Like people are all kinda sensitive to Jason about his death when they first meet him or never even get past the tip toeing. But Duke is like "Wait so you died?"
And Jason's like "Yeah."
And Duke is silently processes before deciding "Skill issue" was the appropriate response.
Jason obviously finds this hilarious and genuinely admires Duke's balls and that's how Duke got boosted to Jason's favourite within 15 minutes of meeting each other.
OlderBF! Bruce Wayne who gets so flustered by you before you start dating. Even just the little things, like you bringing him coffee of breakfast on your way in to work has him thinking about you. He didn't even have to ask.
"You really didn't need to bring me anything. Tell me how much I owe you and I'll add it to your next check."
He stops you with the slight raising of his hand before you even have the chance to protest.
"I mean it. I have more than enough money to spare."
OlderBF! Bruce Wayne who almost feels perverted when he asks you out for coffee before work. But the way your eyes light up aa you nod makes him forget all about it and instead focus on just how interesting your personality is.
"There's uh... There's this café I stop at in the mornings before I come in to work. You should stop by some time. My treat."
OlderBF! Bruce Wayne who gets hounded by the press as soon as they find out about your relationship. But as much as they call him 'old' and 'creepy,' you know that they don't understand. Besides, there isn't that much of an age gap between the two of you, anyway.
OlderBF! Bruce Wayne who makes you realize just how shitty other guys had treated you in the past. He was utterly shocked when you tried to pull out your wallet to oay on your first official date.
"You seriously think I'm letting you pay?" He asked after his initial moment of shock. "Darling-" he take one of your hands in his across the dinner table and presses a feather-light kiss to it. "You never have to pay when you're with me."
OlderBF! Bruce Wayne who is slowly gaining a dadbod, and it's the sexiest thing you've ever seen. Of course, he's still in peak physical condition, but his age is slowly catching up to him as he reaches his mid-fifties: the sparsely scattered greys in his hair and stubble are just further proof of that.
OlderBF! Bruce Wayne who hasn't lost his game in the bedroom and makes you feel things other men couldn't even imagine. He just keeps pulling orgasm after orgasm out of you and hasn't even thought about relieving himself.
"Just one more on my fingers, beautiful girl..." He whispers as his thumb rubs worshiping, languid circles onto your clit. "You can do that for me, can't you?"
OlderBF! Bruce Wayne who takes things so much slower than he did in his younger years. He didn't just fuck or have sex, he made love to you, and god, did he do it well.
"I love you." He whispers for what feels like the hundredth time with his face buried into your neck and shoulder, eyes screwed shut in utter ecstasy. His thrusts are slow and rhythmatic, lacking the frenzied rush many of his past lovers experienced in turn for the utter adoration and care he felt for you.
OlderBF! Bruce Wayne who loves you with everything he is and will do anything in his power to keep the darker parts of his life hidden away, even if it means lying to you.
brat!bruce wayne who rolls his eyes when you tell him to sit still on the exam table in the cave. “i’ve had worse than a cracked rib, stop fussing.” he tries to stand, you push him back down with two fingers on his sternum. he flops dramatically, arms spread like a martyr, and sighs, “fine. but if you’re playing doctor, at least make it interesting.” you tape the ribs tighter than necessary. he hisses, then smirks. “kinky.”
brat!bruce wayne who “accidentally” leaves the bat-cowl on your pillow after patrol. you wake up to the pointed ears staring at you like a taxidermied threat. you march it back to the cave; he’s shirtless at the console, pretending to calibrate the grapnel. “thought you’d want a souvenir, darling. keeps the nightmares away.” you drop the cowl on his lap. he uses it as a prop to pull you into his lap instead. “see? multi-purpose.”
brat!bruce wayne who answers every “bruce, eat something” with a protein bar held between his teeth while he deadlifts you against the cave wall. “eating,” he mumbles around the wrapper, then licks chocolate off your neck like it’s part of the meal. alfred walks in with a tray, sees the scene, and pivots without a word.
brat!bruce wayne who programs the manor’s intercom to play careless whisper every time you enter a room he’s in. you’re trying to have a serious conversation about patrol routes, george michael croons in the background. you disable the system. he hacks it back on from his phone while you’re mid-sentence. “adds drama, sweetheart. you’re welcome.”
brat!bruce wayne who refuses to moan your name during sex until you make him. you’ve got him pinned, wrists above his head, riding him slow and merciless. he bites his lip bloody, jaw clenched, eyes defiant.
you lean down, whisper, “say it, stupid brat.” he shakes his head. you stop moving. thirty seconds later he breaks. “fuck, please, y/n, i’m sorry, i’ll be good—” you reward him by letting him come. he whimpers like it hurts.
brat!bruce wayne who sends you fake tabloid clippings from his own PR team: “wayne playboy spotted leaving lover’s penthouse at 4 a.m., sources say he was carried.” attached is a paparazzi shot of you hauling him over your shoulder, his tie in your fist. he’s grinning in the photo, giving the camera a thumbs-up. you frame it. he pretends to hate it. it’s on his nightstand by morning.
brat!bruce wayne who, when you ice him out after a particularly obnoxious stunt, shows up at your door in full bat-regalia, cowl pushed up, holding a bouquet of black roses and a single apology note that just says “i’m an asshole. spank me.” you drag him inside by the cape. he spends the night facedown over your lap, counting aloud, voice cracking on every number after ten.
brat!bruce wayne who sulks like a thunderstorm when you leave for a mission without him. he texts every hour: “still alive?” then “hydrate.” then a selfie of him in your bed wearing your panties, caption “smells like abandonment.” you come home to find he’s rearranged your entire closet by color and alphabetical at the same time. you punish him by making him fold it all back. he does it shirtless, humming, and “accidentally” bends over every five seconds.
brat!bruce wayne who, after you finally break him, hours of edging, toys, denial, curls into you like a penitent. he’ll press his face into your stomach, voice small: “i’ll be good tomorrow. promise.” you card fingers through his hair. he lasts exactly until breakfast, when he “forgets” to wear pants to the table. round two starts before the coffee’s poured.
brat!bruce wayne who you catch trying to sneak out of the cave in full batsuit at 3 a.m. because “i was just gonna get donuts.” (a lie, he was definitely going on patrol) you drag him back by the cape, slam him against the med-bay gurney, and cuff his wrists to the rail with his own restraints. he tests them once, smirks, then spreads his legs like an invitation. “gonna interrogate me, officer?” you gag him with the cowl’s chin strap. his muffled groan vibrates straight to your core.
brat!bruce wayne who you edge with a remote-controlled plug while he’s on a conference call with the wayne enterprises board. you’re in the next room, thumb on the dial, watching the live feed from the cave. he’s in a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled, voice steady as he discusses stock options. until you crank it to max. his pen skitters across the desk, he coughs, “market volatility—” and you watch his thighs clench under the table. the call ends. he texts you: “you’re evil. bedroom. now.” you make him crawl.
brat!bruce wayne who you fuck in the batmobile’s backseat after patrol, windows fogged, city lights strobing across his sweat-slick chest. you’ve got the cowl pushed up just enough to bite his throat, one hand fisted in his hair, the other pinning his hips so he can’t thrust. he’s begging, “please, fuck, let me move—”
but you ride him slow, grinding deep, until he’s shaking, cock leaking between you. when you finally let him come, he shouts loud enough to trip the proximity sensors. the car locks itself.
brat!bruce wayne who you tie spread-eagle to the four posts of his antique bed with his own silk ties. you drip hot wax across his abs, watch his muscles twitch with every drop. he hisses, arches, cock jerking against his stomach. “color?” you ask. he spits, “green, you sadist.” you pour a line straight down his happy trail. he comes untouched, stripes painting his own chest, and immediately starts whining for round two.
brat!bruce wayne who you film on the bat-computer’s auxiliary screen—him on his knees in the cave, suit peeled to his waist, mouth stretched around your strap while you fist his hair. you angle the camera to catch the way his throat works.
brat!bruce wayne who you wake up by sliding into him dry, just spit and the plug you left in overnight. he’s still loose, clenching around nothing until you fill him, and he groans into the pillow, “fuck, warn a guy—” you bottom out, grind deep, and he’s babbling, “harder, mark me up—” you do. by morning he’s got handprints on his hips, bite marks on his shoulder blades, and come drying on the sheets. he tries to stand, legs give out. you catch him, smirking. he flips you off with the hand that isn’t trembling.
brat!bruce wayne who, when you finally untie him after hours of denial, flips the script for exactly thirty seconds. pins you to the mattress, growls, “my turn” then immediately melts when you rake nails down his back. he’s back to begging in two thrusts, face buried in your neck, “please, need you, fuck, i’m yours—” you let him come inside you, then make him eat it out of you while you scroll through your phone. he finishes, kisses your thigh, and whispers, “round three in the shower?” you flick his forehead. he’s already hard again.
bruce wayne masterlist. a/n: this is super ooc but the poor guy needs to have some fun
♯┆ [clark kent, hal jordan, barry allen, bruce wayne] INCLUDES.ᐟ
⤿ BRUCE WAYNE has been keeping his dating lives off of social media because he wanted to keep you safe. Until, one day, he accidentally soft launches your relationship to the entire world.
!! fluff. silly. headcanons. sort of social media. established relationship. gender neutral reader. justice league version. accidental soft launch. modern ish au/not totally canon concepts. crack sorta. ENJOY.
!! Bruce doesn’t post often. When he does, it’s usually black and white photos of Gotham architecture, old books, or the occasional moody skyline (which Jason and Dick have multiple inside jokes about.)
!! So when he uploads a photo of his study that's dimly lit, a single lamp casting golden light over the files stacked on his desk, the books set neatly on the shelves, a glass that was a few sips in, and then on the coffee table was a book that didn't fit in with the rest and a blanket that was far too colorful to be Bruce's.
!! He doesn’t caption it, he just lets the photo show a glimpse at Bruce Wayne and his life behind the walls that is just… lived in.
!! Gotham’s social media detectives start whispering. “Who’s book is that?” “Bruce Wayne doesn’t drink with company.” “That’s not his blanket.” "HE'S OFF THE MARKET??"
!! You don’t find out from the post, but instead you find out from Alfred, who sends you a message that simply says, “Master Bruce has made a quiet gesture. I thought you should know.” You open the photo and recognize the book that you had left propped open when you went to go change, the drink, and the blanket which you had promptly forced him to lay under with you just after the picture was taken.
!! “No way you just posted something that hints at you ACTUALLY being human” You immediately text teasingly. He replies, “I posted the room, it's not my fault you left a mess."
!! Bruce’s version of affection is architectural. He builds spaces around you. A second chair in his office. A drawer with your favorite pens. A garden path he cleared because you said you liked walking after dinner.
!! He doesn’t post you, and he doesn't feel the need to put an unnecessary spotlight shining directly on you, but he doesn't mind cryptically hinting that he's actually happy and in a relationship.
!! The Batfam doesn’t roast him, surprisingly, they just marvel. Jason sends “I’ve never seen him do that for anyone.” Tim sends “I think he’s trying.” Dick sends “I’m not crying, you’re crying.” Damien just emphasizes Tim's message which is basically him buying a suit for the wedding already.
!! Alfred, of course, already knew about you two. He knew the second he saw Bruce come back from work SMILING instead of sulking away to his cave.
!! Bruce’s camera roll isn’t chaotic, he probably has about 500 pictures total and most of them are you. You reading by the fire. You walking through the garden in the rain. You asleep in the chair across from him, a book open in your lap. You sleeping with your forehead propped on his desk that night you refused to let him work alone.
!! He doesn’t post them, he keeps them ike evidence of something he never thought he’d have.
!! When he finally hard-launches you, it’s not a red carpet moment or a tabloid leak. It’s a photo of the Wayne Manor greenhouse, sunlight streaming through the glass, and in the center, your silhouette.
!! Shortly after, there's a post of the ring on your finger of course. And before, during, and after these posts the media is in a frenzy and he only gives cryptic answers to reporters waiting outside of Wayne Industries.
!! Bonus! Bruce’s search history after the soft launch includes things like “how to protect someone from media attention,” “private security upgrades for non-public figures,” and “how to express affection without compromising safety.”
ᝰ.ᐟ edawgz 2025.
⤿ clark kent. hal jordan. barry allen. batboys version.
Title: the fire escape guy (™) 5: the cryptid appears
masterlist
Pairing: gen / comedic hurt-comfort / Bruce Wayne (batman) & female!vet!reader
Word count: ~2,000 (reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated)
It starts with silence.
Not the kind of silence you get when your apartment is empty, or when the city dips into that rare, exhausted lull before dawn.
This silence feels heavy. Watchful.
You freeze mid–ramen slurp.
“Oh no,” you whisper, setting the bowl down. “Not again.”
Slowly—so slowly—you turn toward the fire escape window.
Nothing.
You exhale in relief—
—and nearly launch your soul out of your body when a deep voice right behind you says,
“Apologies. Didn’t mean to startle you.”
You shriek. Loudly.
“OH MY GOD.”
You whirl around, and—
Yeah.
Yeah, that’s Batman standing in your kitchen.
You actually take a step back. “What—how—why—how did you get in here!?”
“I used the fire escape.”
You gape at him. “You’re six foot three in full body armor! My window’s the size of a microwave door!”
He doesn’t respond. Just stands there, looming like an unsettling refrigerator, cape brushing your floor.
And then you notice the blood.
A dark stain creeping down his side, under the armor. The way he’s holding himself—just a little too stiff.
“Oh, for god’s sake.” You point at him, exasperated. “Don’t tell me you’re here for medical help.”
Batman’s jaw tightens, ever so slightly. “A friend recommended you.”
You groan. “Oh my god, you too?!”
He inclines his head. “You’ve assisted my sons before.”
“‘Sons’?” you echo, incredulous. “They show up half-dead at my window like raccoons!”
He blinks slowly. “They’re my wards.”
You snort. “Sure, buddy. You keep saying that.”
He just stands there, stoic and mildly confused.
You sigh, scrub a hand over your face, and point at the couch. “Sit. You’re bleeding on my linoleum.”
He hesitates, as if unsure whether couches are a thing he’s allowed to interact with.
“Sit!” you bark. “I’ve had a long week and you are not dying in my kitchen, Bruce Wayne.”
He goes very still. A hand discreetly reaching towards his belt.
You cross your arms. “C’mon. You think I wouldn’t recognize that jawline? I’ve seen your face on every magazine cover in Gotham.”
There’s a pause.
Then, softly, resignedly: “…I see.”
You grab your first-aid kit, muttering. “What is wrong with your entire family?”
Batman—Bruce—sits, still stiff but compliant, while you work on unbuckling the armor plates. It’s like trying to undress a tank.
When you finally peel back enough gear to see the wound, you grimace. “That’s a knife wound. A long one. Jesus, who keeps stabbing you people?”
He’s quiet for a long moment before rumbling, “Occupational hazard.”
“Your occupation needs HR,” you mutter, disinfecting the gash. “I should file a report.”
He actually huffs—quiet, but unmistakably amused.
You glance up, surprised. “Did you just laugh?”
“Exhaled.”
“Sounded like a laugh.”
“Wasn’t.”
“Sure, Batsy.”
You clean and bandage him, your usual running commentary filling the air. He doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s oddly polite. Stiff but earnest.
“You’ve been… generous,” he says at one point, voice quieter now. “They’re reckless. But they trust you.”
You snort, taping down a bandage. “They trust me because I don’t let them die on my furniture.”
“That’s not nothing,” he murmurs.
You pause, meeting his eyes. They’re softer than you expect.
For a second, you see it—the tired man behind the myth. The worry that sits too deep to hide.
“They’re good kids,” you say, more gently. “Even if they drive me insane.”
He nods once. “They are.”
You finish patching him up, slap a final piece of tape over his ribs with professional satisfaction, and step back. “All right. Try not to do any backflips for a few days.”
He looks down at the bandage. “…Thank you.”
You blink. “Did Batman just say thank you?”
“I appreciate your discretion,” he says, ignoring you. Then, after a pause, adds, “And… apologize. For frightening you.”
You arch a brow. “You mean for appearing in my kitchen like a cryptid from a horror movie?”
“…Yes.”
“Well. Apology accepted.” You sigh, leaning back against the counter. “But seriously, tell your kids to stop using my apartment as a triage center. I’m running out of towels.”
His lips twitch. Almost a smile. “I’ll… do my best.”
“Somehow I doubt that.”
He stands, moving carefully. The cape swishes dramatically as if it has its own sense of theater.
You watch him climb back toward the window, still muttering. “Unbelievable. The entire bat family, one by one. Next week it’ll be the butler.”
He pauses on the sill. “Alfred is far more competent than you realize.”
“I bet he is,” you say dryly. “Now go. Before I start charging you people per bullet hole.”
He gives a small, respectful nod—and vanishes into the Gotham night.
You wake two mornings later to a thud outside your door.
Grumbling, you shuffle over in your pajamas and open it.
And just.
Stare.
The hallway is full of boxes. Stacked knee-high, all labeled “Medical Equipment — Handle with Care.”
There’s a sleek new portable surgical light. A top-end defibrillator. Stainless steel instruments in sealed packs. A veterinary-grade ultrasound machine.
You blink.
Then spot the envelope taped to one of the boxes.
Inside: a check.
You look at the number.
Then you look again.
“Fifty. Thousand. Dollars?” you croak.
You actually sit down right there in the hallway.
The check is accompanied by a plain card, the handwriting neat and sharp:
For services rendered.
For your discretion.
For keeping my family alive.
— B.
You stare at it for a long minute, then whisper, “I’m going to pass out.”
And you do.
Almost.
You slide back against the wall, fanning yourself with the check, laughing hysterically. “I patched up Batman with dollar-store gauze, and now I’m a millionaire vet.”
Your neighbor opens their door across the hall, blinking at the mountain of boxes. “Uh. You… opening a clinic?”
You grin weakly. “Apparently.”
You drag the boxes inside one by one, still shaking your head in disbelief.
By the time you finish, the sun’s rising, and you can’t help but laugh to yourself.
“You know what,” you say aloud, to the empty apartment, “if I ever find out where he lives, I’m sending him an invoice for emotional damage.”
From the fire escape, a faint flutter of movement catches your eye.
You glance over just in time to see a single black calling card stuck between the bars—a stylized bat symbol embossed in silver.
You groan, flop onto your couch, and mutter, “I need to move.”
The card stays there for weeks.
And you never cash the check.
(Well. Not all of it.)
Because if you’re honest?
You kind of like being Gotham’s accidental field medic.
Even if your blood pressure will never recover.
and the Bat appears. he is just a tired mid thirties guy who appreciates a little help with his sons who have a penchant for almost dying
Secretly its just a sickfic😭 like bruce laying in bed with reader and hes burning up so he like lowkey crushes reader bc theyre cold and readers like ‘why r you as hot as those sauna stone thingys’ and like reader takes care of him😌 idk why but i have been reading only sickfics for like two days
lucky for you I LOVE talking about sick bruce
oh my goooood he'd be so clingy when he's sick, I'm serious
I don't know why but he just gives me the vibe that as soon as he's so sick he can't tough it out anymore, he's just gonna turn into a baby. especially with you
you can joke all you want about how heavy he is or how you could cook an egg on his forehead and he'll just smush his face into your chest going "uh-huh. mm. uhhhhhmmmmm. hmph."
he's gonna SLUMP on top of you if you leave the bed. you're in the kitchen preparing tea? he's sticking to your back with his forehead on your shoulder.... lightly snoring
if you tell him to just go back to bed and wait on you he will grunt and stay there. maybe wrap his arms around you to make a point
to keep you from making a run to the cvs for more cough medicine he has alfred put in a delivery for EVERYTHING. and when you complain it'll take longer for the delivery person to get through WE security than it would for you to go grab something? he sends some poor intern who's been getting yelled at all day to grab it instead
bruce to the intern: get me 14 bottles of nyquil and I will promote you to head of your department
you: you do not need 14 nyquils. no one has ever needed 14 nyquils at once
bruce, who is just trying to make sure you don't need to leave the penthouse for the foreseeable future: 13 bottles of nyquil
I've also said before but like. he's absolutely going to get you sick
if it's not the breathing in your face (he tries not to cough in your direction but like. it happens), or the sneezing on the bathroom doorknob, it's the INSISTENCE on kissing you
you invented a new form of goodbye kisses that involve you putting your entire hand between your lips and his just so he wouldn't smother the rest of your face in his germs
and like. he still does, don't get me wrong. but it HELPS
also you know he's really sick when he actually sleeps because it's so goddamn hard to get him to sleep in general. but you'll be talking to him and next thing you know it's HOOONK SHoo mimimimi
he's very cute tho... even with his stuffed nose. he tries not to rely too much on you when he's sober (not sick) so it warms your heart when he lets his defenses down completely
omg could u pls do a how bruce wayne does casual dominance in everyday life (for example: picking what you wear, telling you what nail color to get, what perfume, etc) pls!!! i love how u write bruce 😭😭 WE LITERALLY SHARE THE SAME VISION!!! i love ur blog sm 💞💞💞
ACTS OF CASUAL DOMINANCE
─── BRUCE WAYNE x f! reader. . . headcanons .ᐟ
a/n: tysm anon !! love how we imagined bruce the same way :)
bruce, who is every inch the gentleman when he’s out with you—always placing his hand on the small of your back when guiding you through a crowd or escorting you to his car, a subtle but firm gesture that says, you’re mine, and i’m looking after you. he opens doors for you without fail, pulls out your chair at restaurants, and always walks on the street side of the sidewalk, even if it means switching places mid-walk. if you’re wearing heels, he keeps a steadying hand at your waist when you go down stairs.
bruce, who loves leaving subtle marks of his presence on you, whether it’s adjusting your scarf or brushing a thumb over your lip to fix your lipstick. when you’re out together, his hand is always on you—the small of your back, your hip, or wrapped around your fingers. not quite overbearing, but just enough to let everyone know who you belong to.
bruce, who doesn’t outright dictate what you wear, but his influence on your fashion choices is undeniable. he’ll casually leave a dress hanging in your closet or comment on how much he likes seeing you in a particular shade or fabric. “you should wear that blue one tonight,” he’ll suggest. his approval becomes something you crave, and the smouldering way his gaze lingers on you when you follow his preferences is its own reward.
bruce, who will always shrug off his coat and drape it over your shoulders if you’re cold or if the evening turns brisk unexpectedly.
bruce, who has an unspoken authority that makes you want to listen. if you reach for just coffee in the morning, he’ll gently push a plate of fresh fruit or eggs your way. “you’ll need more than that today,” he says, and it doesn’t just leave there—he’ll sit with you, sipping his own coffee as if to make sure you actually eat.
bruce, who has a knack for choosing the perfect jewelry to complement your beauty. when you’re torn between options, standing indecisively by your vanity, he’ll step in without hesitation. his fingers will hover briefly over the collection before selecting a bracelet. “this one,” he says, gently fastening it around your wrist.
bruce, who has a weakness for lingerie, and he spares no expense when it comes to choosing pieces for you. he has a habit of surprising you with carefully chosen lingerie from brands like la perla or agent provocateur—luxurious silk and lace in colours he knows will complement your skin. sometimes, you’ll find it laid out on the bed with a note in his distinct handwriting: wear this for me. other times, he hands you the box himself, sitting on the edge of the bed as you untie the ribbon. his demeanour is completely calm, but judging from the hunger in his eyes, it’s clear he’s already calculating how quickly he could rip it from your body.
bruce, who has a refined sense of smell, and takes pride in choosing a perfume that is uniquely you. when he catches the scent lingering on your neck or wrist, his lips will brush against your skin as he breathes it in, murmuring, “that suits you.” he loves how the fragrance becomes a signature of sorts, clinging to his clothes or the bedsheets.
bruce, who never misses a chance to come to your rescue when you’re struggling with a zipper or clasp. standing behind you, his hands are deft as they glide up the zipper with ease. but he doesn’t step away immediately—instead, his fingers linger at the nape of your neck, grazing your skin as though he’s savouring the excuse to touch you. he leans in slowly, inhaling your scent before he presses a kiss to the delicate curve of your shoulder blade.
bruce, who shares intimate evening rituals with you. he’ll sit on the edge of the bed, his suit jacket already discarded, watching you with an almost meditative calm as you remove your makeup or adjust your hair. sometimes he’ll step in, undoing your necklace or offering to brush your hair for you.
bruce, who has a way of subtly steering you toward better habits without making you feel lectured. bruce doesn’t argue or insist—he just closes your phone or pulls the book from your hands, setting them aside before cupping your face. “that’s enough. you’ll thank me in the morning,”
bruce, who ensures your needs are met before you even realise them. when you’re tired, he’ll guide you to sit, bringing you a glass of water or pressing a kiss to your temple. his dominance is very subtle, woven into these small, everyday acts, making you feel both cherished and completely under his care.
──⟢ fear-is-truth — all rights reserved. do not modify, repost, translate, or plagiarise my content.
It’s not exactly realistic to how irl conditioning works even for the most trained soldiers, and not canon compliant since in canon Batman will be doing his fucking utmost to get a Robin to stop right now and come back here and if they feel very strongly about it they will just Ignore him. But in my head there’s a slight AU where Batman has drilled a very specific set of passphrase “commands” so deeply and so intensively into his Robins that they act as kind of instinct-override failsafes that literally cannot be disobeyed in the moment even by estranged Robins years later. They’re so effective he almost never EVER uses them because it’s a universally hated autonomy violation. But when needed, Batman can roar a codephrased version of Robin, DISARM and within a split second every current/former Robin in hearing range has let go of what they’re holding and dropped to their knees with their hands in the air before they’ve literally even had time to process what was said.
Like, it works so effectively that Batman usually cannot risk using that one over comms because if one of the Bats is driving or grappling they will simply let go/crash and die. And maybe there’s some version of a RELEASE command too. Though if you’ve got enough willpower - like maybe Dick, or Jason after being away for all those years - you can manage to get up on your own if the RELEASE doesn’t come right away. I’d love if it was a struggle to do it though.
I think this has really good flavor as a point of immense contention that nonetheless is allowed to continue existing because Batman is adamant about their necessity and tries to only use these failsafes when it will literally save their lives. Other potential passphrase commands include a THROW (to get a bomb/dangerous item away from you), JUMP, and a generic version of DOWN for flat on your stomach (this drilled command does exist in canon but probably not to such a mind altering degree).
