FaceTime! featuring Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake
Sum: Just some fluffy FaceTime moments with the batboys.
Warnings: Mild swearing in Jason's, fem! reader. mdni.
𑣲. Dick Grayson ᯓᡣ𐭩
"Are you on top of a building?" You ask, leaning closer to the screen as if that will somehow help you see past Dick's face and the glowing stretch of Blüdhaven behind him. He looks unfairly good for someone halfway through patrol - black hair windblown across his forehead and the domino mask hiding those blue eyes.
"Yeah, so, like - hold on." He flips the camera around and immediately starts walking, boots scraping lightly over concrete while the screen swings between buildings.
"You live there," he says, pointing down toward one apartment tower, and then turns toward another. "And there's my place. Wait - " The camera flips back to him, his masked eyes narrowing slightly as he thinks. "Have I seriously never taken you up here before?"
"Must've been one of your other girlfriends," you tease, sinking deeper into your chair as you tug the sleeves of his sweatshirt farther over your hands.
Dick's smile drops so fast you nearly laugh. "My other girlfriends?" He plants one gloved hand against his chest like you've wounded him. "Wow. Okay. That's crazy, actually." You can hear the grin coming back into his voice before you even see it, bright and dazzling. "I have one girlfriend. One. She's mean to me, actually. Borderline abusive. Steals my clothes, teases me, a real mean lady"
"I am NOT mean, Grayson. This has been my hoodie for like ever."
"It says Gotham University. Pretty sure," he drawls out loudly, ever teasingly, "you didn't go there, baby. I would've never missed someone as gorgeous as you."
You laugh before taking a sip of your water, and Dick laughs with you, the sound softening when he drops down onto the ledge of the building. He sits as if gravity has never particularly applied to him, one leg dangling over the side while the other bends beneath him, phone balanced casually against his knee. For a little while, neither of you says much. You answer an email and fix the cuff of his sweatshirt where it's starting to fray. Dick watches the city below, shoulders finally relaxing now that patrol has slowed down. Every so often he looks back at the screen just to make sure you're still there, and when you catch him doing it for the third time, he doesn't even pretend otherwise.
"What?"
"Nothin'." His mouth curves into that softer smile he saves for you, chin resting against his fist. "You look cute. I miss you." There's a pout at the end of that. He's almost hinting to come over afterwards to steal your entire morning.
You roll your eyes and take another sip.
"You can come over later."
"I was already planning on it." He grins before putting in his earbuds. "How about I bring breakfast?"
✩ Jason Todd ᯓ★
Jason Todd has never played Stardew Valley in his life, yet somehow he has become deeply invested in your little playthrough. You've got Discord open on your laptop while your phone sits propped on your desk, giving you an excellent view of him midway through a workout.
Shirtless, broad shoulders and old scars shifting every time he moves, the white streak at the front of his hair damp with sweat and falling into his eyes. "So you gotta greet every chicken every day?" he asks from the floor, forearms planted against his mat while he holds a plank.
"Yes." You continue to clack away, occasionally showing him the coop.
"Sounds needy, like you. You need me to check on you every day"
You glance over and catch him looking at the phone instead of the floor. Specifically watching to see whether you're looking at him. A bead of sweat runs down his chest, and Jason's grin only grows more when your eyes linger half a second too long.
You immediately turn back to your laptop.
Cocky asshole.
"Well, this one's named after you." You circle your character around a fat brown chicken wandering through the grass, and Jason's attention snaps over immediately, squinting at the screen.
"Which one?"
"This one."
He cranes his neck toward the screen without breaking his plank. "Yeah."
You stare at him. "Yeah?"
"Handsome little guy." His timer goes off and Jason drops flat onto the mat with a grunt, cheek pressed to his forearm for a second before rolling onto his back. His chest rises and falls while he reaches blindly for his water bottle, takes a long drink, then wipes his mouth with the back of his wrist. "How long've you had me?"
"The chicken?"
Jason lifts his head and gives you a look. "Careful."
You grin a little, biting your lip before looking away. "Like two in-game years."
"So we're serious."
He pushes himself back up and slings a towel around his neck while you move onto the next creature in your coop. "And this one's Grayson-"
Jason's brow furrows "Why's he blue?"
"Because he's a blue chicken?"
His face suddenly fills half your FaceTime screen, green eyes flicking between you and the game while one hand braces against his hip. "Yeah, but those are the rare ones."
There's a pause, and you slowly turn toward your phone. Jason realizes his mistake approximately one second too late.
"How'd you know those are rare?"
He presses his tongue to the inside of his cheek to break the smile forming on his face before looking down at you.
"Answer my question first."
You immediately start laughing.
"Nah, don't laugh." Jason points accusingly at the laptop. "Why's Dick special?"
"He's just blue!"
"And I'm brown."
"Jason. Wait - I can explain - "
"Regular-ass chicken." He announces loudly. You can hear a small giggle from Steph in the background.
"Damian is the dinosaur! I just pick what makes sense."
That shuts him up for all of two seconds. Then Jason's brows shoot up. "Okay, that's bullshit. I should be the fucking dinosaur, and you know it."
You're laughing hard enough that your character starts running useless circles around the coop. Jason finally cracks too, shaking his head as he grabs his phone and carries you through the manor toward the kitchen.
"Alright, what'd you make Tim?" he asks, pulling open the fridge. You go suspiciously quiet. Jason pauses with one hand still on the door. You cover your mouth.
His eyes narrow. "You made Replacement a rabbit?"
You immediately start laughing again.
"Of course you did." He snorts, digging through the fridge. "Lemme guess. Steph's a duck? Loud as hell too, always yappin'. Yap, yap, yap."
"You can't say things like that!"
"What?" He waves a hand around the kitchen, completely unbothered. "Tell me I'm wrong."
He props your phone against the fruit bowl and starts pulling leftovers from the fridge, still complaining while he works. He's stirring something on the stove while giving you increasingly unsolicited farm advice from YouTube videos he's been watching.
"Have you been Googling this?"
"No. And you tell nobody about this." He takes a bite straight from the pan and points the spoon at you. "Eat your dinner."
A week later, you get a notification from Steam that Jason Todd has purchased Stardew Valley. Two weeks after that, there's a dinosaur wandering around your shared coop named Jason.
The first time you mention it, he threatens to sell the void chicken he named after you.
۶ৎ Tim Drake :꣓
Tim almost always calls you through Discord because Discord is practical. He can share whatever nightmare of a spreadsheet he's working on, you can stream your screen, and neither of you has to hold a phone for four hours straight. FaceTime is different. FaceTime usually happens when you're in bed and Tim is still very much refusing to be.
"Should I mute myself?" he asks, glancing down toward where his phone is propped against a stack of case files beside his laptop. He's hunched over his desk in an old Gotham Knights shirt, dark hair hanging over his eyes until he pushes it back with one hand. The shadows beneath them look almost bruised in the bluish light from his monitors, and there are at least two empty coffee mugs within arm's reach.
You can barely keep your eyes open anymore, cheek mashed into your pillow. "Why?"
"My keyboard." Tim types another line, pauses, then looks back at you. "It's probably loud."
You listen to the rapid click-click-click coming through the speaker. "No."
"Okay."
And that's apparently all he needed.
For another twenty minutes, the two of you barely talk. You watch him through the phone, eyes already half-lidded with sleep while Tim works through case notes, shoulders curling tighter whenever he gets particularly focused. Papers shift. His chair rolls backward. Every few minutes he mutters something under his breath, deletes an entire paragraph, then starts typing again. You're somewhere between awake and asleep when your phone slips sideways against the pillow.
Tim notices immediately. "Hey."
You blink. "What?"
"Can't see you."
You stare at him with a deep sigh and fumble around until the phone is upright again. "There."
"Thanks."
And then he goes straight back to work as though that wasn't deeply pathetic. You watch him for another second. "You got something for watching people?"
"Mhm... mostly for watching you, though."
Your eyes start drifting shut again, and Tim continues typing until he catches you rubbing your face into the pillow. "You tired?"
"No." Your eyes betray you by closing.
"You sure look tired. Want me to come tuck you in?"
"Shut up."
He smiles without looking away from his screen and reaches for one of the coffee mugs. Your eyes open immediately at the scrape of ceramic against his desk.
"Absolutely not."
Tim freezes with the rim halfway to his mouth. "What?"
"Put it down."
"It's coffee."
"It's almost two in the morning. We have a nine a.m. lecture together."
Tim looks from you to the mug, weighs his options, and then very intentionally takes one loud sip.
"Timothy."
"Don't government-name me."
You groan and roll onto your side, propping yourself up with one hand while the other reaches toward the red button. "I'm hanging up."
His head snaps toward the phone. "Nooooo. I'll miss you... stayyyyy."
You start laughing into your pillow because the whine is so dramatic and so completely at odds with the expressionless little detective who's been staring at case files for three hours. "You cannot be serious."
"I like watching you sleep."
"That sounds horrifying."
"It helps me relax."
"I'm sure YouTube has sleeping ASMR, Timothy."
"Not the same."
You reach over and turn off your lamp, leaving your room dark except for the faint glow of your phone. Tim's face is still illuminated by three monitors, one hand resting against his cheek while the other keeps scrolling through reports. "Goodnight. Please actually sleep tonight."
"Mhm."
"Tim."
"I heard you."
"You'll hate yourself tomorrow."
"Not if I see you."
You settle farther under the blanket, looking at him through half-closed eyes. "Goodnight."
His expression softens a little, a pout pulling at his mouth before he turns back toward the screen. "Night."
You hang up. Your room stays quiet for approximately twelve seconds before your phone buzzes.
theres an assumption that if an alien has an alien gender system they wouldnt understand homophobia but maybe they just have their own more complex version of homophobia. alien society with eight genders and a horribly complex web of what is considered socially acceptable that makes the gender binary look like easy mode. i'm inventing homophobia 2 and it's terrible.
the tension in the tiny apartment made the small space feel stuffy, almost as if the air had been sucked right out of it and right in the middle of all of that was jason todd. a pout adorning his face making him look more like a sad child rather than an angry man. but you didn’t make a move to baby him, not yet at least.
instead you watched in silence from your spot on the bed, your eyes drifting from the book you pretended to read to watching him undress.
you could tell he took a beating by the way he grunted and groaned yet you wouldn’t ask, wouldn’t point it out, simply because you knew in this very moment he didn’t want to talk and if you forced it he’ll shut down. you learned that the hard way but it was something you’ve come to respect because you knew when he was ready, he’ll talk.
“hi” he whispered, softly taking the book out of your hand to rest on the table beside you—your heart swooning as he made sure to slip the bookmark inside so you didn’t lose your spot.
“hey” you whispered back. he stayed silent after that, opting to fix the area around you to assure you were nice and comfortable before he laid his body in between your legs—his head resting on your tummy as his arms wrapped around your waist.
the moment your fingers tangled with his hair his energy changed, body melting into yours and a loud sigh slipped past his lips. he was calmer, the room no longer felt stuffy and the tension was gone.
before you knew it his body became heavier, full weight now resting on top of you and you happily accepted it, not daring to move to ensure he had a good night’s rest, god knows he needed it.
chubby speaks! wrote this with arkham jason in mind, but
touchstarved!jason todd who can't keep his hands off you, ever
tags !! fluff. lots of fluff. mildly suggestive towards the end. soft jason todd. domestic. established relationship. female reader (sorry). just soft. i love soft jaybin. not proofread at all. this man has acts of service and physical touch as his love language, you CANNOT convince me otherwise. no angst.
a/n !! this one's part of an ask, or technically just 1/2 of an ask by anon c: there's also a 5+1 fic version of this with a lot more angst that i will be posting, where jaybin is reminiscing, though i'd say bear with me because i havent written long fics or multiseries stuff in a long while. much love, xoxo, val
touchstarved!jason who likes having his hands around your waist, just holding on
touchstarved!jason who liked rubbing your stretch marks — he finds them nice.
"they're proof of you growing. I like them."
touchstarved!jason who would never let anyone else touch his hair except you.
touchstarved!jason who closes his eyes whenever you pat his head, almost like a cat
touchstarved!jason who lets you dye his hair, although he would complain the whole time
touchstarved!jason who would sigh whenever you traced his scars.
touchstarved!jason who loves the way you smell, so he always nudges his nose into the crook of your neck.
touchstarved!jason who secretly buys one of those perfume scent necklaces, spraying your perfume into one of the felt straps and wearing it under his shirt or his suit
touchstarved!jason who takes you on long bike rides just so he could enjoy feeling your hands wander. he loves turning sharply just to feel you squeeze him.
touchstarved!jason who prefers you grabbing onto his arm or bicep rather than handholding. he likes how much closer your body is to him, though he knows handholding is more practical.
touchstarved!jason who loves sharing a drink with you — classic double straw in one cup kind of thing. he also loves lady and tramping everything, and always takes a bite from where you took a bite or drinks from where you placed your lips.
touchstarved!jason who makes every single one of your belongings kiss. his cologne bottles kiss your perfume bottles. his toothbrush kisses your toothbrush. his mug kisses your mug - it's sickeningly adorable.
touchstarved!jason who, instead of one long kiss, loves to press multiple broken kissed to your lips. he loves feeling your breathing stutter against his face, and your soft gasps
touchstarved!jason who would stay up for hours into the night, tracking nonsensical shapes onto any patch of your skin he could find, mapping dips, valleys, curves and edges.
touchstarved!jason who is glad for leaky faucets and broken door locks. he loves any excuse to show off for you; shrugging his shirt off as he fixes whatever is broken because he knows you like how his muscles look. he works out in front of you and makes a show of stretching or getting out of his suit in front of you just so he could see and feel your gaze on his body - it is intoxicating.
touchstarved!jason who will find any reason to stare at you undressing or slip into the showers with you. he likes how good your bare skin feels against him - it's smooth and soft. or maybe he just loves touching you. either way, the man loves his skin on skin
touchstarved!jason who loves to take his time soaping up your body, paying attention to every dip and curve, pressing slow kisses to your lips as he washes you. and if the kisses get a little hungrier and he presses you against the shower's cold tile walls? well...let's hope the neighbours don't hear it and the water splashing on the tiles can cover up the moans.
touchstarved!jason who flops onto your lap or on top of you after patrol, reporting back everything that happened like it was his cardinal duty, smiling into your chest at the dumbest things he saw people do today.
touchstarved!jason who stops making specific jokes or using specific words in general because he knows you don't like them, and also because everytime he stops himself, you give him a kiss on the cheek
touchstarved!jason who pretends to be asleep for longer in the mornings so he could feel you press your lips all over his face and his shoulders lovingly, hiding his smile in the pillow.
touchstarved!jason who learned how to do hair from youtube tutorials so he would have more of a reason to touch you, doing your hair perfectly. it would come out great, too.
touchstarved!jason who looks around and makes sure no one is looking before kissing you whenever you're out for date night because he gets self-conscious kissing in public.
touchstarved!jason who loves making out in the back of a cinema showing room, smirking at how desperate you can get when your hands are dragging up and down his torso, pawing at his shirt.
touchstarved!jason who ends up having your lipstick all over his face because he loves kissing you no matter what.
touchstarved!jason who loves having his hands on your thighs. he just loves holding them, can you blame him?
touchstarved!jason who never asks to cuddle or tells you that he misses you, he just sits reaaaaally close to you on the couch, thigh to thigh, arm to arm and pretends he doesnt notice. he'll yawn and stretch, draping an arm on the couch that slowly turns into an arm around your shoulder. and then turns into an arm around your waist. and suddenly you're lying on his chest while a movie drones on in the background and he's playing with your hair.
touchstarved!jason who will surreptiously stretch within range for kisses or cuddling whenever he can.
i love touchstarved!jason todd. ideal boyfriend core.
personally I'm annoyed by the socioeconomic conditions that made words like "unalive" necessary but simultaneously impressed by the linguistic adaptations young people have made to continue talking about important things while subject to those conditions and I think if you can't hold both of those thoughts in your head you might just be old man yelling at cloud
content.ᐟ 18+, ab-riding, praise, aftercare, pet names (baby/babygirl, sweet girl)
YOU'RE DRAGGING your leaking, aching cunt across the hard lines of his torso until a squelching sound emits with every movement of your hips. he's simply laying there, an amused smirk playing at his lips as a result of your desperate whimpers. this usually happens when he's too tired or injured after patrol to fuck you in the way you crave.
"such a needy girl, huh?" he teases, resting two heavy, calloused hands on the fat of your hips. "jesus-" he huffs a low, gravely chuckle, entertained by just how much you're leaking. "makin' a goddamn mess, baby" he tuts, admiring the glistening slick smeared across his front.
you're so close, the friction of his firm, warm skin against your sensitive clit is making your nails dig in to his pecs. he knows when you're close before you do, always kept track of the way your body nearly loses control.
"you gonna cum like this?" he asks, "don't even need my help, huh?" he cups your cheek, making you lock eyes with him as your grinding grows sloppier. you couldn't care less about the embarrassment anymore, it's so intoxicating getting off on him like this, all while he sits back and watches.
your pathetic noises only grow louder with each grind, with each swipe of your pussy across his abs. "j-jay– m'gonna cum" you breathe out, clenching your eyes shut. you can feel his clothed, throbbing cock, probably making a sticky mess in his pants with pre-cum, pressing against your ass every time you move, a sign that he's getting off on this just as much as you are.
"i know, babygirl" he coos, leaning up slightly to press soft, fluttering kisses to your neck. "you can let go f'me, sweet girl" he purrs, brushing the hair from your flushed face and simply admiring the way your expression is twisted in pleasure. his precious girl, using him to get off.
your breath hitches when your orgasm finally comes crashing over you, leaving you twitching against him. he holds you through your high as you cry out, his name heavy on your tongue. he's bucking his hips up, trying to get in any last stimulation before you collapse against him, exhausted. "there we go" he speaks softly, gently, as if he's coddling you.
"you feel better? hm?" he asks, "not so needy now, i bet." he chuckles lowly, and you're too fucked out to retort back. a calm settles in your bones as he holds you, rubbing soothing circles into your back and kissing the crown of your head. he'll make sure to take care of you properly once you've both rested.
saw this on Insta and the idea that people who are anti-AI are just using it anyway like... willing to give it up? I ACTIVELY AVOID THAT SHIT BUD! WHAT ARE YOU EVEN TALKING ABOUT?
ALSO
It's not as if this shit has been around SOOO LONG. We all existed JUST FINE before this shit became THE THING someone decided to shove in our face like...
I saw a response to this going around that basically said "this is like a meth head asking someone who's never done drugs how they could possibly survive a day without meth"
Bruce Wayne x Reader
Warnings: Alcohol, fem! reader, drunk reader, age gap (Reader 20s, Bruce late 30s/early 40s), impaired consent, mentions of sex but none acted upon, oddly fluffy for once with him. MDNI.
Bruce Wayne who refuses to bring you back to the manor when you're tipsy.
Not because he's embarrassed of you. If anything, Bruce rather likes picking you up from whatever bar your coworkers decided to host happy hour at, finding you leaning against the counter with your purse open in front of you, squinting into the darkness like you might summon your credit card eventually if you just stare hard enough. He slips his coat around your shoulders before you can protest. Yours stays neatly folded over one of his arms. You complain all you want that you aren't cold while your fingers continue digging through your purse, and Bruce merely stands beside you, one hand in his trouser pocket as he watches you struggle. By the time your fingers finally close triumphantly around your card, his hand reaches over and plucks it neatly from your hand.
"I already settled the tab."
"Then why did I spend so much time doing that? Huh? Bruce."
His blue eyes drop to yours, amusement flashes in them while you throw a tiny fit over all the time you'd apparently wasted.
"I told you I was paying."
"Then why didn't you remind me, Mr. Wayne?"
"I did," he counters, one brow lifting as that polished little playboy smile threatens at the corner of his mouth. "Twice, actually. You were too drunk to notice."
Which is exactly why the manor is off-limits. He doesn't trust himself enough with how pliant you become under the influence. How tempting you'd look sprawled across his bed with half-lidded eyes blinking up at him, letting him rearrange you however he pleased simply because your body feels heavier and softer with alcohol. A pretty lamb for the slaughter placed directly in front of a man who already struggles far too much with wanting to reach for it.
Picking you up is one thing. Having you folded against his side in the passenger seat while he drives you home is another.
You spend most of the ride leaning across the center console, cheek pressed against his arm while you ramble about workplace gossip Bruce only half understands. Someone stole someone else's lunch. Someone else heated tuna in the workroom, of all things. Apparently Deborah is still a "raging bitch and keeps calling you out in front of the team in this really passive-aggressive email chain," which you explain with all the seriousness you could muster while whining, loudly, against his shoulder. Bruce hums along, occasionally glancing down at you before returning his attention to the road. One large hand stays steady on the wheel, and the other rests loosely over the gearshift, mostly because you've decided his wrist makes an excellent anchor whenever the car turns.
Your fingers don't stay there long. They slide across his thigh instead, drawing slow little circles through the fabric of his trousers, then hearts, and Bruce's grip tightens around the gearshift before he can stop it.
Then your hand wanders higher.
Bruce's jaw tightens the second your palm settles over his lap and gives the hard outline beneath his trousers a firm little squeeze, his hips shifting before he can stop them.
It would be disgustingly easy to pull into the truck stop glowing ahead, put the car in park, kiss his way down your neck while you giggle beneath him and move you into the back seat just to show you exactly what all that touching gets you. Have you whining and clinging to those broad shoulders until you forget tonight entirely.
Bruce exhales slowly through his nose, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek as his eyes stay stubbornly fixed on the road ahead.
No.
He knows better.
"Behave," he drawls, that low voice coming out a touch rougher than usual.
He's more annoyed with himself for reacting so easily than he is with you. His hand leaves the gearshift and closes gently around your wrist, his palm nearly engulfing it as he lifts your hand away from his lap and returns it to the safer territory of his thigh. You raise your head with a pout that borders dangerously close to a scowl, and Bruce dips his blue eyes toward you for half a second before returning them to the road.
You can be cute.
Occasionally.
"I am behaving," you mumble, immediately letting your hand creep right back.
Bruce feels your fingers brush over him again, only now you've graduated from tracing to slowly stroking him through his pants.
"I just wanna touch it," you whisper, words beginning to drag together as you pet the straining shape through the fabric. "Just for a little..."
He catches your hand before you can get any more ambitious.
"Of course you do."
Bruce raises your knuckles to his mouth and presses a slow kiss there, the faint scrape of evening stubble brushing your skin before he places your hand firmly back into your own lap. This time, he keeps his palm over it for several seconds, thumb sweeping once across your knuckles.
At red lights, though, he allows himself smaller indulgences. His hand slides beneath your chin, warm and rather large, the roughened pad of his thumb brushing slowly over your cheek. You've asked him before why a billionaire has hands like that. He never gives you a real answer. You turn toward him with that soft, unfocused smile you never give him sober.
"Kiss?"
He's teasing, mostly.
That doesn't stop him.
Normally, you'd humor him with a quick kiss on the cheek and leave him wanting more. Bruce has learned not to push his luck. Tonight, though, you lean in before he even finishes asking.
It's messy. Your nose bumps his and you miss his mouth entirely the first time, kissing the corner instead before dissolving into giggles against his cheek. Bruce's eyes close briefly as your laughter warms his skin, and the sound pulls a crooked smile from him before he can hide it
"Come here."
His fingers tighten lightly beneath your jaw and guide you back, your lips finding his properly this time. His thumb settles near your ear while the other four fingers curl along your neck. Even then, Bruce keeps it brief, indulging you for only a few seconds before pulling away when you chase his mouth again. Green light spills through the windshield, washing over the blue of his eyes when they open.
"Greedy."
Mostly to himself, but apparently you take it to heart by the way you pout quietly against his shoulder.
By the time he parks outside your building, you're halfway asleep against his arm. He switches off the engine and sits there for a moment, looking down at the weight of your head against him. Bruce looks at you for a second too long before getting out of the car.
"Come on."
You make a noise suggesting you have absolutely no intention of doing anything of the sort, so Bruce circles the car instead. The moment he opens your door and reaches for you, your body folds bonelessly toward him, and he barely gets one arm around your waist before you sag completely into his chest.
"Bruce."
"Mm?"
Your cheek squishes against the broad expanse of his chest as you blink miserably up at him.
"My legs stopped working."
Your statement is quickly answered in one swift movement. One arm hooks beneath your knees while the other braces around your back, and you make a tiny delighted sound when he lifts you. You're immediately curling into his chest while Bruce shoulders the car door shut, your heels dangling from two fingers of his free hand and clinking softly together beneath you.
Your head drops beneath his chin during the walk inside, his cologne faded enough that you mostly smell Bruce underneath it. By the time he reaches the elevator, you've already started sliding lower in his arms, so he adjusts you higher against his chest with a quiet sigh.
The elevator doors open to reveal a young couple already inside. Bruce steps in, presses your floor with one knuckle, and offers them the same polite nod he would anyone else while you softly sing something into his shirt. One of your heels slips against his knuckles, and he catches it before it falls, long fingers easily gathering both shoes again. The couple glance at him, then at you, then at him again.
"Is that Bruce Wayne?" one of them whispers.
Bruce stares ahead.
Thirty seconds.
He can survive thirty seconds.
You lift your head, blinking blearily at absolutely nothing before your gaze finally settles on the couple. Bruce leans closer, his mouth nearly brushing your ear.
"Give them a wave."
You brighten immediately, your hand emerging from beneath his coat to wave far too enthusiastically at them. Bruce has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his expression straight, but there's no hiding the faint crinkle beside his blue eyes.
It isn't fun playing the serious man all the time.
At your apartment, he shifts you higher against one hip and digs through your purse with his other hand.
"No snooping," you mumble. "I keep all my possessions in there."
"I bought you this purse and pay your rent. I'm allowed to snoop."
"Still, it's the principle."
Bruce simply nods, despite the smile gracing his face as he looks away.
"Understood."
The second your feet touch the apartment floor, you make for the fridge. Bruce catches the cheap bottle of wine before you do.
"One glass? Might as well since you're here, you know?" You bait.
"No."
"Half?"
Bruce removes his coat from around your shoulders and hangs it over the back of a chair, giving you one flat look over his shoulder.
"Water."
That shuts you up for approximately three seconds while he saunters off toward the bathroom to turn on the shower, knowing full well it'll take exactly eight minutes for the hot water to actually work.
The shower is cramped enough that Bruce has to turn sideways just to pull the curtain closed, his shoulders nearly brushing either wall as your shampoo bottles knock against his elbow when he reaches for one. He catches it before it tumbles and pours some into his palm.
"Turn."
You obey with surprising seriousness, and Bruce works the shampoo into your hair, thick fingers massaging slowly against your scalp while you continue talking about your friends, your job, a dog you saw earlier, and how unfairly handsome he is. You sway once, and his hand immediately catches your hip.
"Careful."
"I'm standing."
His eyes drop pointedly to your feet before lifting back to your face.
"Barely."
He guides you beneath the spray, one palm cupping the back of your head while the other shields your eyes from the suds. Water flattens his dark hair against his forehead, making the silver strands more obvious now.
You blink water from your lashes and squint up at him.
"You're really pretty."
His hands pause.
"Pretty?"
You reach up and poke the crease between his brows.
"You'd be prettier if you stopped doing that. You'll get wrinkles."
Bruce catches your hand before you can poke him again; he presses his mouth against the inside of your wrist. Once. Twice. Then a third little kiss because you're watching him with such open fondness that it makes his chest pull tight.
"Noted."
Your cheek finds his chest while Bruce rocks the two of you slowly side to side beneath the water, his chin briefly resting against the top of your head. Soap trails down between you until you eventually tilt your face up expectantly.
Bruce looks down.
One chaste kiss.
Then another against your forehead.
Afterward, Bruce wraps you in the largest towel you own. He guides you toward the closed toilet lid with both palms settled around your hips.
"Sit."
"I can stand."
You sway.
Bruce catches you under the arms before gravity can prove otherwise. His expression doesn't change.
"Sit."
You sit.
He crouches in front of you and dries your legs while you attempt to tell him something extremely important about your coworker's divorce. By the time you're in pajamas, you're brushing your teeth with one hand and pointing toward the kitchen with the other.
"I could still have wine."
Bruce watches toothpaste foam gather at the corner of your mouth.
"You could."
You brighten.
"You won't."
Your expression falls immediately.
You rinse your mouth, step out of the bathroom, and nearly walk directly into the doorframe. Bruce catches your elbow and redirects you without breaking stride.
"Convincing argument."
On the couch, he pours you water instead.
At first, you sit beside him. Then your legs creep across his lap. Five minutes later, you've somehow rotated sideways, and another five after that you're crawling completely on top of him, settling your entire weight against his chest like that had been the plan from the beginning. Bruce doesn't comment. He merely adjusts beneath you, one broad shoulder sinking deeper into the couch before his arm circles your waist and draws you securely against him, your cheek finding the hollow beneath his collarbone while your fingers occasionally play with the hairs on his chest.
Some movie you'd been talking about for weeks plays quietly across the room, although you spend most of it interrupting important scenes to explain things Bruce could have understood perfectly well himself. He doesn't stop you. He strokes his thumb slowly along your back instead, kisses your temple whenever you tilt your face toward him, and quietly takes the water glass from your hand when your fingers start going slack around it.
Bruce glances at the clock over your shoulder.
10:03.
Another twenty minutes and you'll be completely out. Plenty of time to get you into bed and still make patrol.
At 10:11, you're still explaining the movie. At 10:17, you stop halfway through a sentence.
Bruce looks down.
Your breathing has evened out, mouth slightly open against his skin, one fist loosely curled into the fabric of the blanket. His hand stills against your back. For a moment, Bruce just looks at you
Then they shift toward the window.
Toward the dark Gotham skyline beyond it. You need him, and so does she.
He slips one arm beneath your knees and the other behind your back. You stir when he lifts you, forehead bumping softly beneath his jaw.
"Bruce?"
His hold tightens instinctively.
"I'm here."
That seems to satisfy you, your head dropping back against his shoulder.
That's why he brings you here.
Not the manor. Definitely not his bedroom, where the bed is big enough for every bad decision Bruce spent the drive refusing to make.
Your apartment is much safer.
Mostly because he hates your mattress, a full-sized bed you'd somehow managed to cram into your one-bedroom apartment in downtown Gotham, where Bruce has to turn sideways just to maneuver around the bedroom and not end up bruised.
He lowers you carefully onto the patterned sheets, but your hand immediately catches his sleeve, causing him to stop for a beat. His eyes soften as he gently pries your fingers loose one at a time and tucks your hand beneath the blanket, then pulls the covers higher around your shoulders. His phone buzzes quietly in his pocket.
Patrol.
He checks the time, then sets an alarm.
3:00 a.m.
Enough time to finish what needs doing and return before you inevitably wake up needing to pee, throw up, drink half the sink, or start drunkenly wondering where he went.
Bruce bends down, one hand braced against the bed beside your head, and presses one kiss into your hair, then another against your forehead.
By morning, you'll be miserable.
Bruce already knows the routine. Water waiting on the nightstand. Painkillers beside it. Breakfast ordered before you're fully awake.
And when you finally crack one eye open and groan at the sunlight, he'll already be beside you again, hair slightly disheveled from patrol and brushing yours away from your face and kissing your forehead like he hadn't spent half the night questioning whether he should just offer to move you into his place.
pairings: bruce wayne x reader; dick grayson x reader; jason todd x reader; tim drake x reader; clark kent x reader; conner kent x reader
warnings: conner and dick's parts are suggestive
a/n: just a little reminder that my requests are open :) it may take me a little while to get to them (if they're full-length fic reqs) due to work and starting college again. also thank you guys so much for 100 followers!!
"There you are." A strong arm hooks around your waist and yanks you into a solid chest. Bruce tilts his head down just enough for his voice to filter right into your ear. "I thought I told you to stick by my side."
Bruce had finally agreed to let you join a patrol with him. He'd been hesitating for a while because he hadn't wanted to force you into this part of his life just because you're dating him. Sure, you were a vigilante before the two of you got together, but you had given it up for a bit. He hadn't wanted to pressure you. Turns out he didn't need to worry at all! You're excited to be back in action, and you've been giving him the runaround all night, much to his chagrin.
"Maybe you did, but a girl needs to stretch her legs every now and then," you murmur. It's been so long since you've seen Gotham from the rooftops. You'd forgotten what it's like to look down and see across the city. It's a rush of power and adrenaline that sets your blood buzzing in your veins. "I'm sure you understand. Don't you, Br—Batsy?"
Bruce huffs under his cowl and loosens his grip on your waist. "I do, but that doesn't—"
"Then you'll forgive me for this," you cut him off. In the blink of an eye, you slip out of his grip and disappear into the night. Bruce watches in stunned silence for half a second before his gaze narrows on your form, now three buildings away.
Oh, it's on.
As he grapples across the city, he finds that he's not as angry as he should be. Batman should be angry that his new partner is treating patrol as a joke.
But Bruce Wayne loves you too much to want to damper your fun.
He's content to spend his night chasing after you, if only to have you back in his arms by sunrise. His boots hit the roof of the next building with a thud, and he realizes something phenomenal. He's exactly where he wants to be.
"I'm not crazy for thinking he could break out of that, right?"
Roy tilts his head to the side, surveying the scene in front of him. You and Dick had been sparring for a while. It was an entertaining fight; you two keep each other on your toes. That being said, you've got Dick in a leglock now, thighs tight around his head. He's not exactly fighting back, but he's not yielding either.
"Nah, you're probably right, actually, Walls." Roy scoffs and shakes his head. "He's not subtle."
"Do you yield?" you ask Dick.
Dick doesn't answer right away, instead opting to trail a hand up the outside of your thigh and nuzzle into the fabric of your suit. "Mm…in a minute, maybe."
"You haven't moved in thirty seconds," you point out.
"Didn't realize you were counting." Dick plants a kiss to your knee that makes both Wally and Roy groan. "Don't worry, baby, I'm right where I want to be."
"I'm just saying, I think you missed a major theme of the book. I mean, it's clearly about hope. How you got your whole gloom and doom ending, I don't know. Do you read with your eyes closed?"
Jason's staring at you incredulously, but he's fighting back a delighted laugh. You've recently discovered a shared love for literature, and you've decided to hold informal bookclubs together. The two of you had wildly different interpretations of this weeks novel, and you're not shy about telling him just how wrong he is.
"The heroes lost, princess, that seems a bit depressing to me."
"It's not about the heroes, it's about the movement, the hope, the spark! That while they died, their dreams will live on in the people that come after them." You're talking with your hands now, your eyes alight with passion, and Jason knows he must look like a complete idiot. A lovestruck idiot, that is.
"I hadn't thought about it like that," he admits quietly. There's a pause, then his blue eyes are back on yours. "Tell me more."
And he means it. This is Jason's personal peace: sitting on the couch with you while you talk animatedly about your thoughts and opinions on a book you read together. Even if it means you get a little fiery. Especially then. He's right where he wants to be.
"I never thought Tim would be so clingy."
Damian barely glances up when Dick speaks, but he's acutely aware of the scene in front of him. The Batcave is quiet tonight. Bruce is out, but crime rates are down enough to give everyone else a night of recuperation. While most members of the Batfamily would complain about the lack of action, everyone's been running on fumes recently. The night off was necessary.
Especially necessary for the current topic of conversation, Tim Drake. He's been pulling all-nighters more nights than not recently. His eye bags have grown tenfold, and the family had started a betting pool on who could find him passed out in the oddest location. (Dick won, having found Tim curled up in an empty towel cabinet.)
Tim's currently passed out in your lap, his head nestled against your chest as he snoozes away. While you don't seem to mind the added weight, it's a completely foreign sight for the two brothers across the cave. They knew that Tim loves you, of course; that's never been a secret. But seeing him curled up sleeping like a baby against your chest is something else. It's a rare state of vulnerability from Tim, and, while they'd love to tease him, neither of them can bring themselves to disrupt his peace. The prospective guilt at disturbing him his an odd and new feeling for Damian.
"I think he's right where he wants to be," Damian declares.
When most people look at Clark Kent, they see a mountain of a man. He can try to hide under sweaters and loose suits, but nothing about his form screams sleeper build. He's just built.
And when you start coming around the office more, everyone's delighted to see that Clark has a girlfriend! You balance Clark's never-ending optimism out with a healthy dose of reality. The two of you work well together, and it's plain for anyone to see.
Somedays, like today, you bring lunch to the Daily Planet to share with your boyfriend. Your lunch hours occasionally line up enough to be able to share a meal together, and you both view it as a little treat.
When you get to the office today, you find Clark completely locked in on whatever article he's working on. Usually, you'd respect his focus and leave him alone, but it's a special day! And you went to the good Chinese place to get lunch! You're just going to have to pry him away from his computer monitor.
With a huff and the fraying patience of a loving girlfriend, you march right over to Clark's desk and grab him by the collar.
"Clarky, I brought lunch. Come eat."
Clark startles at the interruption, but a goofy smile spreads across his face at the sight of you. He's on his feet before you can say anything else, and he's all too happy to let you grab him by the forearm and drag him down to the breakroom.
The two of you share a peaceful meal together while everyone else in the office are trading disbelieving looks.
"Lois, did you see that?!" Jimmy asks.
"Mhm."
"She grabbed him! And drug him away like a dog!"
Lois shrugs and takes a sip of her coffee. "I think he's right where he wants to be, Jimmy."
"Soooo, what's going on over there?" Bart asks Cassie in between bites of his sandwich.
"Conner's being scolded again."
"Ah."
Across the room, you've got one hand fisted in the collar of Conner's leather jacket and the other wagging in his face while you tell him off. He pulled one too many reckless stunts tonight, and you've had enough.
"So when I tell you to be more careful, what do you say?" you snap.
"Yes, ma'am."
"And when I say that you need to prioritize your well-being more, what do you say?"
"Yes ma'am."
Despite his usual aversion to authority, Conner's all too happy to stand there and let you tell him off. In fact, he's grinning like an idiot. He's so fucking gone for how passionate you are over him.
"Why're you smiling like that?" you huff.
"'Cuz you love me," Conner grins, wrapping his arms around your waist and hoisting you up off the floor.
"Conner! Put me down! We're not done with this conversation!"
"Oh, I'm counting on that."
Your voice is heard fading down the hallway, continuing your little tirade even as Conner carts you off to his bedroom. Cassie and Bart share a disturbed look.
"At least he's right where he wants to be."
all written work and dividers belong to @ackpplepie!! do not plagiarize, feed my work into ai, or translate it. i do not own the characters used above.
imagine having a fever and having wally west taking care of you, who is a speedster and isn’t too familiar with what being sick in general feels like. all he knows is his partner is tucked in bed while feeling like shit, literally trembling, and seeing you in that state all he wants to do is cuddle you into feeling better.
he gets all whiny when you tell him no, especially when you’re complaining so much about how cold you are, but you cannot possibly handle another human’s body heat at the moment, and you’re sure you’d likely pass out if that other human also happened to be your speedster boyfriend that could double as a human furnace, so he has to settle for watching you from the chair he placed next to your bed with a pouty face and just be there in case you need anything, grumbling about how you should just let him warm you up if you’re going to keep complaining about the cold, even though you’d explained a hundred times already that’s not how a fever works—he probably knows it, he just really wants his cuddles.
at least he can still kiss you while you’re sick without risking catching it himself. he’ll be all over you no matter how many times you’ve told him that he’s gross for wanting to kiss you in that state.
do you guys ever think about how foxes are good at climbing trees and how grace's first instinct when he was about to be forcefully sedated was to climb the counters
if they're gonna remake The Princess Bride, it should open with a kid sick in bed scrolling on his phone. his grandpa arrives with a gift--it's a DVD player with a disc already inside. grandpa hooks it up to the TV and presses play. and we all just watch the original 1987 film again.
theartofmadeline
titsay
2087
tangentwithtanner
