines littered the room, and mirrors decorated the walls. It was perfect! No more randoms checking you out or judging you, no more experiencing the feeling of being watched, and of course, L was just a bonus.
“I didn’t know it would provoke this much excitement from you.” He murmured, walking towards you—your body practically vibrating.
“It’s a dream! Absolutely no more anxiety—how is this not a safe haven for you?”
You barely even gave him a chance to answer your own question before you bounced over to the bench lift, immediately positioning yourself. “Wait, wait—spot me here first!” You giggled, smiling as you watched him add weights onto the machine. You should’ve asked him to go to the gym with you months ago, maybe you would’ve been here sooner…
“Ehm, L? Are you ready?”
“One moment.” You heard the sound of clothes shifting yet paid no mind, focusing on the weight you were easily going to lift! A little flaunting never hurt anyone… Maybe he’d be impressed!
“Ready.”
“Okay!”
Your hands slowly wrapped around the bar, struggling in the beginning just a bit before successfully lifting it! Your mistake however came when it was time to bring it back down. Literally.
You were shaking ever so slightly, and L noticed immediately—not missing a beat to quickly reach out and help.
Now, what you expected from L physique wise was a pretty lean yet still athletic build. Not huge biceps!! You almost dropped the bar completely when they came into your line of vision—was he shirtless!?
He immediately lifted the bar back into place, but you—once again—didn’t allow him to speak.
“How many secrets are you keeping from me!?” You exclaim, getting to your feet and turning around to be met with a body you seriously couldn’t believe belonged to your boyfriend.
“What!?” You squeaked once more, placing your palms against his torso. Rock solid.
You felt your face begin to heat up—and you could’ve sworn he was flexing!? How dare he!? In a predicament like this!?!
“Why are you?—How did you do that!?”
“I feel hurt you’re so surprised.” He replied, the sly little smile on his lips not going unnoticed.
You squeezed his sides as if you were inspecting him, trailing your hands over his body like he was a shiny new ken doll. His muscles were prominent—how could you not notice?
“How long are you going to continue?…”
“Shut up, I know you’re enjoying it.” You grumbled beneath your breath, going in for a hug just to feel him. “Wrap your arms around me. Tight.”
A pause.
“I-it’s for a test!”
With faux annoyance his arms slowly encircled you, squeezing your waist almost mercilessly. It hurt. In such an amazing way. You wouldn’t mind seeing the light if it was the cause of his arms…
You sighed into his neck, giving the side of it a quick peck before deflating entirely. Pure relaxation.
he knows it's petty. yet, that does nothing to abate the furrow of his brows and the pout on his lips.
your mii is refusing to date his mii. the stubby big-headed character he poured way too much effort into making it look like you using the face paint and tinkering with the facial placement— though it is but a pittance compared to the real deal. not to mention the fact that he had to make you based off memory since he had been too shy to confess that he made both of you as miis on his island and wanted a reference.
the only two residents on his island, in fact.
and he's still getting rejected.
if he was lucky you'd let him talk to you whilst sitting together on the fountain. only for his mii to vaguely ask to hang out and make things awkward.
he had even made place holder miis, before unceremoniously removing them, until he got the island expansions! the restaurant. photo booth. pawn shop. hell, even the ferris wheel! yet, no juice could be made from the fruit of his labor.
your mii had been adamant in constantly rejecting his advances, even having the gall to fall in love with one of the placeholder miis.
and after every rejection, his own mii kept falling back in love after a trip to europe to subside his despair. after the first few times the love bubble inevitably popped up, jason had told his mii-self that it was too soon to ask your mii out only for that equally big-headed bunch of pixels refuse his advice and ask you out anyway. rinse and repeat.
perhaps it was a cruel joke on him for even trying. was it because your mii wasn't accurate enough? jason swears to himself that he'll keep a small photo of you in his wallet from this day forth.
perhaps it was poetic. that, no matter what happens to him, he'll always come to love you.
This is totally not based off a true story or anything buuuuut
SMAU where Reader is repeatedly warned not to try and crack their bones so aggressively and ends up having to text their partner and explain that they might need to go to the hospital because they dislocated something
The Hospital??
featuring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Wally West
warning: panicking and dramatic bfs, dislocation mentioned, hospital, tim being a little stalker (not in a bad way tho…)
A/N: Can you tell that I had a lot of fun writing Wally’s part?? LMAOO, I hope you’re doing okay now and of course I hope you enjoy reading this<33
a morning with damian and the latest guest in your home, or — in which, he realizes he has two spoiled girls on his hands. damian wayne x fem!reader too much fluff . now playing : ( fairuz ) يسعد صباحك – فيروز
“You’re making qahwa?”
Damian hummed, glancing briefly at where you stood in the doorway. “And toast. Come sit, you’ll get fed.” It’s an act of bravery from him, you think, and a great show of strength to be bare footed against the cold floors at this hour of the morning.
There’s a hypnotic softness within his voice though that coaxes you near, and your feet move without much thought, tiptoeing — or trying to, with little yelps along the way — across the cold tiles.
January was always one of the coldest months in Gotham, where mornings came with glowy windows slick from condensation and the silent stillness of wintertime.
January, the month of new things, like the rug Bruce gifted you both after the announcement of your engagement that you dreaded having to clean, like Damian’s Peds rotation that had him extra soft on you lately, because being around newborns will do that — not that you would ever complain when you get to have him home in the mornings, sweatpants hung loose, dark hair mussed from sleep and a Gotham U thermal sweatshirt big and soft over his impossible shoulders.
A soft meow came from atop one of the kitchen stools and Damian sighed. “Yes, ya Sultana, you’ll get yours too.”
New things, like the cat that has made her way into your lives. A fluffy white thing, ragdoll-ish and always frowning unless she gets her way. Sultana, Damian called her, because clearly he’s a servant in his own house.
“She’s not pleased, you missed her breakfast time,” you murmured, scooping the cat into your arms and settling yourself onto the stool. “Aren’t you, Sully?” The kitty meowed long and low, a grumble of frustration from her feline throat that spoke only of neglect.
“Tt.”
Damian slid a small plate across the counter — a small slice of toast, no crust and a dollop of labneh. He hunched next to you with a butter knife and his eyebrows drawn tight. “Sully?” he questioned, inquisitive.
“Short for Sultana,” you shrugged.
“Like the Federal Agent?” Damian spread the labneh diligently.
“Isn’t it so cute? We could have it printed on her little pillow.” You hummed in response and he shook his head, raising to his full height again to eye the work he’d completed.
“She does not pay rent. I don’t recall these living arrangements,” he grumbled.
The unwanted guest in question meowed once more, a paw outstretched towards the plate, and Damian, in the middle of his culinary assessment yanked it away, his brows lifting with realization. “Not yet.”
“Well, neither do I,” you said, suddenly distracted by the sight of him crossing the kitchen and reaching an arm up to the highest cabinet, the sleeve of his sweatshirt slipping down to his elbow.
A muscle twitched in his forearm, a vein peeked out too and you swallowed.
“Your name is on all the paperwork, do not insult me.” There was a small glass jar in his hand, and with expert movements, he moved it in front of him and out of your view before you could question it.
“Soon to be our name?” you grinned wolfishly. “Which do you think suits me best, Wayne or Al Ghul?”
“Both are yours,” Damian took the plate away and hunched over it at the corner of the counter like an evil scientist in his laboratory. Sultana meowed and you tried to take a secret glimpse, to no avail. “As well as the one who was born with them.”
“So romantic…” you sighed wistfully. Then your nose twitched at a smell; you knew that smell, earthy and sharp like fresh herbs.
Without a second lost, you rose from your seat. “Damian—”
“I would advise you not to—”
“Is that your mother’s za’atar?”
He winced. “There’s barely any in the jar, I’ll have to contact her soon.”
This did not deter you, as you stalked closer, one of your cold palms slipping under his shirt and meeting the warm flesh of his bare back.
“You liar,” you huffed.
On the counter there was his magnificent display of a dish worth The Sultana’s time, from which he had probably realized that a pretty sprinkle of za’atar on the top was all that was missing from his masterpiece. But the jar next to him was damn near full. “You’ve been hiding the za’atar from me?”
“You put it on your ice cream, ya rouhi.” Damian argued. The memory alone made his shoulders tighten.
“To see how it would taste!”
“You are not mentally well,” he picked up the plate and moved to serve the displeased cat who still sat perched and impatient for her breakfast. “And as your doctor…” he whipped back around to grab the jar before you could beat him to it. “I would advise you not to have any today.”
“You are not my doctor,” you pouted, and Sultana only meowed, happily accepting the dish placed in front of her. “Damiannnn,” you whined.
“I won’t be persuaded,” he turned his back to you, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Go sit down.”
“This is unfair!” You complained childishly. “How come Sultana gets za’atar but I can’t have any? What is this favoritism?”
At the same time, the poor cat sneezed. Definitely the za’atar.
“Bless you, Sully.” “May the Most High prolong your reign, Sultana.” Came simultaneously.
“And this is the cat you don’t want?” you trailed behind him like an invasive shadow, following his every turn, even when he poured the qahwa into your favorite mug, leaving it out to cool. You were by his side when he reached for another plate — or rather, melted into his side — as the loud click! of bread popping up from the toaster took his attention.
“My exact words were that I did not recall any agreed upon living arrangements,” he said. Again, he cut the crusts off — not that you ever once asked him to — and spread labneh onto the toast, the magical jar of za’atar next to him still unopened. “I’m open to options regarding her staying.”
“But you’re not open to sharing the za’atar?” you mumbled, smooshing your cheek against his arm, peering up at him with big, pleading eyes. His jaw twitched, yet his resolve remained.
“Pleeaaaseee, Dami…”
Damian closed his eyes and sighed. “No.”
“But—”
“No, you’ll have too much and it will make you ill.”
“But, I promise—”
“Do not beg,” he sighed. “It’s beneath you.”
You deflated, snaking your arms around his middle. His hand rested atop yours briefly before he broke off a piece of labneh covered toast and brought it to your lips. “Where’s yours?” you asked mid chew.
“I ate last night,” he answered.
You shook your head. “You’ll eat with me,” your fingers found the toast and you reached up to feed him a piece. He accepted it, one of his canines grazing your thumb. “Good?”
He hummed in satisfaction. Your fingers brushed a crumb from his bottom lip and he took your hand against his mouth, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Missing something,” he murmured into your skin.
“Like… your mom’s za’atar?” you smiled cheekily, lifting your head to kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.
He pressed a peck to your nose as you pulled away. “Perhaps.”
“Damian…” you pouted, placing a kiss to his jaw. Your eyelashes fluttered against the skin of his cheek and you felt his lips curve upwards in a smile. Then you suckled at the little sweet spot under the curve of his jawline where his pulse beats your name.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight, one hand wrapping around your waist to pull you closer to him through that facade of restraint. “Seduction tactics are also beneath you,” he whispered, in that low throaty voice.
A giggle left your throat. “I’m not doing anything…”
Damian sighed, long and heavy. “You’re a better liar than that, beloved.” He tilted his head down and kissed you for real this time, your mouths moving together softly.
Your fingers grasped at the front of his sweatshirt to pull him closer as he hummed against your lips, open mouthed and wanting more.
Brazenly, and mid kiss, you reached your other hand blindly onto the counter for the za’atar jar, but he grasped your wrist in his gentle hold, bringing it up to rest against the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Damn him and his assassin senses.
Across the way, Sultana meowed hungrily. You pulled away, lips swollen, and burst out laughing.
Damian was quick to work on more labneh toast, his brows drawn as he murmured with faux disbelief, “I am a servant. I am a servant in my own home.”
With a sprinkle of za’atar he turned to serve Her Highness, but paused to break a piece of the toast, coated in labneh and now dusted with za’atar, bringing it to your overexcited mouth.
You chewed happily with a squeal and wiggle of your knees.
“Spoiled,” he said, the smile on his face contradicting his words. Then, he leaned down to steal a kiss from your lips, flavored with za’atar and the assorted spices of loving him. He bumped his nose against yours. “You were wrong. It did not require the za’atar.”
“What was missing?” You followed close behind him.
He took your hand in his as he sat down next to the hungry cat, pulling you across his lap. Sultana padded gracefully towards her awaiting plate and began her feast.
“You,” Damian brought the back of your hand to his mouth, placing soft kisses along your knuckles. “Now it tastes like home, ya rouhi.”
🗒️ had to post a dami fic, sick and tired of ppl playing in his face also where are the dami fic writers pls hmu so i can binge read 😔 #myrobin
