daisyfieldrecs

[daisyfieldrecs]

𝐌𝐨𝐦'𝐬 𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐁𝐫𝐨𝐰𝐧𝐢𝐞𝐬 || 𝐁𝐚𝐭ⵑ𝐌𝐨𝐦 ||

A/n: I had fun with this one.

Wayne Manor – Living Room

It was a peaceful morning in the manor. Alfred was polishing the silver, Thomas was sitting on the floor building a Lego Batmobile, and you were at the dining table, quietly sipping your tea. The kitchen still smelled faintly of vanilla and sugar from the early morning baking session.

Bruce was reading the newspaper when suddenly the TV blared a breaking news report.

“This just in — Gotham’s most notorious criminal, the Joker, has been found dead in his hideout. Authorities say there are no signs of struggle, but traces of highly toxic plant matter were discovered in the baked goods found at the scene. The last thing the Joker ate was… brownies.”

The entire BatFam froze.

Tim blinked. “Wait. Didn’t you make brownies this a few day's ago?”

“They were for the rats in the alley behind the bakery,” you said sweetly, taking another sip of tea. “You know… pest control.”

Damian narrowed his eyes. “Those rats must have the digestive system of a tank if they can survive Cerbera odollam fruit.”

Jason nearly choked on his coffee. “Wait, what fruit?"

You smiled warmly. “Oh, just a little suicide tree fruit… and a touch of nightshade berries. It’s an old family recipe. My grandmother swore by it.”

Dick looked horrified. “You— You poisoned him?!”

“I did not,” you replied, perfectly calm. “I baked brownies. He stole them. Theft is a crime, you know.”

Bruce lowered the newspaper slowly, watching you with the same look he gave the Joker during interrogations. “You knew he would steal them.”

“Bruce, darling,” you said, tilting your head. “Would I lie to any of you? If I did, I’d be setting a terrible example for Thomas.”

Thomas, without looking up from his Lego Batmobile: “Mommy's right! Stealing is bad.”

The room went silent. You sipped your tea again.

Later That Day — Batcave

The BatFam gathered around the Batcomputer, reviewing the footage of the Joker’s final moments. Sure enough, he was seen sneaking into your bakery at 2 a.m., shoving brownies into his mouth like a starving raccoon. Three hours later, he was slumped over his desk, dead as a doornail.

Tim zoomed in on the footage. “She left the tray in the window, completely unguarded. In Gotham. At night. Knowing the Joker was on the run and hungry.”

Jason smirked. “This is the most badass thing I’ve ever seen her do.”

Dick frowned. “Jason, she’s our mom.”

“Exactly.” Jason leaned back in his chair. “Which means she’s my new hero.”

Damian looked genuinely impressed. “Mother took down the Joker without even lifting a blade. Efficient. Elegant. Ruthless.”

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We can’t prove intent, but—”

“Intent?” you called from the kitchen. “Oh, Bruce, stop being dramatic. Would you like a slice of pie? I made it with apples… and only apples.”

Jason whispered, “She’s terrifying.”

Damian grinning as he crossed his arms over his chest. "She's my hero."

Dinner That Night-

The family sat around the table, the conversation tense. You were serving lasagna, cheerfully chatting about Thomas’s school project, as though the entire city wasn’t buzzing about how the Joker mysteriously died after robbing your bakery.

Damian spoke up between bites. “Mother, if you ever wish to collaborate on future pest control endeavors, I have a list of individuals—”

“Damian,” Bruce warned.

You smiled at your son. “We’ll talk later, sweetheart.”

Tim leaned toward Dick, whispering, “Do you think she’s ever poisoned us?”

Without missing a beat, you said, “If I wanted to, Tim, you’d never know.”

The table went silent again.

Thomas cheerfully broke it with: “Can I help bake brownies next time, Mommy?”

You beamed. “Of course, darling. We’ll even wear matching aprons.”

Bruce muttered under his breath, “God help Gotham.”

Gotham City Police Department – Interrogation Room.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You sat at the table with a cup of tea Alfred had insisted on sending with you, calm as ever. Across from you sat Commissioner James Gordon, looking like a man who’d been dragged into a chess match he knew he was going to lose.

He set a manila folder down on the table. “Mrs. Wayne… do you know why you’re here?”

You took a sip of tea. “Because your coffee machine is terrible?”

Gordon’s mustache twitched. “Because the Joker is dead. And the last thing he ate was a tray of brownies stolen from your bakery.”

“Mm. Yes. Such a shame.” You stirred your tea slowly.

“…You don’t seem particularly upset.”

You tilted your head. “Jim, the rats deserved something sweet as a last meal. Now why on earth would I bake something sweet for a man that murders people? Murder is bad.”

“That’s… not the point—”

“I’m not the one breaking into bakeries, am I? He broke into my family’s shop, caused damage, and stole treats for the cute little rats in the alley.” You smiled warmly. “If you ask me, that’s karmic justice.”

Gordon rubbed his temples. “Karmic—”

“I am licensed to carry those ingredients,” you continued cheerfully. “Lots of people make sweet treats for pests. Rat cakes, mole muffins, mouse pie. It’s not unusual.”

Gordon opened his mouth, closed it again, and stared at you. “You’re telling me you made brownies for rats… and just happened to leave them in plain sight… knowing the Joker was still at large?”

“I can’t control the choices of a deranged killer clown,” you said, as if discussing the weather. “If anything, this city is safer now. And the rat, I'm sorry my rats got their dessert.”

From the doorway, Bruce appeared — arms crossed, expression unreadable. “Are we done here?”

Gordon leaned back in his chair, defeated. “…Get her out of my precinct.”

You stood, smoothed your skirt, and smiled at the Commissioner. “Jim, dear, you should stop by the bakery sometime. I make an excellent lemon tart.”

As you left, Gordon muttered to Bruce, “You married a terrifying woman.”

Bruce smirked faintly. “You have no idea.”

[Flashback – Your Parents’ Bakery, Two Nights Before the News Broke]

The kitchen was pristine. Every inch of the counter was covered in thick plastic sheets, tucked and taped like a crime scene from Dexter. The air smelled faintly of chocolate and something far less sweet — the sharp, almost floral tang of deadly nightshade and the faint, nutty scent of Cerbera odollam fruit.

You stood at the counter in a sunny yellow sundress, frilly pastel apron tied in a bow at your back. A silk scarf kept your hair perfectly out of your face.

And on your hands? Elbow-length nitrile gloves.

You hummed a cheerful tune as you sifted cocoa powder into a mixing bowl, the sound oddly at odds with the meticulous, almost surgical precision of your movements. Every utensil was stainless steel. Every surface was disposable.

“This is for hurting my babies,” you murmured under your breath as you measured sugar, the soft clink of the spoon against the bowl punctuating each word.

You weren’t just talking about Thomas — oh No. Your “babies” included every single one of Bruce’s kids. Jason’s empty bedroom flashed in your mind — that first night after the news came in, when Joker had taken him. The quiet horror of seeing Dick’s bruises. The brittle, pale look Tim had after one of Joker’s toxin incidents. Damian’s sharp, defensive glares when he was frightened but wouldn’t admit it.

And the faces of countless Gotham innocents.

You poured melted chocolate into the batter, swirling it in slow, deliberate circles.

“For Jason,” you whispered, folding in the flour.

“For Tim.” Scoop. Stir.

“For Dick.” Stir. Pour.

“For Damian.” Smooth the surface.

And finally, as you pressed the mixture into the pan with a spatula, you murmured with a smile,

“And for every soul in this city who’s tired of your face, clown.”

You set the tray gently into the oven, set the timer, and went to wash your gloved hands.

When the brownies were cooled, you wrapped them in brown paper and tied them with string. Then you carried them to the back door, placing the parcel right by the open window over the alley — where the smell would waft into the night air.

A few crumbs “accidentally” scattered on the sill. Just enough to lure a rat… or a rat in purple.

As you pulled the gloves off with a snap and dropped them into a sealed disposal bag, you beamed like a homemaker who’d just finished a batch for a bake sale.

“Bon appétit, you bastard.”

Wayne Manor – Batcave

The giant Batcomputer screen flickered to life. Tim had pulled the footage from the bakery’s security cameras, insisting they “needed to understand the full context.”

The video started grainy and black-and-white, showing the brownies sitting innocently on the windowsill.

Bruce stood behind Tim with his arms crossed, Damian perched nearby, Dick leaning against the console, and Jason munching popcorn like it was a movie night.

⸻

[On-Screen]

The Joker tiptoed into view, spotting the brownies. He rubbed his hands together like a cartoon villain.

Then you popped up from behind the counter, clutching your chest dramatically.

“Oh no… oh please don’t steal my baked goods!”

Jason nearly choked on his popcorn. “Oh my god—”

The footage showed you staggering forward like you’d been shot, leaning against the display case.

“Those brownies… they’re for the rats, sir. They’re not meant for you.”

Damian raised an eyebrow. “Is she… acting?”

Jason laughed. “Acting? She’s putting on a Broadway show.”

On-screen, Joker grabbed the tray, grinning like he’d won the lottery. You gasped, collapsing to your knees in slow motion.

“Oh no, whatever shall I do…”

Dick covered his mouth. “She’s… hamming it up so badly he thinks she’s scared.”

The video ended with you straightening the second Joker left, smoothing your apron, and smirking directly at the camera.

⸻

The room was silent for exactly three seconds before Jason broke.

“She baited him. Like a Saturday morning cartoon villain trap. And he fell for it!”

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering, “Of course she did…”

Tim grinned. “This isn’t just premeditated… it’s Oscar-worthy.”

Damian, smirking faintly: “Mother’s skills in psychological manipulation are… admirable.”

Jason leaned back in his chair. “She’s the deadliest baker in Gotham. We’re never living this down.”

From upstairs, your voice called cheerfully, “Who wants cookies?”

Everyone exchanged a look. Nobody moved.

Wayne Manor – Dining Room

Dinner had been tense. The incident was still fresh in everyone’s minds, and the footage of you baiting the Joker was now permanently seared into the BatFam’s memories.

You walked in from the kitchen with a bright smile, carrying a plate piled high with warm chocolate chip cookies.

“Who wants dessert?” you chirped.

The reaction was immediate:

• Bruce subtly pushed his plate back, expression unreadable but eyes tracking every cookie like they might explode.

• Tim leaned slightly away from the platter.

• Dick forced a smile, shaking his head. “I’m… uh… watching my sugar.”

• Jason held up his hands. “Oh no. Nope. Not falling for that.”

• Damian eyed the cookies suspiciously. “Are these… standard issue?”

You blinked innocently. “Of course. Just butter, sugar, flour, eggs… chocolate chips.”

Jason muttered under his breath, “That’s what she wants us to think.”

Thomas, however, didn’t hesitate. He grabbed two cookies, took a huge bite, and let out a happy sigh.

“Mommy’s the best!”

Everyone else at the table stared at him like he was defusing a bomb with his teeth.

You beamed, leaning over to ruffle his hair. “Thank you, sweetheart. At least someone appreciates my baking.”

Thomas, crumbs all over his face, mumbled, “I love you, Mommy,” before reaching for a third cookie.

Jason whispered to Bruce, “Kid’s either fearless or already immune.”

Bruce just closed his eyes and muttered, “I’m going to regret introducing her to Alfred’s kitchen.”

You fixed the plate of cookies, everyone eyeing them except for Thomas — was suddenly acting like dessert was a live grenade.

Bruce gave a tight smile. Dick was politely shaking his head. Tim kept sipping his water without looking up. Jason leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Damian was studying the cookies like they were evidence in a murder trial.

Your smile faltered into a little frown. You put your hands on your hips.

“…Are you all afraid of me?!”

The silence was deafening.

Jason broke it first. “Yes.”

“Jason!” Dick hissed.

Damian, still eyeing the cookies: “Respect is a form of fear.”

Tim mumbled, “It’s not fear, it’s… uh… healthy caution.”

Bruce avoided your gaze entirely, buttering a roll like it was the most fascinating thing in the world.

Your lower lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout. “Oh, come on. You all eat Alfred’s food without question!”

Jason leaned forward, smirking. “Alfred hasn’t been caught on camera baiting a homicidal clown with poisoned brownies.”

Thomas, mouth full of cookie, cheerfully chimed in,

“I’m not scared! Mommy’s the best!”

You softened instantly, smiling at him as you smoothed his hair. “At least someone in this house still trusts me.”

Jason muttered to Tim, “Kid’s brave. Or doomed.”

Bruce sighed, finally meeting your eyes. “We’re not afraid of you, we’re just… aware of what you’re capable of.”

You grinned sweetly. “Good. Now eat your cookies.”

Nobody moved.

Thomas reached for another. “I get all the cookies!”

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a butter knife. The cookies sat in the middle of the table, untouched — except for Thomas, who was happily working on his fourth one.

You glanced around at the faces avoiding your gaze.

Finally, your patience snapped.“EAT THE DAMN COOKIES!”

The force of your voice made everyone freeze — even Bruce’s fork paused midair.Even Thomas stopped mid-bite, wide-eyed.

A beat of silence. You took a deep breath, smoothed your apron, and said in the sweetest tone as you sighed putting a hand to your forehead. “Oh… I’m sorry for snapping, I’ve just been stressed… you know, with being accused of murder and all.”

Jason muttered, “Technically it’s manslaughter at best—” but shut up when you leveled the look at him.

Nobody spoke.

“Eat,” you said again, softly this time, but with the kind of deadly calm that made even Jason lean forward without another word.

One by one, they each reached for a cookie:

• Bruce took a careful bite, chewing slowly like he was testing for cyanide.

• Dick smiled too brightly, nodding. “Mmm! So good! Totally not dangerous at all!”

• Tim glanced at Thomas for reassurance before biting into his.

• Jason shrugged and popped the whole thing in his mouth. “If I die, I die.”

• Damian ate his with perfect composure, though his eyes never left you.

Thomas grinned, holding up his half-eaten cookie as if he hadn't eaten half the plate already, happily chewed another, looking at everyone like they were crazy. “See? They’re fine! Mommy’s the best baker in the world!”

You smiled sweetly, sitting back down. “Thank you, darling. See? Nothing to be afraid of.”

Jason swallowed and said under his breath, “Yeah… this time.”

You smiled warmly, sipping your tea as the sound of reluctant chewing filled the room.

Wayne Manor – Kitchen, Later That Night

The dining room had gone quiet after dessert. One by one, the kids wandered off — some still side-eyeing the remaining cookies on the plate — until it was just Bruce in the kitchen with Alfred, who was putting away the tea set.

Bruce leaned against the counter, arms crossed, his expression as unreadable as ever… but Alfred knew that look.

“Something on your mind, Master Bruce?”

Bruce hesitated, then lowered his voice.

“The cookies were… really good.”

Alfred didn’t even look up from the teapot. “Of course they were, sir. I helped her with the recipe.”

Bruce blinked. “…You what?”

Alfred calmly dried a cup. “Master Jason once told me, ‘If you’re going to take someone out, at least have the decency to make the bait taste divine.’”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “So you knew about the brownies.”

Alfred smiled faintly. “I make it a point not to know things that would require me to testify in court.”

There was a long pause.

Bruce sighed, reaching for another cookie from the covered plate on the counter. “…Don’t tell the kids.”

Alfred poured him fresh tea, hiding his smirk. “Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”

Wayne Manor – Kitchen Doorway

Bruce stood at the counter, mid-bite into a second cookie, while Alfred sipped his tea like this was perfectly normal.

From the hallway, a faint whisper:

Jason: “Is he—”

Tim: “—eating another one?”

Dick: “He’s eating another one.”

Damian: “Pathetic.”

They all leaned around the doorway just enough to see Bruce chewing, clearly enjoying himself.

Thomas, who had snuck out of bed for water, spotted them all lurking and loudly announced,

“Daddy likes Mommy’s cookies!”

Bruce froze mid-bite.

Jason broke first, smirking. “Well, well, well. Looks like someone’s not so scared after all.”

Tim grinned. “Healthy caution, huh?”

Dick crossed his arms, fighting a grin. “Next time, we’re all eating dessert together without the theatrics.”

Damian’s lips twitched into the faintest smirk. “Father has surrendered. Mother wins.”

You appeared in the doorway behind them, arms crossed but smiling. “Enjoying yourself, darling?”

Bruce swallowed the bite, met your gaze, and said with absolute sincerity,

“…Best cookies I’ve ever had.”

Jason muttered, “Yup. We’re doomed.”

[daisyfieldrecs]

𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 || 𝐁𝐚𝐭ⵑ𝐌𝐨𝐦 ||

A/n: Need to write more Bat!mom things, so this really takes place before The Only Opinion That Matters

The argument wasn’t loud, but it hit harder than a scream.

Damian’s voice was sharp, unyielding.

“You’re not my real mother.”

The words lodged in your chest like glass. You could see the flicker of regret in his eyes before he schooled his face back into its usual cool detachment, but it didn’t matter — the damage was already done.

Your throat tightened. “I… I never meant to overstep, Damian. I’m sorry.” You kept your voice calm, soft, the way you always did when he bristled. No accusations, no challenge. Just… acceptance.

You didn’t wait for him to answer. You stepped back, giving him space. It wasn’t the first time he’d pushed you away, but it was the first time you felt the sting so sharply. Maybe because deep down, you wanted him to see you as more than Bruce’s wife.

In the hallway, you paused to steady your breathing before heading toward the nursery. Thomas — your one-year-old son — babbled to himself from his crib, tiny fists clutching his blanket. You scooped him up, pressing your lips to his hair. He smelled of baby shampoo and the faint vanilla of his lotion. Safe. Innocent. Untouched by the barbed words still echoing in your head.

You didn’t know it would be the last moment of peace for the night.

●・○・●・○・●・

The attack came fast.

The manor’s security was formidable, but the Court of Owls had been studying your family for years. They didn’t bother with the front gates or the obvious entry points. The first sign was the faint hiss of a smoke grenade rolling across the polished wood floor, the acrid scent curling into your lungs.

Thomas whimpered in your arms, confused by the sudden tension in your body. You clutched him tighter. Your mind screamed for Bruce, for Alfred, for anyone — but instinct pushed you into motion.

You darted toward the hidden panel behind the nursery bookshelf, fingers trembling as you slid it open. The crawlspace was small and lined with old emergency supplies. You set Thomas inside, tucking the blanket around him, your heart pounding.

“Stay here, baby. No matter what. Mommy will come back,” you whispered, forcing your voice to be steady even as your vision blurred. His tiny hands reached for you, his lip quivering. You kissed his forehead one last time before sliding the panel shut.

The door to the nursery burst inward.

You spun toward the intruders — Talons, their porcelain masks gleaming under the dim light. One lunged, and you moved without thinking, grabbing the heavy lamp from the dresser and swinging it with everything you had. It connected with a satisfying crack, but the Talon barely stumbled.

A flash of steel, the cold bite of pain — and then warmth blooming across your side. Blood.

They didn’t speak. They didn’t need to. One gripped your arm like a vice, dragging you toward the window as the world tilted. Your nails scraped against the frame, leaving splinters under your skin. Thomas’s muffled cries carried faintly from behind the wall, and you prayed they wouldn’t find him.

The night swallowed you whole.

●・○・●・○・●・

Damian found him.

The boy’s usual precision was gone, replaced by frantic urgency as he ripped through the nursery, his mind already cataloging every sign of struggle. The overturned lamp. The faint trail of blood. The open window.

Then — the crying.

Damian froze, scanning the room until his sharp gaze landed on the barely perceptible seam in the wall. He pressed the panel open to find Thomas curled up inside, face blotchy and wet from tears, his blanket clutched tight. The baby’s chubby hands were smeared with red — your blood.

Damian’s chest constricted.

“Shhh… I’ve got you,” he murmured, pulling Thomas into his arms. The baby pressed his face into Damian’s shoulder, still sobbing for you. “I’ll bring her back.”

It wasn’t a promise he made lightly.

Within minutes, he was in his gear. His mind replayed every detail — the Court’s tactics, the old cases Bruce had worked, the patterns in their abductions. He knew their signature. He knew they didn’t waste time.

But most of all, he knew this was his fault.

He’d pushed you away with words designed to wound, and now… now the thought of you bleeding somewhere in their grasp was unbearable.

Thomas’s cries echoed in his head as he mounted the Batcycle, the city lights blurring past. His grip on the controls tightened until his knuckles whitened.

They had taken someone who mattered. Someone he refused to lose.

●・○・●・○・●・

The Court’s safehouse wasn’t hard to find — not for Damian. They’d tried to bury it under layers of misdirection, but their arrogance was always their weakness.

The building was a crumbling relic in the Narrows, windows dark, air heavy with rot. It looked abandoned to anyone else, but Damian could feel the hum of life inside — that quiet, cold pulse of the Court.

He moved like a shadow, slipping past the patrolling Talons, the soundless weight of his boots hitting the ground. He’d dealt with them before, but this time was different. This wasn’t a mission. This was personal.

He found you in the bowels of the building.

The room was dim, lit only by the flicker of a single overhead bulb. You were slumped against the wall, wrists bound, blood matting your clothes. Your head lolled forward, lips pale, breath so shallow he had to strain to see the rise and fall of your chest.

Damian’s composure cracked.

“Mother…” The word slipped out before he could stop it, hushed and raw. He was on his knees beside you in an instant, fingers checking your pulse. Relief hit hard when he felt the faint thrum under his fingertips, but it was fleeting — you were slipping.

He pressed a gloved hand against your wound, trying to stem the bleeding. “Tt… you’re not allowed to do this,” he muttered, the tremor in his voice betraying him. “Do you hear me? You are not allowed to die.”

Your head shifted weakly, but your eyes stayed closed.

Damian’s jaw clenched. “Wake up. You have to wake up.”

Nothing.

His voice dropped, urgent, breaking in places. “I didn’t mean it — what I said before. You… you are my mother. You’ve always been. I can’t lose you. Thomas can’t lose you.”

He shook you gently, desperation clawing at his throat. “Please. Just… open your eyes. Yell at me. Tell me I’m being a brat. Anything.”

Footsteps echoed in the hall — more Talons. Damian’s eyes narrowed. He shifted, pulling you into his arms, cradling your head against his chest as if his body could shield you from everything.

“You’re coming home,” he promised. Not a hope. Not a plea. A vow.

The Talons came in a wave.

Damian fought with one arm, the other clutching you tight. Every move was precise, efficient, and lethal. He didn’t care if they recognized the fury in his attacks — the Court would know exactly who had come for you.

When the last Talon fell, he didn’t waste a second.

Outside, the cold night air hit his face, and for the first time in hours, he allowed himself to breathe. The Batmobile roared to life — Bruce had tracked him, met him halfway, eyes narrowing at the sight of you limp in his son’s arms.

“She’s alive,” Damian said quickly, his voice like flint, daring Bruce to question it. “Drive.”

You stirred only once during the ride back, a faint, pained whisper of his name. Damian leaned closer. “I’m right here. We’re going home. Don’t you dare leave me.”

This time… he wasn’t letting go.

●・○・●・○・●・

The first thing you felt was the beeping.

Steady. Rhythmic. Relentless.

Then came the smell — antiseptic, sharp and sterile, cutting through the fog in your mind.

Your eyelids felt heavy, but you forced them open, squinting against the dim hospital lighting. The world was hazy, shapes blurring into one another until your focus finally landed on a dark figure slouched in the chair beside your bed.

Damian.

His posture was rigid, but his head rested in his hands, elbows on his knees. You could see the faint tension in his shoulders, the way his chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. His Robin gear was gone, replaced with a plain black hoodie and sweats, but there was still dried blood along one cuff. Your blood.

“Damian?” Your voice was weak, scratchy, barely more than a whisper.

His head snapped up instantly.

The relief in his expression was immediate, almost violent in its shift. He was on his feet in a heartbeat, standing at your side, eyes scanning your face like he wasn’t sure you were real.

“You’re awake,” he said, voice low but tight.

“I… guess I am.” You tried for a smile, but your ribs protested the effort. “What… happened?”

His jaw worked for a moment before he answered. “The Court of Owls. They took you. I found you.”

Your memory came back in fragments — the masked intruders, the crawlspace, Thomas’s cries — then nothing but flashes of pain and cold. “Thomas?"

“He’s safe. You hid him. I found him before they did.”

You reached for him, fingers brushing his sleeve. “Thank you.”

He didn’t move for a long moment. Then, abruptly, he sat on the edge of the bed, careful of the IV lines, his gaze dropping to the blanket. “I need to tell you something.”

“I was wrong.” His voice was barely audible. “When I said you weren’t my real mother. I—” His throat bobbed. “I didn’t mean it. Not really. I just… didn’t want to admit that you matter to me.”

You stayed quiet, letting him find the words.

“I thought I’d have time to fix it later,” he continued, voice fraying at the edges. “But when I found Thomas alone, with your blood on him… I thought I was too late.”

You brushed a strand of hair from his forehead, your hand trembling. “I never needed you to call me ‘mother.’ I just wanted you to know I’d be here. Always.”

His gaze met yours — sharp, wet around the edges. “You are my mother. The only one who would bleed for us like that.”

“Rest,” he murmured. “I’ll be here when you wake up again.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, you believed him.

●・○・●・○・●・

The ride home from the hospital was quiet.

Bruce insisted on driving himself — not one of the drivers, not Alfred. He didn’t even let Damian sit in the back with you; he stayed close, one hand on the wheel, the other occasionally brushing your knee, as if he needed the reassurance you were still there.

The manor loomed ahead, lit softly against the night. You could see the faint glow of the nursery window.

Inside, Alfred was already waiting in the foyer. “Welcome home, Mrs. Wayne,” he said warmly, but with a formality that masked deeper emotion.

Before you could answer, a shrill, familiar cry came from the hallway.

“Thomas,” you breathed.

You didn’t care that you were still sore — you were already moving. In the nursery, Thomas was already reaching over the side of his playpen, face lighting up when he saw you.

“Mommy!”

You scooped him up, pressing your face into the warm curve of his neck. “I’m here, baby. Mommy’s here.”

Damian lingered in the doorway, and when you invited him over, he took Thomas’s little hand without hesitation. Bruce appeared moments later, watching quietly as you held both of them.

“We’re okay,” you said softly.

●・○・●・○・●・

That night, the boys returned.

Jason came first, kneeling in front of you and muttering, “You look like hell,” in the softest voice you’d ever heard from him. Dick followed, pulling you into a careful hug. Damian stayed close on the rug, silently listening.

And from the doorway, Bruce stood in the shadows, watching his family — his sons, his wife, his home — and knowing without question…

For the first time in years, he was exactly where he belonged.

The manor felt different tonight.

Not just because you were back, but because of the way everyone else was acting.

Jason was hanging around without pretending he had somewhere else to be. Grayson was smiling too much, hovering like he always did when he was relieved. Even Father looked… lighter.

Damian sat cross-legged on the rug in the living room, sharpening one of his blades. It was a habit — something to keep his hands busy, his expression unreadable. But he wasn’t really paying attention to the steel.

You were curled up on the couch with Thomas asleep against your chest. He’d cried himself out hours ago, worn down from the separation. Every now and then, your hand would drift up to smooth his hair without thinking.

Damian’s eyes kept drifting back to you.

He still remembered the weight of you in his arms at the Court’s hideout — how light you’d felt, how cold your skin had been. He’d told himself he wasn’t scared, that fear was useless in battle. But that wasn’t true. The second he’d seen you slumped against that wall, bleeding, the fear had been worse than anything he’d faced in the League.

He thought of the words he’d thrown at you that morning, the way you’d stepped back instead of fighting him. He hadn’t understood then why that made him feel… empty. Now, he knew.

Because you hadn’t fought back, and you still nearly died for him. For Thomas. For this family.

Jason said something that made you smile. Not the polite smile you used on guests or the soft one you used when you were tired, but the real one — the one that crinkled the corners of your eyes. Damian found himself… relieved.

His fingers tightened around the hilt of his blade. He didn’t say it out loud — not yet — but the vow was there, carved deep into him:

No one would touch you again. Not the Court. Not anyone.

“Damian?”

Your voice pulled him from his thoughts. You were looking at him now, one brow raised just slightly, as if you could tell where his mind had gone.

“I’m fine,” he said automatically.

You didn’t call him on the lie. You just shifted Thomas a little and patted the spot on the couch beside you.

He hesitated, then stood and crossed the room. Sitting down beside you, he let Thomas’s small hand fall into his own.

“Better?” you asked quietly.

Instead of answering, Damian leaned over and let his head rest against your shoulder. The weight was subtle, but it was trust — pure and unguarded.

Your free hand rose automatically, fingers threading gently through his dark hair. He didn’t flinch.

“Yes,” he said finally, voice so soft you almost didn’t catch it. And for the first time in days, it was the truth.

[daisyfieldrecs]

The Only Opinion That Matters

↳Batmom

A/n: Couldn't resist , plus!Size reader

Mild smut { Bruce treating Reader like a goddess }

The Gotham Academy Spring Fair was in full swing, laughter and chatter mixing with the scent of cotton candy and popcorn. Thomas clung to his stuffed dog — a floppy-eared, black-and-white thing Jason had won for him at the ring toss — while his small hand was tucked in Damian’s. The older boy’s usual scowl was absent for once, replaced with something approaching ease as he actually listened to Thomas chatter about the petting zoo and the “biggest caramel apple ever.”

Damian was never one for fairs or the children who ran wild in them, but Thomas… Thomas was different. His half-brother was a bright, unfiltered six-year-old who looked at him like he hung the moon, and it was a weight Damian had decided he would carry without complaint.

They had just stepped away from the dunk tank when a cluster of boys from the Academy approached. Damian’s shoulders stiffened immediately — he recognized them, and not fondly.

One of them smirked, eyes flicking between Damian and Thomas. “Hey, Wayne. Didn’t know you were babysitting today.”

Damian’s tone was clipped but polite enough. “He’s my brother.”

“Ohhh,” another boy drawled loudly enough for the nearby parents to glance over, “the little one’s from your dad’s… other wife, right? The bakery lady?”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. Thomas blinked up at him, confusion knitting his brows.

“Yeah,” the first boy snorted. “The big one. The cow who married your dad for his money.”

Another chimed in, lips curling in mock pity. “Wouldn’t blame Wayne for cheating on the cow. My dad says she’s a tramp who hit the jackpot.”

Before Damian could speak, a third boy stepped closer to Thomas, shoving him lightly so he stumbled back. The stuffed dog hit the ground.

Thomas scrambled for it, but the boy snatched it up first, holding it above his head. “Aw, did the little bakery brat cry when he dropped his toy?”

Damian’s control snapped like a taut wire. “Give it back.”

The boy laughed. “Or what? You gonna cry too? Just like your—”

Damian’s fist connected with his jaw before the sentence finished. The boy stumbled back, and chaos erupted. Another boy lunged at Damian, only to be shoved into a table of cupcakes. Damian moved like he was back in the League — precise, furious, unrelenting — until a familiar voice cut through the noise.

“Damian!” Dick’s hand grabbed his shoulder, yanking him back before he could land another punch. The older boy’s breathing was sharp, eyes blazing, fists still clenched.

Bruce arrived seconds later, already pulling the situation under control with that deep, commanding tone. “Enough.” His gaze swept the scene — the boys nursing bruised pride, Thomas clutching his stuffed dog to his chest, the smashed cupcakes — and landed on Damian. “What happened?”

Damian didn’t hesitate. “They insulted my mother.”

Bruce’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t push for details there in public. His eyes slid to Dick, and something passed between them silently. The two ushered Damian and Thomas away from the crowd.

Neither told you what had happened.

Later that night, you noticed the scrape on Damian’s knuckles when he reached for the mashed potatoes you’d made because you knew they were his favorite. You frowned, taking his hand gently. “What happened here?”

“Nothing,” he muttered, pulling back.

You didn’t believe him, but you didn’t press. You simply fixed his plate a little fuller, adding the roasted vegetables you knew he liked, and gave him a soft, “Eat.”

Across the table, Thomas beamed at him, small voice carrying easily. “You’re amazing, Damian. You’re like… a superhero.”

Jason, sprawled in his chair with a lazy smirk, lifted his glass. “Kid’s not wrong.”

Damian ducked his head, but there was a faint, satisfied curve to his mouth. He’d do it again — a hundred times over — if anyone dared talk about you or Thomas that way.

You didn’t know the words that had been said, but you didn’t need to. Damian was your son, blood or not, and the quiet way he protected his family said everything you needed to hear.

Bruce had heard the bones of the story that night — Damian’s clipped statement, “They insulted my mother,” and the defensive set of his jaw. But Dick filled in the rest later, once you’d gone upstairs to tuck Thomas in. He told Bruce word-for-word what had been said, and it took everything in Bruce’s control to keep his expression neutral.

By the time the house was quiet, Bruce was in his office with his tie loosened, sleeves rolled, and his laptop open. He pulled up the Gotham Academy student files, cross-referenced names with public records, and then with the Wayne Enterprises private database.

In less than four hours, he knew everything.

The next morning, he was in full Bruce Wayne mode — billionaire CEO, not Batman — and he set the plan in motion.

Phase One: The Fathers

The first father was in a corner office on the 23rd floor of a steel-and-glass tower. He looked up from his desk, startled, when Bruce walked in unannounced.

“Mr. Wayne! This is— I didn’t know you were—”

“Sit.” Bruce’s voice was quiet, but there was no room for refusal.

The man obeyed.

“I own this company now,” Bruce said plainly, setting a leather folder on the desk. “As of this morning, Wayne Enterprises holds the controlling interest. That means I control your future here.”

The man swallowed hard. “I—what is this about?”

“This is about your son. And you.” Bruce’s gaze was like cold steel. “Your son shoved my six-year-old and mocked him. He and his friends called my wife a ‘cow’ and a ‘tramp.’ You encouraged that. You will correct it.”

“I—Mr. Wayne—”

“You will deal with your son,” Bruce continued smoothly, “and you will issue a public apology to my wife and both of my sons. If you fail, you will be terminated immediately. And I will make sure every other company in Gotham sees the report on why.”

By the time Bruce left, the man was pale and sweating.

It was the same at the next two offices. Calm, precise, surgical — no raised voice, just the promise of ruin if they didn’t fall in line.

Phase Two: The Wives

Thursday morning, Bruce walked into the city’s most exclusive salon. The sound of blow dryers and gossip cut off when the receptionist recognized him.

The three women were seated together, hair in foils, mid-laugh. Their faces froze when he stopped in front of them.

“Ladies,” Bruce said, voice smooth as glass. “I own this salon now. As of this morning.”

One of them laughed nervously. “Is this… a joke?”

Bruce leaned down just enough for them to see the dangerous glint in his eyes. “Do I look like I’m joking?”

Silence.

“You will publicly apologize to my wife and to my sons,” he said evenly. “And you will deal with your children. If you do not, you will be banned from this salon and every other in Gotham. Permanently. Try to book anywhere, and I will know.”

Their lips parted, but no one dared speak.

“If you want your hair done again,” Bruce added, straightening to his full height, “your husband can cut it. I’m sure he’ll do a fine job.”

The color drained from their faces.

The Public Apology

Two days later, at the Spring Fair’s closing, you stood with Damian and Thomas near the baked goods table, beaming as you told a group of parents about Damian’s recent science project. Thomas gripped his stuffed dog proudly, chattering about how “Damian made it work all by himself!”

Across the lawn, the offending families approached. The fathers gave stiff, awkward apologies; the mothers mumbled theirs with a forced sweetness. You thanked them politely, unaware of the iron fist Bruce had wrapped around their lives.

From a few feet away, Bruce watched, his arm folded, eyes cool.

Damian caught the look in his father’s eyes and smirked faintly. Jason, leaning against a nearby booth, muttered just loud enough for Damian to hear, “Guess money’s good for more than just cars.”

Damian didn’t reply, but the faint satisfaction on his face spoke volumes.

The house was quiet. Damian was in his room, Thomas curled up asleep with his stuffed dog. You’d just finished putting the last of the fair-day clutter away when you felt Bruce’s presence in the doorway.

He was leaning against the frame, tie loose, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled. His eyes found you immediately — not a passing glance, but that long, deliberate stare that made it feel like he could strip you bare without touching you.

“Come here,” he said, low and quiet.

You stepped toward him, and he caught your hand, pulling you against his chest. His kiss was slow at first — deep, lingering, his palm warm against your cheek. He didn’t rush it; he kissed you like there was nothing else in the world to do, tasting you, savoring you.

When he finally broke the kiss, he didn’t move back. His hand trailed down to your jaw, his thumb stroking lazily. “Do you have any idea,” he murmured, “how beautiful you are?”

You started to shake your head, to deflect, but his voice cut through, firmer now. “Don’t. Don’t downplay it. You’re perfect.”

He backed you toward the bedroom slowly, his mouth never leaving yours for more than a breath. When your knees hit the bed, he eased you down, his hands moving to the buttons of your blouse.

It wasn’t hurried — he unfastened each one with unshaking patience, parting the fabric to reveal skin like he’d been waiting for this all day. His gaze followed his touch, sweeping over the curves of your breasts, your stomach, the softness of your waist. His fingers traced over them like they were precious, his lips following to kiss every spot his hands explored.

“You’re mine,” he said softly, between kisses at your shoulder, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. “Every inch.”

When he had you stripped down to just your panties, he sat back for a moment, eyes roaming over you with open hunger. Then he leaned in again, kneeling over you and lowering his mouth to your stomach, pressing slow, lingering kisses there.

“I love this,” he murmured, kissing lower, his hands holding your hips like he was anchoring you. “I love you.”

By the time his fingers hooked in your panties, you were warm all over, your chest rising and falling faster. He slid them down and tossed them aside, his eyes meeting yours with that smoldering mix of reverence and intent.

When he finally pressed into you, it was smooth, deep — and that’s when the shift happened. The tenderness sharpened into something else, his grip firm on your hips.

“They called you names,” he growled, his voice rough against your lips. “Said things I should have broken their jaws for.” His thrusts grew harder, his cock filling you completely with each one. “They’re wrong. So fucking wrong.”

He held your gaze as he drove into you, his breathing harsh, every movement a wordless reminder of exactly who you belonged to.

“You’re mine,” he said again, almost a snarl now. “My wife. My love. The mother of my children. No one — no one — gets to speak about you like that.”

The pace built, his earlier worship now a possessive rhythm that had you clinging to him, the pleasure curling tight inside you until it broke. You came with his name on your lips, and he followed with a guttural groan, holding you close, keeping himself buried deep.

Even after, he didn’t let you go. His forehead rested against yours, his hand sliding along your side.

“Beautiful,” he whispered again. “Perfect. And the only opinion that matters is mine.”

The smell of coffee and something sweet pulled you from sleep. When you sat up, the house was still hushed — but the faint sound of Thomas laughing carried from the kitchen. You pulled on one of Bruce’s shirts from the floor and padded out barefoot, hair still mussed from the night before.

The sight waiting for you made your chest ache in the best way.

Damian sat at the counter, clearly pretending to be disinterested but eating a stack of pancakes topped with berries. Thomas was next to him, swinging his legs and grinning, crumbs all over his face. And behind the stove, still in pajama pants and a black t-shirt, Bruce was making another batch of pancakes from scratch — not the boxed mix.

“Morning,” he said when he saw you, that small, private smile tugging at his mouth.

Thomas waved enthusiastically. “We’re having pancakes! Damian likes them but he’s pretending he doesn’t!”

Damian scowled without looking up. “I’m not pretending. They’re tolerable.”

Bruce slid a plate toward you, the pancakes perfectly golden, steam curling up from the butter melting on top. He poured you coffee without asking, just the way you liked it, then leaned down to kiss you slow enough to make Thomas giggle.

When you went to sit beside the boys, Bruce’s hand caught your waist and guided you to his side instead. He stood behind you, one hand resting on your hip, the other idly tracing over the curve of your thigh while you ate. It wasn’t overtly possessive in front of the kids — but it was a steady, warm reminder of the way he’d touched you last night.

Halfway through breakfast, Damian said in that flat, matter-of-fact tone of his, “Father made these pancakes himself. He doesn’t usually do that unless it’s for someone important.”

You blinked at him, caught between surprise and warmth. “Oh?”

Damian didn’t look up from his plate. “He wanted to make sure you knew you were worth the effort.”

Bruce’s fingers pressed lightly into your hip at that, and when you glanced back, there was that same look from last night — the one that told you you’d never have to question your worth in his eyes.

Jason wandered in just then, hair a mess, eyes still heavy with sleep. He looked between Bruce, you, and the kids, then smirked. “Guess we’re having a family breakfast. That’s… new. Did I miss something?”

Damian smirked faintly, not looking up. “You missed Father proving a point.”

Jason arched a brow. “Uh-huh. Figures.” He stole a pancake off Damian’s plate, earning himself a fork jab.

Bruce only tightened his arm around your waist, leaning down to murmur in your ear, just for you, “And I’m not done proving it.”

The rest of the morning passed in warmth and ease — laughter, coffee refills, Thomas insisting Bruce flip more pancakes. But under it all, there was a quiet, unshakable certainty: Bruce had made his stance known, not just to those who’d insulted you, but to you, to the kids, to himself.

You weren’t just his wife. You were his everything.

It happened a week later, in one of Gotham’s high-end shopping districts. You had the day free and decided to take Thomas for a treat at a little gelato café — Damian had even agreed to come along, quietly shadowing you both like a watchful guardian. Bruce had been called into a short meeting but promised to join you after.

You were leaning over Thomas’s tiny cup of strawberry gelato, helping him keep it from dripping everywhere, when a familiar voice cut through the air.

“Well, if it isn’t Gotham’s favorite charity case,” one of the Spring Fair mothers drawled.

Damian’s eyes snapped up instantly, narrowing like a hawk sighting prey. You straightened slowly, turning to face her. She was dressed to impress — gold jewelry, tailored dress — and her smirk said she thought she’d already won whatever game she thought this was.

Another of the mothers from that day was with her, though this one wouldn’t quite meet your eye. She shifted uncomfortably, mumbled a hello, and excused herself to cross the street.

But the first? She doubled down. “Enjoying spending Wayne money, are we? Or is your husband keeping you on a tighter leash now?” Her voice dropped into a mock whisper. “Don’t worry, sweetie. He’ll tire of you eventually.”

Damian stepped forward before you could, his voice sharp as a blade. “Watch your mouth.”

She scoffed. “Oh, please. You think anyone takes you seriously, little prince?” Her gaze slid back to you, and she spat out a word that made Damian’s entire body go taut — vile, ugly, dripping with disdain.

Before you could react, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

“What did you just say?”

Bruce’s presence was immediate, his shadow falling over the woman as he stepped up beside you. His hand found the small of your back, steady and grounding, but his eyes were locked on her — cold, unblinking.

The woman faltered, but only for a moment. “I’m just saying what everyone thinks—”

“No,” Bruce interrupted, his tone deadly calm. “You’re saying what you think. And you seem to have forgotten the agreement we made.”

Her smirk flickered. “Agreement?”

“You were told to apologize and keep my wife’s name out of your mouth. You failed.” Bruce’s voice didn’t rise, but it didn’t need to. “You’ll find out exactly what that means the next time you try to book your salon appointment.”

She found out two hours later.

The moment she walked into her usual salon, the receptionist went stiff. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Kincaid, but your account’s been flagged. We can’t take you as a client anymore.”

“What?” she demanded. “This is absurd—”

“It’s non-negotiable,” the receptionist said, clearly uncomfortable. “You’ve been blacklisted from every affiliated salon in Gotham.”

Mrs. Kincaid’s face went red. “Blacklisted? By who?”

The receptionist hesitated, then answered quietly, “Mr. Wayne’s order. It’s… permanent.”

⸻

Back at home, you sat with Bruce on the couch, Thomas curled against your side while Damian read in the armchair.

“You didn’t have to—” you began.

“Yes,” Bruce said simply, his arm tightening around you. “I did. And I’ll keep doing it. As many times as it takes.”

Damian glanced up from his book, his mouth twitching in what might have been the beginnings of a smile. Thomas, oblivious, declared, “Daddy’s the boss of everything.”

Bruce’s lips quirked. “Just of the people who need reminding.”And in that moment, you believed him.

⸻

Two days after the salon ban, Jason was leaning against his bike outside one of the trendier coffee shops when he overheard it.

Mrs. Kincaid — the same woman — was standing with a friend, voice pitched just loud enough for passerby to hear. She was going on about how “some bakery brat tricked Bruce Wayne into marriage” and how she wasn’t “done telling people the truth.”

Jason’s jaw flexed. He didn’t step in, didn’t even look directly at her — not at first. He finished his coffee, tossed the cup in the bin, and strolled casually toward the parking lot where her shiny imported SUV was sitting pretty.

No one paid him any mind as he crouched by the back tire, flicking open his knife. One smooth motion and the hiss of air escaping filled the quiet. He moved to the next one. And the next. And the next. By the time he straightened, the SUV was sitting on four very dead tires.

He didn’t bother hiding the satisfied smirk as he swung a leg over his bike. He caught Mrs. Kincaid’s gaze across the lot, tapped two fingers to his temple in a mock salute, and roared off.

⸻

That night, Jason strolled into the manor’s kitchen where you, Bruce, and Damian were finishing dinner.

Bruce eyed him over his glass of wine. “You look… pleased with yourself.”

Jason’s grin was slow. “Let’s just say our favorite salon exile won’t be going anywhere for a while.”

Damian glanced up from his plate, catching the implication instantly. “Did you—”

Jason winked. “I didn’t say I did anything. But if four luxury tires happened to go flat at once, I’m sure it was just… coincidence.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile. “Jason…”

He shrugged, grabbing a biscuit from the table. “What? You married into the family, Ma. We protect our own. Some of us just have more… hands-on methods.”

Bruce didn’t comment, but you saw the corner of his mouth twitch — just enough to know he wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it.

Out of all of them, Dick had known you the longest. He’d been there the day you first walked into Wayne Manor with a box of pastries from your family’s bakery, wearing that modest coat and smiling at Alfred like you’d known him forever. He’d liked you immediately — not because you were marrying Bruce, but because you fit. You didn’t treat any of them like charity cases, you didn’t try to impress them, you just… cared.

So when Dick overheard two Gotham socialites whispering at a charity gala about “the bakery girl who landed the Wayne fortune,” something in him went ice-cold.

They didn’t even notice him at first. He was just part of the crowd, easy smile in place, champagne glass in hand. But the second one of them called you “a professional gold digger with good PR,” Dick stepped right into their conversation like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Hi,” he said, flashing that easy, charming grin that could disarm anyone. “You’re talking about Mrs. Wayne, right?”

Both women froze, caught between surprise and guilt. “Oh, we were just—”

“She’s my mother,” Dick cut in smoothly. “So, here’s how this works. You stop running your mouths, and I don’t repeat your names to Bruce.” His smile didn’t waver, but his eyes had gone sharp. “Because if I do, you’ll be lucky to find an invitation to a soup kitchen, let alone another gala.”

He set his empty glass down on the nearest tray, gave them a mock salute, and walked away without another word.

Later that night, when you came by to drop a plate of cookies in the study for him and Bruce, Dick just smiled up at you from the couch.

“Thanks, Mom,” he said lightly — but there was a weight behind it that made Bruce glance at him over his papers, curious.

You didn’t know what had happened at the gala. But Dick knew, and that was enough.

Tim hadn’t said much during the aftermath of the Spring Fair incident nor the Gala. He’d been there when Bruce came back from “handling” things, and he’d smirked a little when Jason bragged about his “coincidental” tire work. But Tim’s version of protecting family didn’t involve boardrooms or crowbars.

It involved data.

So when he heard Mrs. Kincaid was still mouthing off at luncheons — claiming you were “nothing but a social climber” — Tim decided she’d had her last word.

It took him all of fifteen minutes. A few lines of code, a VPN bounce through three countries, and he had her social media logins. The next five minutes were just… artistry.

Profile pictures? Gone. Posts? Deleted. Friend lists? Wiped. Years of carefully curated photos of gala dresses, brunches, and “candid” vacation shots — erased. Her entire online identity, the one she used to preen and posture, vanished overnight.

As a finishing touch, Tim made sure her accounts were locked from recovery — the password changed to an unguessable, random 48-character string he didn’t even bother saving.

By morning, Mrs. Kincaid was essentially a ghost online.

⸻

At breakfast, Tim strolled into the kitchen, poured himself coffee, and sat down without looking up from his tablet.

Jason glanced at him. “You look smug. What’d you do?”

“Nothing illegal,” Tim said mildly. Then, after a beat, “Just… digital housekeeping.”

Bruce didn’t ask. Damian smirked faintly. You blinked between them, suspicious.

Jason leaned back in his chair. “Tell me you didn’t—”

Tim took a slow sip of coffee. “She won’t be posting anything about anyone for a while.”

Dick barked out a laugh, though you had to hide your smile.

"You didn't have to, but thank you Tim."

The manor was warm with the smell of dinner — Alfred had outdone himself, as usual. You were in the dining room, setting out the last dish when the sound of voices and footsteps echoed from the hall.

Damian appeared first, carrying Thomas on his hip like it was second nature now. “Your son,” he said dryly, “insists he needs to show you his art before dinner.”

Thomas grinned, holding up a crayon drawing — a messy but heartfelt depiction of the entire family, complete with you in the center, smiling. “See? You’re the hero,” he said proudly.

Jason came in behind them, dropping into a chair with all the grace of a wolf flopping down to nap. “Kid’s not wrong.”

Tim was next, sliding his phone into his pocket as he smirked faintly at you. “Don’t worry. No one’s saying anything about you online anymore.”

From the doorway, Dick added with that familiar easy grin, “Or at the galas. I made sure of that.”

Bruce stepped in last, shedding his jacket and kissing your temple in front of everyone without hesitation. “And the boardrooms are quiet too,” he murmured, his voice warm enough to melt the steel in his words.

Alfred appeared with the roast, clearing his throat with a subtle smile. “It’s rather impressive, madam. You seem to have the entire household working security for your reputation.”

Jason snorted. “Damn right.”

Tim lifted his glass. “To our favorite Wayne.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but the faintest smirk betrayed him. “She is.”

You laughed, shaking your head, but when Bruce’s hand found yours under the table and Thomas leaned against your arm, you felt it — the truth in all of it. You weren’t just married into the Wayne family.

You were at its center.

And they’d made it perfectly clear — no one touched the center without answering to all of them.

[daisyfieldrecs]

The Sweetest Bat-Plan || Bruce Wayne ||

A/n: It became a pissing contest.

The trouble started over breakfast.

Clark, Hal, and Barry had all decided to regale Bruce with their respective “Dad of the Year” Halloween escapades on a League comm call. You’d been half-listening while feeding your youngest oatmeal, but the smugness in their voices was hard to miss.

“Flew my kids to six cities,” Clark had said.

“Ran mine to eight,” Barry added.

Hal leaned back in his chair, smirking on-screen. “Took mine to other planets. Beat that.”

Bruce’s face had been unreadable, but you saw the flicker in his eyes. That challenge accepted glint. And then John Constantine, late as always, chimed in just to twist the knife:

“Took the brood to Bruce’s house. Best imported chocolate I’ve had in years. Cheers, mate.”

Bruce had disconnected from the call without a word.

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

Two days later, you were standing in front of a quaint corner storefront in downtown Gotham. The sign above read in sleek, gold script: Wayne’s Sweet Retreat. Inside, the warm light bounced off rows of jars filled with imported chocolates, colorful taffies, and artisanal candies from around the world.

Damian stood next to you, hands in his pockets, attempting to look unimpressed—but his eyes kept darting to the massive display of dark chocolate truffles. Beside him, your younger kids—your and Bruce’s—were practically plastered to the glass cases.

“This is excessive,” Damian muttered.

“This,” Bruce corrected smoothly, “is efficient. The others can have their travel and theatrics. We’ll have ownership.” He handed Damian a key. “You’re in charge of the store when I’m not here. Inventory, sales, quality control."

Damian glanced at you. “Is this a test?”

“It’s Halloween candy,” you said, smirking. “Consider it… advanced training.”

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

It didn’t take long for the older boys to find out. That night, you came into the shop to find a suspicious scene:

Dick leaning against the counter, charming the cashier into “sampling” chocolate-covered strawberries. Tim sitting cross-legged on the floor with a bag of imported gummies like it was a crime scene he was cataloging. Jason stationed by the fudge counter, casually filling an oversized paper bag.

“Does Bruce know you’re here?” you asked, crossing your arms.

Jason grinned. “He told us to come by.”

“Not to loot the place,” you countered, eyeing the growing pile of candy bags.

Enter the Enforcer

Damian appeared from the back, scowl dialed up to eleven.

“You are loitering,” he announced, voice dripping with disdain. “This is a place of business, not a buffet for freeloaders.”

“Loitering? Damian, we’re your brothers,” Dick said, tossing a truffle into his mouth. “It’s family bonding.”

Tim didn’t even look up from his gummies. “Also, if Bruce bought the place, technically the inventory belongs to all of us.”

“That’s not how ownership works,” Damian shot back.

Jason winked. “It’s how Bat-ownership works demon.”

“You are loitering,” he announced, glaring at his brothers.

“Damian, you’re a teenager,” Dick said, popping another chocolate in his mouth. “If anyone is then you the one loiting.”

"Father-!"

“Also,” Tim said without looking up from his gummies, “still our candy?”

Damian’s eye twitched. “MOTHER!."

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

Hearing the bickering,Bruce walked in, holding your youngest on his hip. His gaze swept the shop, taking in the candy chaos.

“Boys,” he said in that low warning tone, “what are you doing here?”

“Sampling,” Dick said innocently.

“Quality control,” Tim added.

Jason just held up his bag. “Stock redistribution.”

Bruce sighed, setting the toddler down. “If you’re going to take candy, take the items that are about to expire. Not the imported truffles—they’re for paying customers.”

Damian muttered something about “enabling criminal behavior” under his breath.

⚝──⭒─⭑─⭒──⚝

By the time you closed up the store and got home, the kids were still buzzing from the sugar. Bruce poured himself a glass of scotch and leaned against the kitchen counter.

“Mission accomplished,” he said.

You arched a brow. “You call having your store raided by your own sons a mission?”

He smirked faintly. “Clark, Barry, Hal, and John can’t top this. They can’t buy the best candy in Gotham—because I already own it.”

From the living room, the younger kids yelled in unison: “Best Daddy ever!”

You laughed, shaking your head. “Careful, or they’re going to expect a candy shop every year.”

Bruce just shrugged. “Then I’ll buy another.”

[daisyfieldrecs]

https://www.tumblr.com/multi-fandom-imagine/792550763982422016/i-have-a-some-more-places-where-likes-to-fuck

Ooooo what about Bruce Wayne fucking the reader inside the bat car

A/n: hehe

The Batcave was quiet—at least, as quiet as it could be with the hum of servers and the low whir of machinery in the background. You stood near the edge of the platform, arms crossed, eyeing the sleek silhouette of the Batmobile with a spark of mischief in your eye.

Bruce noticed.

“You’re staring at it like it’s dessert,” he said from behind, voice rich with amusement. You turned, smiling up at him as he approached—still in partial gear, cowl off, gauntlets on, chestplate unbuckled. His sweat-slicked hair curled slightly at the nape, eyes dark and attentive.

“I’m just admiring your work,” you said innocently, gesturing to the car.

He stepped closer, hands resting lightly at your hips. “You’ve had sex against the car, remember?”

You quirked a brow. “Against it. I said in the Batmobile. Not on top of it.”

That got him.

His mouth twitched into a smile—one of the rare ones, the real ones. “You serious?”

Your lips brushed his jaw, voice a whisper. “Dead serious." Your voice teasing as your finger trailed down his chest.

Bruce didn’t answer with words. He kissed you hard, possessive, commanding, backing you toward the car without breaking the connection. You laughed into his mouth as your back hit the door of the Batmobile.

“Get in.”

The passenger door hissed open with a press of his glove, and before you could move, Bruce lifted you effortlessly into the cockpit. The seat reclined slightly under your weight, and the ambient lighting glowed cool blue as he climbed in after you—closing the door, sealing you both into a cocoon of shadows and hums.

The leather was cold under your thighs, the air electric.

“You’ve thought about this,” he murmured, tracing the neckline of your blouse, “haven’t you?”

“Too many times,” you whispered. “I used to imagine you pulling over mid-chase just to fuck me in here. Dark and dangerous and reckless.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened. “I like that fantasy.”

He tugged your shirt open, buttons flying, lips immediately lowering to your chest. One hand cupped your breast through your bra, the other sliding up your thigh. You writhed under him, your back arching against the seat, legs spreading to accommodate the way he pressed between them.

You grabbed at his suit, fingers fumbling at the belt, desperate to feel him.

“Patience,” he growled, but there was no real warning in it—only hunger.

He pushed your skirt up, dragged your underwear aside, and pressed his fingers between your folds—groaning low when he felt how wet you already were.

“Fuck,” he whispered, “this turn you on that much?”

“You in this seat?” you gasped. “Yeah. It really does.”

He worked his fingers inside you with practiced precision, thumb teasing your clit as your body arched up toward him. His mouth returned to yours—hot, open, devouring—as he tore his own suit open enough to free himself.

The second you felt the hard press of his cock at your entrance, your breath caught.

“You want this?” he rasped.

“In the Batmobile,” you breathed, teasing him with his own words. “Not against it.”

Bruce pushed inside you in one slow, powerful thrust, and your moan echoed off the armored walls.

He filled you completely, the angle tight, hips grinding against yours as the seat creaked beneath you. The car’s sleek interior framed you both—your knees pressed to the dash, his gloved hands gripping your thighs as he thrust into you with deep, claiming strokes.

“You’re mine,” he growled into your neck, teeth scraping lightly over your skin.

You dug your nails into his shoulders, desperate for more.

“Harder,” you gasped, “Bruce—please—”

He obeyed, pounding into you now with brutal control, every movement shaking the frame of the car. The bat-symbol glowed faintly on the control panel behind him, casting flickering shadows across his jaw as he fucked you like it was his mission—relentless, focused, hungry.

Your orgasm built fast—too fast—and when it hit, you cried out, body tightening around him, legs trembling.

Bruce didn’t stop. He chased his own release with a low, guttural growl, hips snapping forward until he buried himself to the hilt, spilling inside you with a grunt.

For a moment, there was only your breath. Harsh. Tangled. The quiet hum of the Batmobile’s idle systems around you.

Then Bruce looked down at you, eyes softening as he brushed damp hair from your cheek.

“Well?” he asked. “Dream fulfilled?”

You smirked, lips kiss-swollen, clothes askew. “Maybe.”

He raised a brow. “Maybe?”

You pulled him close again, whispering against his lips. “I said in the Batmobile. I didn’t say just once.”

His laugh rumbled low in his chest—dark, dangerous, and so very, very promising.

[daisyfieldrecs]

A/n: another one, all thanks to @brucewayne-thebatman .

You clutched Bruce’s hand smiling up at the man was you two walked through the mall. You couldn’t help but think how cute the man looked at the moment, the way his dark hair would fall in front of his eyes or how soft his smile was.

“Something on your mind.?”

Looking up at Bruce you shook your head as a laugh escaped your lips. “Just admiring how amazing my boyfriend is.”

Feeling his cheeks flush for a moment Bruce quickly shook his head as he pulled you along, your eyes scanning every store you two passed.

“Anything you would like y/n?”

Humming you shook your head, Bruce could buy you whatever you wanted but that wasn’t why you were with the man. You loved Bruce, you didnt really care for the material things. You enjoyed the quiet moments you’ve spent with Bruce, sitting with him by the fire place. Laying with him by the pool, you didn’t need some flashy ring for him to prove his love.

Though one store did catch your eyes, a lingerie store. Half of the clothing made you flush though you couldn’t help but feel the familiar heat rush through your core. Bruce did like it whenever you wore the fancy or cute underwear even though the man destroy it half the time since he was so eager to get you out of the clothing.

Turing to face Bruce you noticed the man’s eyes were glued to a particular frilly set. Beaming up at the man you gave his hand a squeeze.

“Hey Bruce.”

“Hmm?”

“Buy me cute underwear and I’ll let you see me wearing it.” Doing your best to give the man a seductive smile, you placed your hand on his chest playing with his tie.

Letting his arms wrap around your waist, the man tugged you closer. His fingers running down your back happy with the reaction he got from you. “If I buy you nothing.” He lent down close to your ear, you had to to bite you lip feeling his breath fan out across your neck.

“Can I see you wearing that?”

Thanks to the man leaning in all you had to do was to lean your head up to press your lips against his

“Sounds like a deal Mr.Wayne.”

Giving you a smile, Bruce easily picked you up not caring about the reactions from the people around you. Your fingers running through his hair as he carried you off to the car. You couldn’t wait to get back to the apartment.

[daisyfieldrecs]

Showers and Soft Touches

Pairing: Bruce Wayne(battinson) x fem!reader

Summary: Someone joins you in the shower, and just some cute Bruce moments.

Warnings: Non-sexual nudity, suggestive, slightly ooc Bruce, shower sharing,

Word Count: 1.2k

a/n: This has been sitting in my drafts for forever so here I am finally posting it. I based some of the hair part on my own hair, so I’m so so sorry if it’s not the same as your routine!! Hope you enjoy this cute domestic fanfic.

You turn the faucet almost as far to the left as possible. The shower head sprouts out a patch of cold water before the temperature evens out and the water begins to heat. As steam begins to fill your master bathroom you reach out your hand to inspect the water. It's perfect. Just how you like it.

You step into the shower slowly making sure not to slip, before running your body under the water. Immediately your body loses its tension, and your muscles practically moan under the pressure of the hot water.

You reach for your shampoo slowly, wanting the relaxation to last as long as possible. You pour the liquid onto your hand and watch it slowly seep back into the bottle when you pull your hand up ever so slightly. You click the lid closed and place it back in its home. You begin to lather your hair, taking care to scrub until there is an abundance of suds coated through your hair.

Before you can wash out your now clean hair you feel a pair of arms wrap under your uplifted arms and around your torso. You jump at the sudden cold temperature of the hands against your warm skin. A head finds a resting spot on your shoulder, and you turn to see Bruce. His eyes closed and a content sound came from his throat.

You lower your arms so you can hug him back, or your version, rest your arms along his. Bruce doesn’t seem to mind your soapy hands. He just opens his eyes to meet yours. You lean in and kiss his cheek. The coldness of his skin is a stark contrast to yours. Your lips tingle at the feeling, and they linger longer than they should. 

Bruce takes a step back letting the water hit his back. He seems to instantly relax, but to a stranger it would have gone unnoticed. 

“Here, let me.” Bruce hums out softly, his low gravelly voice reverberating into your back. He unwraps his arms form around you and takes your hair in his hands. He gently leans your head back to rinse out the suds of soap from your hair. He’s careful to make sure he shields your eyes from the soap.

When the shampoo is all out Bruce takes hold of your bottle of conditioner, the expensive one he got for you. He lathers his hands with the creamy substance and gently runs his fingers through the knots in your hair. You breathe a sigh of content at his soft ministrations. And he smiles softly.

“Feel good?” He asks slowly, the corner of his lips lifted in a smirk.

“Yeah, especially when I’m not doing it.” You breathe out smiling. And he leans in kissing your cheek before continuing.

After your hair is lathered with conditioner, you reach to take hold of the bar of soap resting near Bruce’s and your razors. Out of the corner of your eye you see Bruce pouring shampoo on his hair before scrubbing it into his scalp.

You wash your body thoroughly, taking time to make sure you leave no skin untouched by the soap. Bruce rinses out his hair before quickly finishing up his routine. You follow suit, washing out your hair, then continuing with your hair routine.

By the time you wrap a towel around your body Bruce is already standing by the mirror and sink, ruffling out the water from his hair with a smaller towel. His towel hangs low on his hips, showing off his prominent v line. Your eyes slowly travel up his toned torso, to his pecks, his shoulder, and finally to his eyes, which are embarrassingly already on you.

Your face heats up as you look down, you adjust your towel awkwardly. Bruce just smiles gently walking over to you. You look up as he approaches you, his eyes catching yours.

“Sorry.” You whisper uncomfortably.

“Its okay,” he says with a tender look in his eyes. You turn your attention towards the floor embarrassment seeping from you. When he doesn’t move after a minute, still holding his gaze on you and your face you look up into his eyes again.

“What?” You asked with a small smile, eyebrows scrunching. “Do I still have soap on me?” You ask, inspecting your shoulders and bare legs. Bruce hesitantly places his hand on your cheek making you look up at him again.

“Just think…you're adorable.” He whispers lovingly but shyly to you. You push him away playfully, trying to hide the fact that his words sent butterflies to your stomach and a giddy feeling to your heart.

You walk towards the door motioning for him to follow, and he does.

As you step out of the large doors to your bathroom you are greeted with fresh clothes on your king size bed. You hear Bruce’s feet pad over to the corner of the room closest to the large windows. There is shuffling before the crackling of a needle tip hitting a vinyl is heard throughout the room. La vie en rose performed by Édith Piaf fills your ears. 

You turn to see Bruce starting your vinyl player, he looks at you with soft eyes. He leans against the wall near the window and you turn again to the bed. You let your towel fall to the floor as you reach for your underwear.

You can hear Bruce's quiet footsteps once again, walking towards you as your underwear just about reaches your thighs. You feel his large warm hands touch yours from behind you. Both of your hands are now situated on your underwear. He pulls them the rest of the way up for you. His hands then move up to caress the curve of your waist with a soft feathery touch.

You turn, bare chest meeting bare chest. You look up into his deep steel blue eyes finding nothing but warmth hidden under the surface. He wraps his arms around your middle pulling you closer to his broad chest. Following suit you reach up on your toes to wrap your arms around his bare neck. His damp hair prickles your wrists, hair slightly dripping down. But it doesn’t bother you.

You rest your cheek on his collarbone, letting his breathing and beating heart lull your eyes shut. As he shifts you in his arms your nipples perk at the moment. He hums softly into your hair and it vibrates through both of you. 

“Could stay like this forever,” you softly say into his skin. His grip on you tightens as your soft lips meet his scared chest. You still keep your body close to him as you leave a soft trail of kisses up his neck and finally to his pink lips.

He holds you there, his lips tenderly moving with yours. The tingle of his lips on yours sends whimpers up your throat. You part your lips to let his warm mouth explore yours. Your fingertips brush through his hair tugging slightly when you feel his tongue brush along yours. Bruce’s lips are so warm you never want to pull away. His arms caress your sides and back gently moving along your drying skin with love.

When you too finally do part your hands travel down to his chest so you can get a good look at his face.

“I love you darling.” You say quietly, and he sighs with a smile.

”Love you too.” He whispers softly, letting his body sway with yours to the music radiating from the corner.

This. This is what you loved most in the world.

[daisyfieldrecs]

Dig Yourself a Little Deeper // Bruce Wayne x gn!reader

This is a part two to this which was written a few years ago so my writing has changed, of course.

Warnings: the Joker, canon-typical violence, kinda graphic depiction of injuries being healed??, symbolism of depression, guns, injury

Summary: A week after the Gala, the Justice League are stretched thin as disturbances crop up all over the galaxy. While looking for where to deploy, you see two distress signals emerge from Gotham. Batman said no one but his team operates in Gotham, but better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission...right?

Masterlist (Mobile Masterlist)

“Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong,” Murphy’s Law.

“If shit can hit the fan, the blades better start spinning,” Oliver Queen.

You were starting to wish Murphy and Queen both went and shoved it. Because here you were, watching the numerous alerts flash across the screen of the Watchtower’s control panels. There was hardly anything you could do since the majority of the League was already dispatched to the various crises occurring around the galaxy. You had been off-world assisting with a peacekeeping mission in the outer asteroids when your Justice League communicator beeped to recall you and John. The two of you returned just in time for Diana to give you a rushed explanation of what was happening as she rushed to a Zeta tube to confront Vandal Savage.

Numerous jailbreaks from past enemies. Innocent people caught in the crossfire. Every JLA member, from the Titans and up, was being called into action. It looked like Lex Luthor was behind this.

You scanned the field for any threat that had gone unclaimed yet. The computer chirped with another notification and you glanced at it briefly before returning to the map. And then you paused and looked at it again.

“Shit,” you swore. John immediately looked at where you were reading and frowned. Two small dots were blinking on the map, right in the heart of a place you knew well. Distress calls. They were only triggered if the hero tied to the signal was in the middle of a battle and suddenly their heart rate dipped dramatically. Usually it was an accidental trigger, or a mishap with the system, but two alerts? Something was wrong.

“Batman is off-world,” John said. “So it has to be his team.”

“I’m going.” You shoved away from the desk and headed for the Zeta tube, but John grabbed your arm to stop you.

“Batman doesn’t want anyone interfering in his city. His team is big. They can handle this.”

You respected John. He was a good Lantern, and an excellent leader. But right now, you didn’t listen to a word he said. Bruce was somewhere in the Galaxy trying to stop whatever was next in Luthor’s fucked-up plan, and two of his kids needed him.

“Better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission,” you retorted as you yanked your arm from his grasp. Little did John know, Gotham was your city too.

“19 - Blue Lantern.” You stepped out of the Zeta Tube and into the Cave with little resistance. Bruce had keyed your DNA into the Cave a few months after the two of you officially started seeing each other, but you hadn’t used it until now. Normally, you entered the Manor from the front door as your civilian persona.

Spoiler was the first to run to you, her cape flying behind her as she wrapped her arms around you in a quick hug. “Thank god you’re here.”

“Give me a status report. What’s going on?” She dragged you to the main computer where Alfred sat, typing furiously. One of the computer screens was blank except for the thin line that ran through the center. A voice spoke from the speakers, and the line moved. Oracle, you remembered Bruce telling you about his brilliant tech person.

“Luthor assisted an Arkham breakout,” Oracle said. “Not all of the Rogues, thankfully, but many of our biggest players. Nightwing and Batwing are in Bludhaven, Batwoman and Red Hood in the Bowery, Orphan and Catwoman are in Old Gotham.”

“Who triggered the distress signals?”

“Robin and Red Robin.” Stephanie grabbed your arm, tension tight in her muscles. “Harley reported that the Joker is out, but we haven’t spotted him yet. We did half hour check-ins, and neither of them responded. When Spoiler went to their last location, she found a Joker card.”

“I’m this close to calling in Ghost-Maker or Talia,” Oracle threatened. You leaned over Alfred’s shoulder and studied the map to see where Robin and Red Robin’s trackers last were seen. You knew Gotham. You knew it well. This was your home. Sure, you didn’t fight alongside the Batfamily, but you served her in other ways.

And you, unfortunately, knew the Joker.

“Tap me into comms,” you requested. You figured that Bruce would have told Oracle about you, or she would have found your information in his files regardless. She connected your League comms to the Bats’.

“I’m going to find them,” you vowed, both to the people standing around you, and to the team members scattered around the city. “I promise.”

While you didn’t have fancy technology or enhanced hearing like some of your other League compatriots, you did have the ability to sense emotions. It had taken a lot of training and skill to make sure the constant fluctuating waves of emotions of the people around you didn’t drown you. Sometimes it got the better of you and you holed yourself up in your apartment, curled under your weighted blanket, but you also learned to use it as a tool in the field.

Such as now.

Your ring flashed as you rocketed up into the sky above Gotham and then steadied yourself so you could shut your eyes and breathe. You focused your attention on emotions that didn’t match the field around them. A blip of glee in the midst of fear. A hint of sadness in a pool of joy. Something incongruous, something different.

There. A spike of anxiety in a sea of calm. Right in the heart of Coventry Park. You landed gently next to the two women and studied them carefully.

“Quinn,” you said in greeting. “Ivy.”

“We aren’t planning anything,” Pamela snapped. “We’ll walk ourselves into Arkham. But I’m not leaving Harley alone when that maniac is about.”

You cocked your head to the side. That would be something to ask Bruce about later. “I’m not here to capture you. I’m looking for the Joker.”

“We don’t know where he is.” Vines started to creep along the ground and you let yourself hover above the earth before they wrapped around your feet.

“He has two of the birds.”

The vines stopped. You flexed your fingers and dropped back down to the ground. “Batman is dealing with the other threats at the moment, and can’t come. It’s up to me to find them. Do you know anything that could help me?”

“Amusement Mile,” Harley piped up. “He’s partial to there. The old warehouses.”

“Thank you. Can I hold you to your promise?”

Ivy jutted her chin out, eyes flashing in defiance. “Will you go easy on him?”

You chuckled softly. “I do not represent mercy, Poison Ivy. Remember that.” And then you lifted into the night sky once more. Peace. Joy. Fear, but not potent. No, you were looking for…

Your fingers twitched as the wave of ragefearindignationworry washed over you. But only one. You reached out to find another, and found paintiredprotect. Bingo.

The warehouse was falling apart from decay and disuse. Holes littered the roof and rats scurried by your feet when you touched down on the upper balcony. Four guards outside on each wall, six inside…too easy. Far too easy.

In the middle of the warehouse were the two birds tied together. Red Robin’s breathing was shallow and slow, and you could see the blood seeping from his leg. Robin kept studying the room around him, searching for any sign of rescue or a way out, if no rescue came. He kept one hand wrapped around Red Robin’s wrist as a way to check his pulse.

When a rat ran past you, you bent down and coaxed the little vermin into your hand. It squeaked as you trapped it in a construct box and gently lowered it down until you could slip it into one of the guard’s shirts. He shrieked louder than the rat, his gun clattering to the ground as he tried to get the rat out. You felt kind of bad.

For the rat, that is.

Two of the other guards left their posts to assist their friend and you took that as a chance to slip over the railing and float down to the floor. Robin’s mask lenses widened at the sight of you, but you raised your finger to your lip. He nodded once in understanding.

The three men were huddled together as they tried to pry the rat off of the man’s belt loop, and that gave you a clear opening to build a construct that slammed into them, launching them through the actual brick wall. You rushed towards the birds and threw up a forcefield just as gunshots rained down on you.

“Did Batman send you?” Robin shouted over the crackling pops of gunshots. You glanced behind you at the kid and offered him a crooked grin.

“No, the League did. Technically. But I’m a friend of Batman’s.” You looked at Red Robin. “What’s the status report?”

“Red Robin has been shot in the thigh.” Robin’s voice wavered, just slightly, and your heart ached at the fear that seeped through his words. Red Robin was barely conscious and you knew you couldn’t fuck around right now. You needed to get them out of here.

“The Joker is behind this,” Robin continued.

“Yeah, this whole thing is a trap. But he was trying to get Batman.” You looked back at the goons closing in on the three of you. “Unfortunately, I’m not Batman.”

Sweeping the forcefield closer, you studied the men around you and the warehouse. Hal had taught you a few tricks or two, but Guy was the one who taught you really how to fight.

Blue Lanterns were known for their defensive capabilities. If one of the Greens were here, you two would play off each other with the power boost. But you were alone, surrounded by Joker’s clowns, with the man himself nearby, if the emotion of pure glee and chaos radiating to your left was anything to go by.

Defense is sometimes your best offense, Bruce’s voice filtered through your mind.

Sure, you were a Blue Lantern, known for their geniality and healing and defensive skills. Saint Walker was the one who took you in and trained you in the ways of your Corps.

But you were also a Justice League member. A born and bred Gothamite. And you had trained with Batman himself.

The shots petered out once they understood that they weren’t going to get through and you shrank the forcefield even closer. One goon started moving closer to your energy field and you decided to grant him a little surprise.

The field dropped and you grabbed his rifle, knocking the butt up into his face and then spinning it around so it cracked against the side of his head. Someone fired at you but you knocked it aside with a simple construct. The taste of fear became potent in the building and you bit back your grin.

These idiots hadn’t trained against Diana of Themyscira before. You had.

A glowing blue lasso appeared in your hands and you used it to snatch weapons directly out of their hands. The glowing tendril wrapped around one of the goon’s legs and you yanked him up and out of the building. Another goon was yanked towards you and you raised your knee to slam into his chest, knocking the air out of him before you tossed him to the side.

The others, wisely, made a run for it.

“You’re not Batsy.” His voice alone sent chills down your spine, but you stood up straight and turned to face Gotham’s greatest threat. What a sight you must have been. He was expecting darkness and shadows, and here you stood, eyes glowing with the bright blue of your ring, suit sleek and bright.

“I’m not,” you admitted.

The Joker stepped into the moonlight, exposing the garish makeup painted over his scarred face. He had donned his classic purple suit and you noted the gun at his waistband. He had that wild grin on his face and little chuckles here and there escaped him at intervals. You should be scared. Hell, you should be terrified.

All you could find in yourself was rage. Pure, unadulterated anger.

“I should thank you,” you said calmly. His smile dropped and he glanced at the boys behind you. A little laugh escaped him and his grin twitched once more.

“What do you mean by that?”

You stepped forward and let a bit of the Ring suffuse into your voice, adding a vibrato that you typically used on warlords or intergalactic slavers. “You helped make me.”

“I…did.” He phrased it neither as a statement nor a question, but some blend of the two. The Joker looked confused and frankly, you enjoyed knowing that you had stumped him.

“I am from here. This city. I don’t defend her like Batman does, but I am affected by her. All of your fear and chaos…” You started to slowly circle the man and let your construct drop. He spun on his heels to stay facing you, which kept him also facing away from the boys. You tapped your thigh twice and saw that Robin understood. He went to work untying himself and Red Robin so that he could get out of the way.

“You gave me meaning to become this,” you kept talking. “You destroyed my home, my family, my city.”

It fueled him, hearing of his deeds and the outcomes. He fed on this suffering. This chaos. “Madness. That’s what you brought into my life. Hell. There was a time when I felt that I couldn’t suffer like this anymore.”

Robin started to drag Red Robin out of sight, and that’s when you paused your steps. “And that is how I came to be. That is why I wear this ring.”

You knew what the Joker was capable of. You had seen his devastation first hand. His gas had taken so many friends and family from you, had destroyed the Narrows and the Bowery, had carved parts of your soul out with his incessant anarchy.

You knew what he did to Jason Todd. What he did to Bruce.

And that is precisely why you moved closer to him. One step, then two, until you were face to face with the nightmare himself. His paint was chipping and peeling and he smacked his lips audibly, leering down at you.

“I made you mad, didn’t I?” he cooed.

“No.” Your construct appeared in your hand in a flash. “You made me hope.”

The gleaming blue crowbar slammed against his ribs with a sickening crack. He stumbled back, his back colliding with the ground, and scrambled to put distance between you two. The Joker grabbed one of his little pocket-sized explosives and tossed it your way but you merely batted it away with a simple block of a construct. It hit the wall and detonated, causing the building to shudder violently and list against its already failing infrastructure.

“Tell me, Joker, which one hurts more. A?” You raised your crowbar against and brought it down on his right knee. He howled with pain and you felt the bone shatter under your blow. You raised the crowbar once more and broke his left arm next. “Or B?”

“Bats!” He shrieked, eliciting a smirk from you.

“Batman isn’t here right now, so he won’t be helping you.” You shrank the construct back to your ring and stared down at the snivelling, pathetic man before you. Because he was just that. A human man.

“The Lantern Corps has different morals than Batman, but being that this is his territory, and his battle, I will not end your life now. But threaten a child like this again, and I will not be so kind.”

You left him there in the middle of the warehouse and followed the direction that Robin had gone. He was nearly out of the building when you caught up to him. Red Robin staggered as he tried to help Robin out, but the poor kid was blacking out.

“Oracle, I have Robin and Red Robin. I need a transport to get them back to the Cave. Red Robin’s been hit.”

“On it. Spoiler is bringing the Batmobile to your location. And the Joker?”

“He’ll need a lift back to Arkham,” you said coolly. “Maybe with a stop at the hospital on the way there.”

Robin was injured, but he hadn’t wanted to say anything because he was worried more about his older brother. He buckled under Red Robin’s weight and you caught both boys before they hit the ground. You laid Red Robin down on the ground and cast your hand over his leg where the blood poured out. You concentrated on the wound and a blue glow emanated from your hand and washed over his leg. He tensed and you cursed under your breath.

“What are you doing to him?” Robin cried. He gathered himself up to barrel at you, but you shook your head.

“I’m healing him. I’m trying to get the bullet out before I close up the wound, but it’s going to hurt. Can you hold him down for me? Please.”

Robin hesitated but watched as the ragged edge of a metal casing started to ease its way out of Red Robin’s leg. He dove to grab his brother’s shoulders, keeping him as still as possible while you slowly extracted the bullet and shrapnel. Maybe Bruce was rubbing off on you because you didn’t let the bullet hit the ground and instead let it hover in the air for a second.

“Do you have an evidence bag? So we can trace this back to whoever fired it,” you explained. Robin quickly grabbed one from his belt, wincing when he moved his shoulder, and passed it to you. The squeal of tires in the distance indicated that Stephanie was close.

Good, you thought. Because the amount of power you were going to use to heal both of them would definitely knock you out.

You rode in the back of the Batmobile with Red Robin’s head in your lap and his legs stretched out so you could heal him. He stirred slightly when the Batmobile pulled into the Cave but you shushed him, knowing that the healing portion could be just as painful as having the injury itself.

Already you could feel yourself getting weak from using your powers, but you were determined to keep going. The door to back opened and Red Hood loomed in front of you, a domino mask replacing his usual helmet. He wordlessly bent down and extracted Red Robin from the car, giving you a chance to scramble out.

You followed him to the cot and immediately continued your work. It would be easier with a Green Lantern to draw power from, but you couldn’t worry about that right now.

“What’s the status of the Joker?” you asked without tearing your gaze away from the skin stitching itself together below your hands.

“Orphan and Batwoman have him and are transporting him to Arkham,” Red Hood explained as he moved a heart monitor over to the bedside. “You did a number on him.”

You met his gaze just briefly. “I could have done worse.”

He stared at you, unblinking, and then offered you a short nod. “Thank you.”

“Robin is injured, too. Let me finish here while you take stock of his injuries and then I can help him. Is anyone else hurt?”

“Minor bumps and scrapes, miss. Nothing emergent,” Alfred assured you. The hypodermis finished repairing and then the dermis started to knit back together under your watchful eye. You siphoned more power from your soul and pressed it into your ring, speeding up the healing. By the time you were done, the only thing that remained was smooth skin where a gaping bullet wound had been seconds before.

“Ti- Red Robin! Robin!” Nightwing sprinted up from the garage and raced to his brother’s side.

“Tim will be fine,” you said.

Silence met your ears.

Oh…shit.

You looked up to find every single person, sans Alfred and Stephanie, staring at you. You inhaled deeply and let your suit drop, revealing the jeans and t-shirt you had been clad in before this whole hellish day began.

“Bruce told me only a few months ago,” you explained. “He was injured in a League battle and when I healed him, he told me about you. All of you.”

“And the gala?” Dick asked. “Did you know then?”

“Of course. Bruce wouldn’t have brought me if I didn’t know. Only Clark, Diana, and I know.”

Alfred cleared his throat from where he had been examining Damian. You stepped up to the cot and let your hands drift over the empty space above him, checking for injuries. Sprained wrist, torn shoulder ligament, deep bruising around the ribs. You pictured the ligaments spinning back together and strengthening. Damian grit his teeth against the pain and you hummed the first song you could think of, some little tune from a Disney film or something.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I wish I could make it painless.”

“I can handle it.” Brave little Robin. So much like his father.

You chuckled. “I’m sure you can.” You eased the bruising, assuring the white blood cells that they could walk away, their presence not needed as you eased the pain. Your knees buckled as you began on his wrist and Stephanie caught you, a steady arm around your waist.

“Hey, hey, you’re overdoing it.” She wasn’t lying. Your vision was going fuzzy and it felt like you were underwater, but you weren’t done yet. You felt something drip from your nose and knew that it was blood.

“I’m fine. Just another minute or two.”

“You can’t sustain it!”

Ignoring her, you let your powers surge once more to make sure that every little cut on Damian and Tim healed over. In fact, you let some of it slip up and sink into the bruise on Stephanie’s arm. She quickly stumbled back so you couldn’t heal her anymore, but black spots quickly overtook your vision.

And just as you began to collapse, you heard the distinct tone of the Zeta.

“02-Batman.”

With that, you hit the ground.

You had no idea what time it was when you came to, but time certainly had passed. A headache pulsed behind your eyes and your mouth felt so dry, you might as well be swallowing sand. You waited for an onslaught of emotions to rush over you, but a heavy duvet pressed you into the mattress, just like you had at home. Turning your head, you spotted a glass of water with two ibuprofen beside it on the nightstand. Slowly, you eased yourself out from under the weighted blanket and took the pills with a grateful sigh.

You knew, despite only being here twice, what room you were in. Bruce’s.

A clock on the wall said it was early afternoon, which meant you were out for a solid few hours. Your ring hummed, but she wasn’t fully recharged yet. That was the most power you ever expended before. You’ve been close to passing out before, but never like that. Normally, you were with a Green who gave you power, or with a team who you supported, rather than led.

Bruce must have changed you out of your clothes and into something more comfortable. The sweats were rolled up but the hem still dragged over your feet. The shirt smelled of his cologne and natural musk. You almost wanted to drown in it.

A faucet in the bathroom shut off and you leaned back against the pillows, awaiting your fate.

You could sense his anger. The potency of it tinged your tongue with an acidic, almost iron taste, like blood spray from a battle coating your lips. You merely folded your hands in your lap and sat, ready to be lectured and to take your leave, albeit for the last time, from the Manor.

“You disobeyed my order,” Bruce said in greeting. You didn’t flinch at the venomous words and instead took it on the chin. 

“I did what I had to do,” you retorted. “I did my duty.”

“Your duty is to the League, and the rules and objectives that we set as a collective. Rules that you disobeyed.”

“My duty is to anyone who still has hope!” Your shout echoed through the room and then you clamped your mouth shut. Only the sound of clock ticking filled the cavernous silence that enveloped you. Your chest heaved as you stared down Bruce, your hands balling into fists at your side. Maybe you were jumping the gun a little too quickly here, but you had just woken up from fainting, and the last thing you needed was Batman lecturing you.

“My duty is to each and every person who cries out for help because they still cling to the hope that someone is coming to save them. Your boys activated their distress alarms because they knew that if they did, someone would come. And that someone was me. I will not be made to feel like I did something wrong when I did the only thing that matters.” He turned around and grabbed at the edge of his window frame, bowing his head.

“In fearful day, in raging night, with strong hearts full, our souls ignite.” The oath slipped past your lips in a whisper. “When all seems lost in the war of light, look to the stars, for hope burns bright.”

Maybe it’s because you were well and truly exhausted, or maybe it’s because you were absorbing all of the emotions swirling around the Manor, but you couldn’t stand to stare at his back.

“If you’re going to break up with me at least look me in the eye,” you said. Bruce hesitated and then turned back around. You savored this one last chance of seeing him like this, not as Batman or as Bruce Wayne, but that person in the middle of the two. The real Bruce.

“Why the hell would I break up with you?” A shrug lifted your shoulders and you crossed your arms in front of your chest, suddenly feeling very exposed. 

“You’re angry. I broke your rules. I entered into your battle despite you telling the League that Gotham was off-limits. Why wouldn’t you?”

Bruce crossed the short distance between the two of you and sat on the edge of the bed. He reached out his hands towards you. “Read them.”

You slowly reached out and placed your palms over his. You felt a rush of anger, but it was tinged with something else. Fear. Worry. Desperation. Love.

“I’m not angry at you,” he said gently. “I’m angry at myself. For not being here. For leaving you to face down the Joker. How the fuck could I be angry at you when you saved my kids? He’s taken my son, my peace, my home. He could have taken more of my children. He could have killed you. But you didn’t let him.”

You opened your mouth to speak but he pulled his hands from yours, cupped your face, and kissed you, disarming whatever was left of your senses. Bruce let his hand slide down over your shoulder and down to your hand, where he ran his calloused finger over your ring. You let out a shuddering breath and sank into the kiss.

“Thank you,” he breathed when he broke the kiss. You nodded wordlessly, your hands resting on his broad shoulders. He pressed one more soft, chaste kiss to the corner of your lips. “Thank you.”

“They’re good kids,” you whispered. He smirked and kissed your temple.

“I think you’re delirious. Do you have a concussion?”

You smacked his shoulder and winced when your hand met what felt like steel. Holy muscles, Batman. Bruce captured your hand in his and he cupped it gently between his palms.

“I watched Robin’s patrol camera. I saw what you did to the Joker.”

“I didn’t kill him.”

He bent his head down and kissed your hands before enclosing them within his own. “No, you didn’t.” When he raised his eyes to meet your gaze once more, you were surprised to see him looking a little misty-eyed. “Jason…I can’t talk about that night. It eats me alive.” He gathered you close, pulling you into his lap, and rested his lips against your temple. “Thank you. For doing something I’ve never done. For scaring the Joker.”

You rested your hand at the base of his neck and rubbed your thumb along his jaw. He hadn’t shaved today, so the five o’clock shadow prickled against your calloused fingers. He let his lips brush against your palm before offering you a wan, tired smile.

“And you’re sure you’re not mad at me?”

“‘M not having this conversation with you again.” You could sense that he wasn’t truly annoyed, but it was fun to push his buttons. He rested a hand on your thigh and rubbed circles against the soft cotton fabric of his sweats.

“You should eat something,” he murmured against your skin. “And sleep some more.”

“I could eat. Especially if it’s Alfred’s cooking. And I think we have some things we need to explain to your kids.”

Bruce slid one arm under your knees and another around your back, lifting you as if you weighed nothing. You wrapped your arms around his neck and kicked your feet. “Take me to dinner, Mr. Wayne.”

Alfred gladly started whipping up some food when Bruce asked. You finally got him to set you down and took a seat at the table while Bruce grabbed you some water and tea. You took that as a chance to check your phone and replied to a few texts from John and Hal, letting them know you were fine. Guy simply sent a meme which you replied with a thumbs down. This is why Kyle and Jessica were your favorites.

“Ahem.” You looked up from your phone and found yourself nose-to-nose with a cat. It meowed in greeting and you leaned back a little so you could see who was holding it.

“Hello, Damian.”

“Hello. This is Alfred.” He hefted the cat once more and you reached out so Alfred the cat could sniff your hand. You pet his head and then his soft little chin.

“Do you ever get them confused? The two Alfreds?”

“No. It’s quite simple. One is a human. The other, a cat.”

You stifled your smile. “Totally understand. How are you feeling?” He took a seat next to you and Alfred settled into his lap. Damian stroked the cat’s fur and you felt like he was a really tiny version of The Godfather.

“I’m perfectly healed, thanks to you.” He blinked up at you with bright eyes. “I wanted to express my gratitude for your prompt rescue of Timothy and I. I wish that it hadn’t come at the expense of your own health. For that, I apologize.”

“Hey.” You spoke softly so you didn’t startle him. “I’m okay, and you and Tim are okay. That’s all that matters. I’d do it again, if it meant keeping you guys safe. Your dad…your dad loves you all so, so much. And I see why. You have a really great family.”

“I hope that Father will ensure your place in our family. If he does not act soon, we will ensure it to be so.”

This time, you did let your laugh ring out. “Okay, we don’t need to meddle in anyone’s love lives.”

“They’ve already unionized,” Bruce said dryly as he appeared with a tea tray in his hands. “Damian, can you tell the others that dinner is soon? It’s a bit early but Kate said she can handle patrol tonight so we can all rest and fully recover.”

“I will inform the others. Prepare yourself, Father. We will have some questions for you.” Damian slipped out of his chair and hurried out so he could wrangle the various batlings into coming down to eat. Bruce stopped behind your chair and tilted your chin back, his hand wrapping loosely around your throat, before leaning down and pressing a kiss to your forehead.

“I think it’s your turn to get a shovel talk,” you teased. His lips trailed down over the bridge of your nose and then down to your lips. You grinned into the kiss and he savored this moment.

Damian didn’t need to worry about pushing him to add you to the family. He already had another ring he’d like to add to your collection.

[daisyfieldrecs]

Shovel Talk // B. Wayne x gn!reader

Requested? Yes!

WARNINGS: brief discussion of sex

Summary: It was the first time Bruce Wayne was introducing his partner to the world…and his kids. His very inquisitive, highly trained, pain-in-the-ass kids.

Part two here!

The steady, firm press of the hand against your lower back was the only constant of the night, it seemed. You were whisked to and fro to talk to various people with a tight smile on your face and honey on your tongue. Your partner kept close to your side as he warmly informed each person that you were his. Your appearance came as a surprise to Gotham society and also to Bruce’s family. Only Stephanie greeted you with a brilliant grin and a quick hug.

“So,” Tim said to the blonde as the Wayne clan sidled up next to their friend. “What’s their story? How do you know them?”

Stephanie smirked, wolfish and sharp, and tossed back the champagne that was in her hand. “Hmmm, the great detectives don’t know something? It must be eating you up. I could put you out of your misery…”

She considered her options and then shrugged. “Or I could go bully some rich assholes. Have fun! Toodles.”

Keep reading

[daisyfieldrecs]

bruce wayne needs kisses to survive

a/n: had this idea, thought it was pretty cute lol. this could be read as the couple from the jealousy fic too :) enjoy!

Loud stomping on the manor stairs doesn’t draw anyone’s attention, not when its a late Sunday morning and you’re shouting “I’m late!” with your heels in your hands. Bruce only glances up from the newspaper when you whirl past him, your perfume catching in the air and the scent making him feel warm.

“Honey, have you seen my keys?” You call from beyond the kitchen, running back into the living room and coming to a stop in front of him, brushing hair out of your face.

Bruce puts the newspaper down and looks up at you, a soft smile on his face as he takes in your appearance. “You look beautiful, honey,” He says, his voice soft and sincere. If you weren’t so hyper focused on getting out of the house, you’d probably egg him on to keep complimenting you. But all you do is offer him a smile and a pat on his chest.

“Thanks, baby. My keys? Have you seen them?” You drop your heels onto the wood floors and shove your feet into them, cursing when you almost lose your balance.

“I haven’t. Take mine,” he rises from his seat on the sofa and plucks them off of the side table, jingling them on his way back to you.

A weak groan leaves your lips when he presents them to you. “I don’t like driving your car,” you whine, huffing out a breath. Bruce just smiles at you and chuckles, keys still held out to you.

“You know, we have a few cars,” he says, scoffing when you rolls your eyes and start shaking your head. “Oh, cmon!”

“I don’t like driving any of your cars!” You say, batting at his hand. Bruce holds his hands up in the air, the keys to his extremely fast sports held in his fingers. Technically they’re not only his cars, but other than the one you drive everyday, Bruce picked them out, thus making them vehicles only he would drive. You eye them and glance down at your watch. “Shit, I’m so late.” You murmur. “Fine, give them to me.” You hold out your hand for his keys and he drops them into your palm.

“It won’t be that bad,” he says, reaching for your waist and pulling you towards him. Bruce smiles when you frown, and leans down to kiss you, but your angle your face away from him.

“I’m wearing lip gloss.”

He blinks at you, confusion etched on his features. “I don’t care?” He goes to lean back in and you turn your face so his lips get your cheek instead.

“I don’t want you ruining it, I’m already late,” you say, empathetically rubbing his bicep. He frowns at you, annoyance clear in the way his jaw ticks. “Alright let me go so I can leave.” You pat his chest, but his hold on you remains stiff.

“You’re not going to give me a kiss?”

You smile and offer him your cheek again, your shiny lips taunting him. Rolling his eyes, Bruce sighs and begrudgingly presses his lips to your cheek before letting you go, muttering a ‘drive safe’ on your way out the door.

Later, on your way home from your errands you get a call from Dick. Clicking answer, the static from his end of the line coming through the car speakers. “Hello?”

“Hey. What’s wrong with the old man?” He sounds a little out of breath like he’s been jogging or something.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s been on our ass today, more than usual. Did you guys fight, or something?” He asks. You can hear faint grunts and the sound of a punching bag in the background of the phone call.

Your eyebrows furrow. “No,” but you say it with a lilt to your voice.

“Well can you fix it, then? Because I feel like I want to fight him, and I’m smarter than that,” you snort at his words and nod to yourself.

“Yes, I can fix it. Bye, Dick—and good luck.”

The phone call ends and when you come to a red light you dial Bruce’s number, a small smile on your face. Bruce was canonically hard on all of the young justice heroes, so it was a little funny to get a call about his attitude even still. The line rings and rings, and finally he picks up. “Yes?”

His tone and greeting take you aback, and you blink once before replying. “Hello to you too, honey,” you chuckle.

“I’m a little busy, y/n. Are you alright?”

“Yes, Bruce. What’s up with this attitude?” He’s quiet on the other line like he’s contemplating his next set of words. You wait, but almost laugh because of the silent standoff you’re having over the phone.

"I don't have an attitude. I am just busy," he says calmly, the tone in his voice significantly different compared to when he answered the phone. This time its more even, still clipped, but less hostile and cold. "I take it you're on the way home?"

"Mhm."

A pause, and then. "Come to the Bat Cave when you get home," His voice is much softer now, and you smile to yourself. There he is, your giant soft-hearted brooder of a husband.

You tell him you'll see him soon, and then the two of you hang up.

About fifteen minutes later, you pull up the manor. You reach over into the front seat, grabbing the items you picked up while you were out, before hopping out of Bruces car. The front door is open before you walk up the steps, Alfred standing beside it with a pleasant smile on his face. “Thanks, Alfie,” you say with a bright smile, waving him off when he offers to grab something from you. “I’ve got it. Should’ve called that husband of mine.” You joke as he closes the door behind you.

“I can go get Master Bruce, ma’am,” he says politely. You open your mouth to tell him it’s not a big deal, but think better of it and nod, a sly smile working its way onto your face. “Very well. I’ll be right back.” Alfred leaves the foyer and you set the few bags that you have down by your feet.

A few moments later, Bruce rounds the corner to the front of the house in his typical training outfit: black tshirt and black sweats. His face is flushed and sweat trickles down his temple to his jaw then neck, and catches at the material of his tshirt. He eyes you and the bags by your feet and presses his lips into a line, sighing through his nose.

You can’t help but smile at his behavior, watching him pick up the bags in amusement and following him up the stairs. “Hi, baby,” you say once you’re sure Alfred is out of earshot, your tone teasing.

“Hello, y/n,” he says gruffly, setting the bags down on the chaise in your bedroom before spinning around to leave, but you block him, arms coming to lock around his midsection. A mocking frown is on your lips at the use of your first name, and not a pet name like he usually calls you.

“I’m not your baby anymore?” You tease, pulling him closer to you even though his shirt is slightly damp with sweat. Bruce just looks down the slope of his nose at you, expression bored and unamused. You only smile at him, which makes the corner of his lip twitch and forces him to look away from you. “You don’t say hi to me, won’t call me baby and now you won’t look at me? You haven’t even tried to kiss me.” You pinch him when you see him roll his eyes.

“You have lipstick on,” he says simply, finally returning his eyes to you. Your jaw falls open slightly, eyebrows raising as a scoff of a laugh leaves you lips. Bruce only quirks an eyebrow at you, and you pinch him in his side again.

“You are so dramatic!” You say, laughing at the realization. Bruce only rolls his eyes again and tries (barely) to pry your arms off of him, mumbling something about having to go back to training. “No, you’re not going anywhere, Mr. Wayne.”

Bruce lets out a huff of air through his nose. “They are waiting on me.”

“Dick said you’re being mean.”

His eyebrows furrow. “I am only preparing them for real threats. If he thinks it’s ‘mean’, then maybe he should- oh my god, Bruce!” You laugh again, cutting him off. Bruce frowns at you, sighing through his mouth and crossing his arms over his chest. “I don’t see what’s so funny.”

“You are! You are very dramatic today, Mr. Wayne. I didn’t know you needed a kiss to have a good day,” you tease. He rolls his eyes but a faint blush dusts his cheeks, his lip twitching again. You smile and uncross his arms and wrap them around your waist, your own encircling around his neck. “Do you want a kiss, Bruce?” You tease.

“Yes,” he murmurs, already leaning down to bring his lips down to yours. You smile against his lips before pressing back into him, fingers stroking the damp hair at the nape of his neck.

Bruce holds your tightly against him, one arm tightly around your waist and the other on your upper back. He kisses you like he’s been dying without your lips against his, his body relaxing and his shoulders finally sagging. Bruce pulls you impossibly closer, pulling you up onto your toes despite the fact that you are wearing heels.

When you two pull apart, his features are visibly softer than before. "Feel better," you ask, a little breathless. He shakes his head and kisses you again, chest swelling when you giggle and stroke the side of his neck. Bruce lets out a small moan and only holds you tighter against him when he feels you start to pull back.

He slips his tongue into your mouth easily when you provide an opening, and you start to walk him in the direction of the bed. Bruce lets you, pulling the both of you down onto the mattress. You pull back to catch your breath, a shy smile on your face as you look down at Bruce who is equally breathless.

Bruce's lips shine with traces of your lipgloss and you push him flat onto the bed and crawl on top of him, bringing your thumb up to wipe away the residue. "Now do you feel better?" you ask, hair falling in front of you face.

His hands slide from your waist down to your ass, his big hands resting over your back pockets. "Almost."

[daisyfieldrecs]

Somethin' Stupid

AO3 Link: Somethin' Stupid - damn_replicants - Indiana Jones (Movies) RPF [Archive of Our Own]

Pairing: Indiana Jones/Fem!Professor!Reader

Warnings: Brief description of drunkenness.

Tags: Established relationship, fluff, dancing, drunken kisses, love confessions from the reader, indy is drunk but it's implied that the reader isn't, mild anxiety over confessing but it's got a happy ending, professor reader, archaeologist reader, fem descriptors for reader, no use of y/n.

Summary: And then I go and spoil it all...

November, 1945

The gentle murmur of conversation and the soft sound of the band are almost enough to lull you to sleep, and the smell of perfume and cigarettes hangs heavy in the air. You inhale it from your spot on the dance floor, leaning forward to rest your head on your partner’s right shoulder. An amused chuckle ruffles the hair at your temple before Indy’s arm tightens around your waist.

You’ve got a dig to be at tomorrow, and all of the contract signing, worker wrangling, and backbreaking work that comes with it, but your worries are taking a backseat for now. Jones hums quietly along with what the band is playing, left hand readjusting its grip on yours as you sway. 

“Gotta get up early for that flight,” You sigh, people-watching while your face is conveniently hidden by your partner’s suit collar.

“I think you can spare five minutes for another dance.” 

“You’ve said that three times in the last hour!” You laugh, leaning back to look up at Indy in the semidarkness. 

“Forgive me for wantin’ to spend more time with a beautiful woman.” He mutters, lips forming a devious smirk. 

“You also have plans for tomorrow, Doctor.”

Jones leans forward to brush noses with you, and his breath smells faintly of whiskey as he murmurs, “Unimportant at the moment.”

“I always forget how cuddly you are when you’re drunk.” You gibe, left hand migrating from its spot on Indy’s shoulder to play with the hair at the base of his skull. 

The professor closes his eyes for a moment and starts to smile, then seems to check himself. He frowns dazedly at you, grumbling, “I am not cuddly, sweetheart.”

“Whatever you say, Jones.”

The night air is cold and sobering when you step out of the club, but it seems to have no effect on your companion. He’s hiding it well, but years of intimate knowledge means that you notice his unfocused eyes and slight wobble as he stands next to you on the sidewalk. 

“I take it, I'm driving?” You inquire, crossing your arms as you give him a once-over.

He nods and blinks twice, groggily, and digs around in his coat pockets before finding and giving you his keys. He falls asleep as soon as you pull away from the curb, and you steal glances at his snoring form every few minutes. You laugh quietly to yourself about how domestic this whole scenario feels compared to your usual exploits with him. You’ve been in love with him for as long as you can remember, but if there’s one thing that scares Indiana Jones more than snakes, it’s commitment.

It took an ultimatum from you and a lot of humility from him to clean up his act and win you over two years ago, and it’s been pretty smooth-sailing, but nights like these are difficult. Nights when you can feel those three little words bubbling up your throat and have to bite them back for fear of scaring him off. You grip the wheel a little tighter and try to focus on the radio instead of the way that his gelled hair is sticking up in tufts against the passenger window; the open snoring and loose posture; the way that he trusts you to drive his car when he’s drunk and when he’s sober. 

You sigh tiredly as you park his car in its usual spot in front of your house. It takes you a few tries to shake him awake, but once he’s up, Indy looks a little more coherent than before. He hurries to get out of the car first and walks around the front to open your door for you, and you smile at the gesture. Still a gentleman after four whiskey sours in a row.

Once you’re inside the house, you make a beeline for the kitchen and hear Indy kick off his shoes and dump his overcoat on the hardwood behind you. You watch him through the doorway to make sure he doesn’t fall on the stairs before you open a cupboard to search for a glass in the darkness. Jones still insists on keeping his apartment after two years of going steady, his reason being that you’re both “stubborn, independent hotheads,” but there are more and more traces of him appearing in your home: one mug that doesn’t match the others in the cupboard; fountain pens and ungraded class papers on the dining table; two pairs of sleep pants in the top drawer of your dresser.

It’s his mug that you pull from the cupboard and fill with water from the sink. You make a pit stop at the closet next to the stairs, feeling around on a shelf for your one bottle of painkillers before closing the door with your foot and heading up. To your surprise, Jones is awake when you reach the bedroom. He’s managed to change into his pajamas and is standing at your window, looking out at the night. He registers your presence when you set the water and painkillers on the left nightstand (which you’ve unconsciously dubbed as his nightstand) and turns to face you as you approach him.

He takes hold of your waist once you’re within range and pulls you against his chest to start dancing to some unknown song. You scoff and make another halfhearted protest about the hour, but you’re still letting him take one of your hands in his and lead you around the bedroom. You can feel the rumble in his chest as he starts humming one of the songs from earlier tonight, and the light from the streetlamp outside is playing across his nose and lips as he gives you a lazy grin. He guides you to spin, and when 

“I love you.”

It’s a barely-there whisper, but he hears it. You hear his quick inhale, feel his shoulder tense beneath your left hand, and you quickly backpedal, starting to extract yourself from his arms as you sputter, “I’m sorry- that wasn’t- I-”

The hand on your waist migrates to your lower back to keep you from escaping, and Indy pulls your joined hands inward so they’re pinned between his chest and yours. 

“Say it again.”

When you meet his gaze in the halflight, his eyes are inquisitive and a bit nervous, but not afraid or cold like you’d expected. 

His voice is low, and his smirk is more bashful than smug as he mutters, “Again, doll. Didn’t hear ya the first time.”

You know he’s pulling your leg, but you swallow hard and repeat yourself with a little more confidence, “I said I love you, Indy.”

You catch a glimpse of Jones’s excited grin as he’s leaning forward and capture your lips in a soft but clumsy kiss. The hand that’s gripping yours tightens, and you feel more than hear his mumble of, “Thought as much,” against your mouth as you continue to dance in the night.

[daisyfieldrecs]

Hey, I hope you're having a great day. If it's alright (and if I haven't done so already. I don't think i have but i can't remember) request and Indiana jones x reader which involves the following dialogue "Why don't YOU translate and I'll wave the gun around"

Yeah I'm doing well! I have the week off work so I'm going to be chilling, writing and catching up on some of my crafting projects. Hope you're doing well :D

Title: Shots

“Fucking hell,” you shouted over the hail of bullets, “I thought you said that you had dealt with them.”

“I had,” snapped back Indy, “and don’t swear.”

“Why? Because ladies shouldn’t swear.”

“No,” Indy gritted his teeth and reloaded his gun, “because I want you to stop talking and focus on translating.”

You just rolled your eyes and turned your attention back to the inscriptions. Damn Indy for turning up on your doorstep late at night. He had another mad idea and just had to drag you along. You knew you should’ve said no. Things always ended badly when you and Indy went adventuring together. Either the two of you getting shot at or ending up in bed together.

And after last time you swore the latter would never happen again.

Which only left being shot at.

“How much longer are you going to be?” shouted Indy

“Why? Running out of bullets?”

When Indy didn’t give you a smart-arse response you looked over at him incredulously.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” you said

Immediately Indy was by your side. He jabbed you in the chest and you sat down on the ground and leant against the wall.

“Keep your voice down,” he said, “or do you want them to know about their advantage?”

“Tell you what, Doctor Jones,” you hissed, “why don’t you translate and I’ll wave the gun around? You never know, I might end up hitting something.”

“Someone,” snapped back Indy, “you think you can have someone’s death on your hands?”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re only Nazis.”

Indy didn’t respond and you smirked knowing you had won. Indy fired another shot and you winced as you heard another body hit the floor.

“How much longer?” he asked

You flinched as a bullet grazed your cheek and hit the wall. You cursed and ran a finger over the chipped wall.

“I got the general gist of it.”

“General gist isn’t good enough.”

“Well it’s all you're going to get! It might’ve been a bit more complete if someone hadn’t managed to get the wall shot up!”

“Not my fault.”

“Well it usually is. Now then, how are we going to get out?”

“Come on darlin’, have I ever let you down before?”

Yes in this moment you hated Indiana Jones but at the same time you couldn’t help but smile. You could feel the adrenaline pumping through your veins. Yes, you had missed this. You had missed the excitement and the thrill or find new objects.

The thrill of the chase and of being chased.

The thrill of new discoveries.

The thrill of being with Indy.

Indy raised a hand and brushed your cheek with his thumb. You let out a hiss of pain and he grimaced when he saw the blood.

“It’s just a graze,” you said, “I’ve had worse. You should know that.”

“Shouldn’t have let that happen.”

Indy cupped your cheeks and pressed a kiss against your forehead. You rested your head against his chest and closed your eyes. Indy reached behind you and at first you thought he was going to hug you. However, instead he reached behind you and pressed a panel on the wall. You looked sharply behind you as part of the wall slid away.

“How long did you know that was there?” you asked

“Well…”

Indy trailed off and smirked at you. You glared and slapped him on the arm.

“You jerk! I’m going to kill you!”

“I’d rather you kiss me.”

“Maybe if we survive.”

[daisyfieldrecs]

Family Of Three - Indiana Jones X Female (Wife) Reader (feat. Shorty)

Title: Family Of Three

Indiana Jones X Female (Wife) Reader (feat. Shorty)

Additional Characters: Shorty, Indy's dad (Mentioned)

Requested by @doctoriletyougotogalaxy!

WC: 2,170

Warnings: Super cute, family fluff, fluff, Indy being a dad, flirting, slight suggestiveness, teasing, taunting, we love Shorty, references to other Indiana Jones movies, real life plot hole, happy tears, all the hugs for Shorty, and a slight bittersweet ending

"Hurry up, kid! Don't want to be late!" Indy called out as he placed his infamous hat on the top of his head. You made sure your pants were dust and grime free, brushing them and making sure your button-up was neatly tucked into your slacks before you glanced at Indy from the living room mirror, raising an eyebrow as you watched him put on his hat.

"Why are you wearing your hat, Indy?" You asked, turning to your husband, "You don't usually wear it when we go out." You mentioned and Indy shrugged.

"I feel like it," He spoke up, adjusting his tie and glasses.

You smiled softly, walking over to help him to fix his tie, making sure it was straight, "I don't understand the point of the hat after you spent half an hour combing your hair." You tilted your head slightly, as Indy's hands landed on your waist, his fingers looping through your belt loops, pulling you closer.

"Well, sweetheart," He began, leaning down to brush his nose against yours, making your cheeks and ears flush, "I just feel like it."

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as you softly pushed away, turning towards the hall, "Shorty, honey, you about ready?" You called, only to hear the quick pitter-patter of feet and Shorty to reveal himself; running down the hall.

He skidded to a halt, dressed pretty sharply in new brown pants, a flannel, new shoes, and his New York Giants baseball cap. "How do I look, ritzy eh?" Shorty asked, feeling confident in himself as you smiled and nodded your head.

"Absolutely, Shorty. Very handsome. Little ladies will surely swoon upon seeing you." You stated only for Shorty to make a face, shaking his head.

"Ew, no. I have no time for ladies, Y/N/N. I am too busy taking care of you and Indy."

You couldn't help but let your smile widen, "Alright then, are you ready to go?" You asked and the little boy nodded as Indy grabbed his car keys and opened the front door. 

"Where are we going?" Shorty asked as he got into the back seat, leaning over the middle console to look at you and Indy, fidgeting with energy.

You turned slightly in your seat, glancing from Indy to Shorty, "Well, it's a surprise. We have a whole day planned out for you."

“And don’t try and bribe us into telling you, it won’t work.” Indy added making Shorty roll his eyes as he leaned back into his seat.

~~~

You and Shorty sang along to the radio, a bit obnoxiously, trying to get Indy to join you but with no luck as you drove to the National Museum. The trees passed in green blurs as you and Shorty sang to ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’. Indy couldn’t fight the amused smile on his face as you pretended to hold a microphone in your hand as you sang. 

Sooner than you thought, you all arrived at the museum. Hopping out of the car, Shorty stared at the large building with wide eyes, walking with you and Indy up the large stairs and entering the museum, he looked all around the giant room.

"Wow!" Shorty exclaimed, his eyes widened as they met the glass display cases that held various items from the museum; his jaw slackened. Indy chuckled softly, placing a hand on his shoulder and leading him around the room with you. "Did you find these, Indy?" He asked and Indy nodded.

"Some of them," He began, stopping in front of one glass case, "Here's the Holy Grail, I found it with my... Dad." Indy spoke and you smiled, watching the two bond as you loop your arm through Indy's free one. Looking at each and every artifact that Indy had recovered. "And this one..." Indy continued, going up to the next artifact, "Is the Headpiece to the Staff of Ra that I found during my time in Egypt. It's made out of very precious gems and gold."

Shorty looked up at Indy with wide eyes of awe and curiosity, "What's the most precious treasure you found, Indy?"

Indy grinned, staring at the artifact with a soft gaze before looking down at you, "I'd have to say Y/N."

You immediately looked up at him in shock and surprise, feeling your face warm, "What?" You chuckled awkwardly, unbelieving, "Don't be ridiculous." You said, giving a light slap to his arm.

Indy smirked down at you, "You don't believe me? I would show you if the kid wasn't here." At his words, you gasped lightly, narrowing your eyes and feeling your face flush.

"Indy!" You scolded, swatting at his chest as he laughed, dodging your attempt to hit him again. He grabbed your hand and pulled you forward, causing you to stumble into him.

Indy stared down at you, leaning down before pausing, his lips just brushing yours. Pulling away slightly, Indy covered Shorty's eyes earning a 'Hey!' from the boy as Indy leaned down to press to your lips, kissing you softly. The kiss ended much too soon for your liking, but was nonetheless sweet; you blinked back your surprise as Indy rested his forehead against yours.

"You done yet? I got artifacts to see." Shorty spoke up, pushing away Indy's hand with a huff, making you smile down at the kid.

"Yeah, honey, we're done. I want to see the Cross of Coronado. It's my favorite." You spoke, leaving Indy behind as you and Shorty headed off to see the cross.

Indy watched you and Shorty, a smile on his face before he joined you, taking his hat and placing it on your head; you chuckled as the hat covered your eyes slightly. You pushed the hat back so you could see as Indy wrapped his arm around your waist.

"Why is the cross your favorite?" Shorty asked and you sighed, remembering when Indy took you to see it for the first time.

"I guess it's because of Indy's past with it." You began, giving the boy a smile before looking back at the cross. "I love how Indy never stopped looking for it. Even after all those years, he kept searching. And the way it inspired him to become someone great." You finished quietly, feeling Indy hand on your waist tighten. "That dedication to seeking the impossible and unknown has always been one of Indy's strongest traits, ever since I met him."

"And I think Y/N's beautiful charm and passion to find the answers to all kinds of questions is something that I admire deeply," Indy commented and you smiled at him, squeezing his hand. “Half the reason why I married her.”

"Don't think you're going to get any brownie points for that." You teased, making Shorty look up at you both eagerly.

"Brownies? I want brownies!"

~~~

Indy continued to talk about everything from the cross to other treasures, pointing out places in the exhibit as you all walked down the halls. After a while at the museum, you both left and got back in the car, heading to one of Shorty's favorite diners, where he always got a chocolate milkshake and a slice of his favorite cherry pie.

He sipped on his milkshake before taking bites of his slice of cherry pie as you bit your lip, glancing out the window nervously. Indy took your hand in his, intertwining your fingers together, gaining your attention. He gave you a small smile, calming you significantly as you returned to eating your slice of pie. You were a bit worried and very anxious the entire week. A couple of days prior, you and Indy had gone to the adoption office, filling out a few forms and completing a few piles of paperwork to try and get confirmation that you could adopt Shorty. 

The paperwork arrived that morning, and it said you were both approved to adopt Shorty just as long as he wanted to be adopted. It was a relief to know that you could adopt the kid. You and Indy loved that kid as if he was your own. Shorty was such a sweet, caring, brave, and smart kid; you wanted nothing more than to give him a wonderful home and raise him with Indy. You cared so much for Shorty and wanted to make sure he had the best life that you could give him. You had the chance to give him the life he deserves, a life in which he could go to school, and learn about fantastic and interesting things; give him a chance to be a kid. Shorty deserved the world.

~~~

You all headed home with full stomachs, the three of you collapsing on the couch together with a laugh, Indy’s hat on top of Shorty’s head, covering his baseball cap. You sighed, feeling content as Indy turned to look at you, glancing at Shorty in your arms before he stood. You turned down to look at Shorty.

"Short, honey, we have something for you." You began softly, your heartbeat increasing as you thought of what might await you. You glanced up at Indy, who reentered the room with the envelope, a nervous grin plastered on his face.

"What is it?" Shorty asked, sitting up on the couch. You sat up as well, Indy sitting beside you and handing Shorty the envelope. Shorty took the envelope, looking at both you and Indy confused yet curious as you gave him the nod to open it. Shorty carefully ripped open the envelope, pulling out the paper from inside. He read it over, and you bit your lip and fidgeted with your fingers in anticipation.  

"What's this about?" Shorty asked, still reading the letter with a confused expression on his face.

You glanced at Indy before speaking, his arm wrapping around your shoulder, "Well," You began, swallowing, "We would like to adopt you, Shorty." You finished, smiling softly at the little boy who was staring at the paperwork in his hands.

"You serious? You really adopting me?" He asked, looking up at you with big eyes that seemed to grow larger.

You nodded, unable to contain your smile. "If you want us to. This is your decision." Indy spoke up, holding you closer to him.

"I do! Yes, yes yes!" Shorty exclaimed, jumping up from his seat and hugging the both of you tightly, tears welling up in his eyes. You chuckled softly, rubbing Shorty's back gently as you hugged him back, tears falling down your own cheeks at the sight. "Really?" He asked, as if you weren't serious, but Indy nodded.

"Yeah, kid. we really want to adopt you." He spoke and Shorty smiled.

"Thank you!" Shorty cried in complete joy. He pulled away and looked at you and Indy as you wiped away the tears that ran down his cheeks.

"Of course, honey. We love you very much. More than anything." You responded and Shorty smiled, throwing himself back into your arms.

"I love you too." Shorty muttered into your shirt, snuggling close as he held onto both of you. You felt Indy wrap his arms around the two of you, pulling you tighter against him as he laid his head on top of yours. 

You let out a shaky happy sigh, resting the top of your head on Shorty’s cap, before letting out a small laugh of pure joy. 

~~~

In the next couple of months, Shorty was enrolled in school, learning great lessons from science to astrology. He improved on his English and even joined a few school clubs. During breaks and Summer, Indy would take you and Shorty on trips around the world, Greece, Egypt, New York, and even Iceland. You spent birthdays at parks and arcades, playing pinball machines and eating ice cream. He even started calling you and Indy, mom and dad…

Then there came the point that Shorty was old enough to go to high school, where he made more friends and joined more clubs including joining the math decathlon and even an art club, to which he was both very successful at. During breaks and Summers, Shorty would participate in helping Indy find artifacts, finding Archaeology to be a real calling to him, just like his dad.

When he wasn’t finding gold and treasure with Indy, he was with you at home. He’d help you around the house, cooking and even taking up a few chores so you had less to do. He was going up to be such a sweet and kind gentleman. Yet, he never lost that bravery and curiosity that he had as a child. 

Before you knew it, he was off on his own. Traveling the world with Indy and recovering old artifacts. Though he was pretty busy, Shorty would never forget to write you letters home, retelling his amazing adventures and all that he discovered. You’d keep those letters close, rereading them often as you missed your son. You’d check off the days on the calendar, waiting patiently for your son to come home.

[daisyfieldrecs]

Could I request an Indiana Jones fic? Maybe some steamy action when he gets back from a long trip? You can decide whether to go full NSFW or not but I love your Indy writing so I’m excited to see what you do!

Note: requests are currently closed

So I didn't go full NSFW, just some illusions and steamy action!

Hope you like the fic :)

Title: Welcome Home

Warnings: NSFW themes

You hummed as you dried your hands on a tea towel and tossed it over the side of a chair. You put your hands on your hips and looked around the kitchen. You had spent the morning tidying up as you waited for Indy to come back. He had been off on one of his typical life-or-death adventures. You’d usually go with him but your mother was sick so you couldn’t go.

You beamed when you heard the door open and shut heavily behind. Part of you couldn’t move, too excited to go to him. Still, eventually desire won out. You slowly made your way towards the kitchen door. You stood in the doorway as you watched him. He wiped the sweat off his brow and looked up, feeling your eyes on him. He smirked and pushed himself up and walked towards you. He stopped directly in front of you, looking down at you. He took his hat off and put it on your head. It was far too big for you and flopped down over your eyes. You grinned as he tilted it back. Indy always told you that he loved seeing you wear his hat.

“That’s better,” he said as he cupped your cheeks, “now I can see your eyes.”

“I fucking missed your Indy.”

“Missed you too darlin’. Felt strange not having you by my side.”

“Felt strange not being with you.” you muttered

“How’s your mother?”

“Better.”

“Good.”

Indy bent down and captured your lips with his. You let out a mona and wrapped your arms around his neck. He easily lifted you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist. You broke the kiss and tossed his hat to the side.

“Careful with that,” he said, nipping at your lips, “it’s very precious.”

“More than me?”

“Let me think about that…”

“Bastard.”

“You love me really.”

“You’re very lucky I do.”

Once again Indy captured your lips in a searing kiss. You tangled your fingers in his hair as he carried you towards the bedroom. He had only been gone for a short time but it had felt like a lifetime. Fuck, you really had missed him. As he made his way into the bedroom, Indy bumped against the door frame. His breath hitched and you immediately broke the kiss and glared at him.

“What happened?” you asked

“Nothing.”

Indy tried to kiss you again but you pulled away. You tapped his shoulder and he sighed and set you down. You pushed him back and made him sit down on the bed. Indy looked up at you with a smirk and put his hands on your waist.

“Well now-”

“You’re hurt,” you said, “kinda killed the mood. Now, shirt off.”

You plucked at his shirt and Indy smirked at you. He slowly undid the buttons and you put your hands on your hips. Usually this would excite you, Indy slowly teasing you in preparation for the night ahead. However, at the sight of the healing bullet wound in his shoulder you froze.

“It’s worse than it looks.” he said

“It looks awful,” you said, “but at least it’s not infected. Let me get some bandages and-”

You yet out a yelp as you were pulled into his lap. Your hands settled on his shoulder while Indy wrapped his around your waist. You straddled his lap and gave him a disapproving look. Indy smirked and bumped his nose against yours.

“Are those your orders, Nurse Jones?” he asked

You pulled back slightly and pushed on his chest, causing him to fall back against the bed. You were fully straddling him as you leant down and said,

“If you’re a good boy for me we’ll see about your reward later.”

[daisyfieldrecs]

Kinktober Day 16

Day Fifteen | 🌹Kinktober Masterlist🌹 | Day Seventeen

Pairing: Indiana Jones x Reader

Rating: Explicit - 18+ Only. Any minors interacting with ANY of these Kinktober prompts will be blocked

Warnings: Role reversal; period-typical attitudes toward sex; vaginal sex; riding unsafe sex; creampie

He starts to turn up to your classes midway through October. You’ve seen his picture in the paper, heard the conspiratorial whispers of the enamored co-eds across campus, but you’ve never met the man. 

You notice him right off the bat—it’s impossible not to. If it hadn’t been for the way most of the female students were twisting in their seats to get a look at him, his countenance would’ve given him away. He was dressed far more professionally than your students, and watching you far more closely than any of them were as well. The afternoon sun glinted off of his glasses as he tracked your movement, from walking into the lecture hall, to setting down your briefcase as you greeted your students.

-- 

You’ve nearly forgotten him by the lecture’s end, as your students pack up their things and file out. You focus on getting your scattered notes and attendance sheets together, certain that Jones will trail out with the rest of them. You feel someone watching you as you tuck your notes and attendance into a folder. You glance up, expecting one of your students, but finding him standing there instead. 

“Dr. Jones,” You greet, turning your attention back to your bag. “Is there something that I can help you with?” 

“Brody told me that he’d hired someone else in the history department, but I haven’t had the time to come and get acquainted.” 

“Well, that probably had something to do with your recent excursion to Guatemala.” 

He chuckles softly. “I see my reputation precedes me.” 

“It certainly does.” 

“I just wanted to stop by, say hello…Get a look at the professor that’s been poaching my students.” 

“They probably wouldn’t be so easy to poach if you turned up to more than a third of your lectures during a given semester.” 

You close your satchel, lifting the strap onto your shoulder and straightening up. He searches your face, eyes narrowing slightly behind his frames. 

“Are you headed back to your office?” He asked. “I’d be happy to walk you.”

“Home, actually. I’m done for the day.” 

“Could I drive you?” 

“That’s quite alright, I drove myself here this morning.” 

Jones nods slowly, gaze sweeping curiously over you. 

“Perhaps I could drop by one of your lectures again.” 

“What for?” 

“Fun. I enjoyed it.” 

“Well, I’m glad to hear it. Maybe I could teach you a thing or two about a thing or two.” 

Jones’ lips curled with a smile as he nodded. 

“We’ll see about that.” 

--  

“What was that crack about me missing classes?” 

You throw a surly glare over your shoulder at Indiana as he grins up at you. This was not the plan. 

After a week, Dr. Jones had made it a point to visit at least one of your classes. After a month, you were planning a lecture series together over dinners and drinks. After two months, Jones had managed to talk you into taking a little weekend trip with him—for the sake of the lecture series, of course.

“I'll go on one condition,” You’d warned, pointing firmly at him. 

“I’m listening.” 

“I need to be back by noon on Monday at the latest. I have a lecture at three and I despise missing classes.” 

“...I will do my best.”

“Jones.” 

“Cross my heart, honey.” 

He’d raised his hand and crossed his heart, then raised his right hand and gestured, “Scout’s honor.” 

You’d wanted to be grated by all of it—the smile, the crossing of his heart, his scout’s honor, the way he’d called you honey. But you’d gone into the weekend with a curious new feeling. You didn’t think that Indiana really wanted to get together for lecture notes, you thought that he wanted to, well…

Well, you’d gotten the impression that Indiana may be interested in you—romantically. It was rare that a man like that asked you to drinks just to talk about the legacy of Alexander the Great, or insisted on walking you to your door afterward. 

A weekend away had seemed perfectly in order to kick off the far-less-than-professional side of your relationship. You’d packed your cutest clothes—you'd been excited.

And now rather than snuggling up, you’re following an artifact fencer into a cave in the middle of the Grand Canyon at 3pm on a Monday, dirtying your second favorite outfit, and fighting the urge to sock the grinning fool squarely in the jaw.

“Stifle it, Jones.” 

-- 

You throw the door to your hotel room open, stomping irritatedly inside and reaching back to shove the door shut again. You don’t hear it close, but you do hear the thud of Indiana’s feet behind you. 

“What’s the matter with you?” He asks, shutting the door behind himself. 

“You promised, Jones. Crossed your damn heart, if you even have one.” 

“Wouldya quit pouting? We did a good thing,” Jones argues. “So you missed a class, so what?” 

“It’s the principle of the thing!” You argue, whirling around on him. He’s stunningly close, his brows raised as he watches you. You scowl as he grins amusedly. 

“Why did you invite me out here, anyway, Jones?” You add. Something flickers in his gaze just enough for you to seize on. 

“For the lecture series,” He insists. “Obviously.” 

“Obviously?” You narrow your eyes, stepping toe-to-toe with him. “That’s all?” 

“Why else would I have invited you?” 

“For something like this, perhaps?” You reach out, grasping his cheeks and draw him in. He flails a bit for balance as your lips crash together. He steadies himself as he rests his hands on your hips, sighing softly against them as he uses his grasp to pull you closer. You let him steer you back toward the bed, but before he can push you down, you turn and give Indiana a push. He bounces back onto the mattresses, eyes wide as he peers up at you, his kiss-plumped lips parted in surprise. You smile, straddling his lap as he propped himself up on his elbows. 

“What do you think you’re doing, huh?” He asks, sliding his hands over your thighs. 

“You’ve been giving me orders all afternoon, Jones. It’s time to let me steer.” 

-- 

You watched Indiana’s adam’s apple bob as he swallowed thickly. He’d hardly taken his eyes off of you as you’d undressed, hardly been able to keep still as you’d climbed onto his lap. Now, his eyelids lowered as you slowly rolled your hips, sliding down onto his cock. 

“C’mon,” He groans. 

“Shut up.” 

“You wanted to steer, but don't know how to drive.”

“We don’t need to floor it. Besides,” You give your hips a little swivel. “I’ve already got the key in the ignition.” 

Indiana growls low in his chest, his head falling back against the pillows as you cast him a wicked grin. You brace your hands on either side of his head, bowing down over him. 

“You’re really not used to this, are you?” You murmurs.

“Don’t get a big head, honey. I’m so used to this it’d make a Parisian courtesan blush.” 

“Not this,” You chuckled, tightening up around him, and grinning as he grips your hips more tightly. “I meant not being in charge.” 

Indiana glares up at you with muted wrath, a deep breath drawing in through his nose. You giggle, leaning back and giving a showy bite to your lip as your hips meet Indiana’s. 

“You aren’t,” You insist as you set a punishingly slow pace. “It’s driving you crazy. Look at that little tick jumping in your jaw.” 

Indiana’s hands raise to grasp your breasts, but you catch hold of his hands, intertwining your fingers and using your full force to pin them up over his head. His arms flex as he presses up against your grip, and you know that Indiana could easily throw you over. You brush your lips against his, then dip closer for a deeper kiss as you begin to grind your hips unhurriedly. Indiana’s lips part beneath yours, his tongue swiping out to brush and tease against yours.

He loses himself in your kisses, letting his straining muscles go slack against the mattress as you screw your hips down against his.  You finally draw back from the kiss, shivering as Indiana leans up, swiping his tongue against your peaked nipple. You sigh, pressing your hips back against his and arching your back to push your breasts into his face. He turns his head, nuzzling the valley of breasts before sucking your other breast between his lips. You reach down, playing with your tingling clit and brushing against the slick base of Indiana’s shaft. 

Your pace begins to falter as your attention is torn between the press of Indiana’s cock and the practiced swipe of your fingers against your own flesh. You gasp softly as the familiar sensation of your orgasm begins sneaking up on you. You let go of Indiana’s other hand and push yourself up, resting your hand on his chest as you pick up your pace. You look down at Indiana and find him watching you closely as you use him for your own pleasure. You curl your fingers, nails digging into Indiana’s chest. He groans, grasping your hips and using the grip to take control of the pace. 

You don’t bother to stop him. You just tip your head back and thumb one of your nipples, cursing as you finally cum. Indiana pushes himself up against you, his chest pressed against yours. His arm hooks around your waist, pulling you closer. You can hear the grunts and groans beneath his breath, feel the harsh pants as he grows closer and closer beneath you. Indiana draws you down on top of him again, using his grip on your hips to fuck you through your orgasm. You watch his eyes roll back into his head, his groan choked out as he fills you. your cunt still twitching around him. You sigh softly, snuggling against Indiana’s chest as he calms. You smile as Indiana’s arms curl around your back, keeping you close. 

“...Tell you what,” He mumbles after a moment. “You’re not such a bad driver.” 

You chuckle, rolling off of Indiana and onto your back. 

“I’m flattered.” 

You gaze up at the ceiling as you feel Indiana roll onto your side, watching you closely. He leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder.

“How long can I convince you to stay here?” He murmurs.

“In bed?” 

“In Arizona.”

You scoff, turning to look at indiana. 

“You’re kidding.” 

“I’m not.” 

“I’ve got classes tomorrow, Jones.”

“Skip ‘em.” 

You roll your eyes, looking up at the ceiling again. 

“Ridiculous.” 

Indiana reaches out, stroking gently along your arm. 

“You really give a damn,” He comments. His voice is soft, almost stunned. 

“Making fun of me?” 

“No,” Indiana insists. “Hell, I like it.”

"Maybe I could teach you a thing or two about it."

"Giving a damn?"

"Mhm. Teach you how to keep your promises, next."

Tag list: @missredherring ; @fantasticcopeaglepasta ; @massivecolorspygiant ; @blueeyesatnight ; @recklessworry ; @amneris21 ; @ew-erin ; @youngkenobilove ; @carbonated-beverage ; @lorecraft ; @moonlightburned ; @milf-trinity ; @millllenniawrites ; @chattychell ; @dihra-vesa ; @videogamesandpoorlifechoices ; @missswriter ; @thembosapphicclown ; @brandyllyn ; @wildmoonflower ; @buckybarneshairpullingkink ; @mad-girl-without-a-box ; @winchestershiresauce ; @phoenixhalliwell ; @wild-rose-35 ; @daisyslibrary ; @informally-liz ; @andrastesflamingtitties ; @muchacha-encabronada ; @nerdygirl0414 ; @elen-aranel ; @ohbee-whatcanyoube ; @kmc1989 ; @quietpainter ; @thedreadandthefugitivemind ; @kaletastrophes ; @nyx2021 ; @thatesqcrush ; @shanimallina87 ; @adarasforest ; @s-u-t ; @silversprings-mp3 ; @senawashere ; @foxilayde

[daisyfieldrecs]

Hi, I hope you are having a great day today. I was just wondering if I could please request an Indiana jones x reader where they are betrayed by a mutual friend/ co worker and use the betrayal dialogue prompt "Next time think twice before you trust someone so completely." "Oh believe me, I will."

I hope you have a great weekend

Of course anon!

Hope you like the fic :)

Title: Trust

Prompt list

You struggled against your bonds and let out a frustrated sound when they wouldn’t budge. You had no idea where you were, that fucking bastard had blindfolded you as well. You stiffened when you heard the door to the room slam open. Ok he was angry, best not to piss him off too much. You had seen first hand that he wasn’t above shooting those he once thought of as friends.

The two of you had teamed up with an old colleague of Indy’s. Truth be told you never fully trusted him. However, Indy was insistent. He said that he was an expert and the two of you needed him, so you pushed your doubts aside. Now you knew you should’ve gone with your gut instinct. It’s like they said- hindsight is one hundred percent accurate.

The blindfold was suddenly ripped off your face and you blinked at the sudden assault of brightness. You blinked rapidly as your eyes got used to the light. You were expecting to be shot however to your relief you looked up into a familiar face.

“Infdgy?” you tried to say, although the gag was still in your mouth

Indy’s lips twitched at the muffled noise and you gave him an unimpressed look. He hooked a finger around the gag and pulled it down. You adjusted your jaw, getting used to having it free again. He cupped your cheeks and pressed his forehead against yours.

“I thought you were dead,” you said weakly, “I saw you get shot.”

“It takes a lot more than one bullet to put me down, darlin’.”

Usually you would’ve snapped back at the nickname but you were too relieved that Indy was alive to care. You could see bandages under Indy’s shirt. You tried to raise your hand but swore when you forgot your hands were still tied.

“Do you mind?” you asked as you tugged on them

“Right, yeah, ‘course.”

Indy didn’t move, still studying your face. He ran his thumbs over your cheeks and you gave him an unimpressed look.

“Now!”

Your sharp tone seemed to snap Indy out of his thoughts. He pulled out a knife and freed you from your bonds. You rubbed your wrists, wincing at the cuts. Indy took your hands in his and grimaced when he saw the cuts.

“Next time,” you said, “think twice before you trust someone so completely.”

Indy winced slightly at your words and replied,

“Oh believe me, I will.”

You glanced up at him and Indy locked gazes with you. He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you tightly against him. You closed your eyes and rested your head on his chest, listening to his heart beat. There was a moment back there when you believed that you would never hear that sound again.

“I’m sorry.”

You glanced up at Indy’s words. Indy looked down at you and pressed a kiss against your forehead. You leant into the soft touch and he said softly,

“I never should’ve let you out of my sight.”

“You were shot.”

“And you could’ve been killed.”

This time Indy pressed a kiss against your lips. It was brief but you could feel the underlying want in it. Indy remained close, lips still brushing against yours. You tried to press another kiss against them but he pulled away teasingly.

“Let’s catch this bastard,” he said, “then we can continue this after.”

[daisyfieldrecs]

anticipation

pairing: indiana jones x f!reader

word count: 1.7k

summary: indy and y/n, history professors and close friends, are sent out on the hunt for an ancient gold amulet somewhere near cairo. hitting a stroke of luck, they find all the clues leading to the prize inside a cave, making indy's usual grumpy demeanor turn soft. however, as night falls on the desert, the pair find themselves taking shelter from a sandstorm in the cave, where they realize that the real prize was never any artifact.

warnings: fluffy, slight age gap (idk I imagined the reader to be at least like five or six years younger than Indy??) indy's typically gruff attitude (and gooey middle), clumsy reader, author loves history but isn't as well versed in ancient history so bear with inaccuracy

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"Sweetheart, what the hell're you doing?" Indy's voice resounded through the empty cave both he and Y/N were walking in. Well, were walking in, til his partner stopped and dropped to the floor, her lantern close to the wall.

"Indy, come look, there's markings," Y/N's reply was smart, though she stumbled on a loose rock as she crouched down, nearly toppling over, but gained her balance and smiled at Indy. "I didn't fall that time!"

Indiana huffed out a small chuckle as he walked over to look at her discovery. After the past few years of bringing Y/N along, he'd grown used to her clumsy nature, spending most of his time helping her off of sandy ground or helping her limp along on a twisted ankle from a particularly nasty fall. If it were anyone else, Indy would grumble and leave them behind, but Y/N was the exception to nearly every one of Indiana's rules.

"Smart girl," Indy's voice echoed as his hands lightly brushed against the wall. Y/N felt her face fill with a red blush at Indy's compliment, even if he didn't mean it the way she wanted him to. Y/N's growing crush on her older coworker had started the moment she'd moved into the classroom across the hall from him. She had been intimidated at first, being the only female professor in the history hall. She had expected Dr. Jones to be just as avoidant of her as the others, but he had been the opposite. He had been dapper in his neat suit and bowtie, his studious glasses making him appear approachable. He had smiled and introduced himself, and the rest had been history-literally. The two would wave at each other down the hallway, swap conversation between classes and at lunch, and share books back and forth. Their at-work talks led to Indy inviting her to dinner (as friends, of course) and both of them grading papers in Indy's living room. After a year or so working side by side, Indy quickly realized that Y/N had an appetite for adventure, just like him. He'd invited her on a small dig that summer, and she'd been his right-hand ever since. Their easy friendship had quickly become the talk of the college, by teachers and students alike. Rumors floated through the air, talks of affairs and secret relationships, but none of them were true. Indy and Y/N were nothing more than friends and coworkers, as much as both parties wished they were more.

"Are those the ones you were looking for? The ones from the book?" Y/N's voice cut through Indiana's focus. Indiana's hazel eyes looked into hers, his heart skipping a beat. Her optimistic face warmed his heart. Despite all of the hell the girl had gone through on adventures with him, she still got excited when he brought her along on another.

"Yeah, yeah they are." Indy pulled the aged paper from his pocket, unfolded it and held it against the wall-the two were a perfect match. "We're in the right place, doll, just gotta find that damn amulet."

For the rest of daylight, Y/N and Indy move quickly through the dark cave, most times in tight quarters with one another. Indy is secretly in agony: every brush of her hand against his own, or his front pressed against her back in particularly small spaces sets his skin ablaze, and when her eyes light up at her findings or a narrow escape? Indy all but pulls her in for a heated kiss. The duo makes great time finding the amulet and pulling themselves back out, all limbs intact with minimal cuts and bruises, and Indy is grinning as the jewel shines in Y/N's hand. His shirt is ripped and there's a cut that needs cleaning across his neck, but his demeanor is spirited. He slings an arm around Y/N, making her heart skip a beat.

"Can't believe we made it out of that one, huh, sweetheart?" His voice is laced with a laugh, his other hand holding out the lantern that lights their way out. It's drawing towards sundown, and Indy and Y/N are quickly making their way towards the mouth of the cave they've been in for a number of hours.

"I wouldn't have made it out if it weren't for you, Jones. When I fell through that last trap door, I thought I was done." Y/N sighs when she catches a glimpse of the opening of the cave, ready to curl back into the bed she shared with Indy at Sallah's. Her muscles were aching, and she longed for a shower and a good night's sleep before their journey back home tomorrow. As they got closer to the front of the cave, Y/N's good mood deflated. She peered out the opening from a few feet distance.

"Indy, there's no way we're getting out of here. That sandstorm could take down a building, we won't last ten minutes."

Indiana stands behind her, peering over her head to look out the opening. He, too, sighed and let out a deep exhale, his hazel eyes darting across at the scene.

"Yeah, you're right. We'll have to anchor here 'til it passes."

Y/N sighs, dropping onto the cave floor and plopping against the wall. Indy watches her movements-he could tell she was tired, her body aching.

"You alright, Y/N/N?"

Y/N cuts her eyes up to Indy's, sympathy pooling in his irises.

"M'fine, just tired. Dreaming of a shower and our bed back at Sallah's if I'm honest."

Indy plops down next to her, planting their lantern on the ground in front of them.

"God, me too, sweetheart. Starting to think I'm getting too old for all of this."

Y/N rolls her eyes and lets out a chuckle as she leans her head on Indy's shoulder, feeling much more comfortable with Indiana's protection over her. Silence fell amongst the pair, and Y/N felt her eyes droop. She quickly popped them back open, knowing that she probably shouldn't be sleeping in a cave such as this one. Indy catches her tired actions and pulls her into his arms, making a blush appear on Y/N's face. She looks up at him with a face of slight confusion.

"Sleep, I'll keep watch."

Any other time, Y/N would have protested, arguing that she shouldn't let her guard down, that danger could still lurk in every corner. Today, however, she was too tired to even form a rebuttal, and let her eyes close as Indy's warmth lulled her to sleep. Indy sat leisurely, looking out the mouth of the cave, hoping that the sand storm would quickly dissipate, but his longing was in vain, it only seemed to rage. He, too, found himself dozing off, his mind only comprehending the sound of Y/N's deep breaths. He lifted the hat from his head onto the top of his face to block the light from their lantern, and fell fast asleep.

Neither of the pair woke for several hours, even when the sandstorm had passed, which worried Sallah. He worried his dear friends were stuck in a cave somewhere, or had been captured by their enemies. When he finally stumbled through the opening of the dark cave and saw the sleeping figures of Indy and Y/N, he let out a boisterous laugh that echoed off the walls. It startled both halves of the couple, Y/N jumping in Indy's arms as Indy's arms covered her protectively. Even as the couple registered their friend's presence, Indy's arms never let go of Y/N. He helped her stand and got them both out of the cave, following Sallah back home.

Back at Sallah's, Indy lets Y/N have the first go of the shower, leading to light teasing from Sallah and his wife. Both of them were aware of Indiana's feelings toward his fellow professor, and often poked fun at him because of it. When Y/N returned from her shower to their shared bedroom, hair still wet and dressed in one of Indiana's oversized button-downs, Indiana felt his heart stop. There was no way he could lie leisurely next to her without his feelings rising to the surface. She tossed her towel into a nearby basket, digging through her duffel bag for her hairbrush. As she moved across the room, she could feel Indiana's eyes on her, causing her face to bloom in a deep blush.

"I can feel you watching me, Indy. Is something wrong?"

Indiana shook his head, ditching his dingy hat onto a nearby table as he ran a hand through his hair. His throat felt dry, and Indiana became unnaturally nervous.

"Uh, no, just-shirt looks good on you."

Y/N blushes further, the brush in her hair stopping momentarily. She looks up at Indy, his hazel eyes warm, a small, albeit nervous, smile flashing across his face.

"Thanks. For the compliment, and letting me borrow it," she smiles, glancing over at him again. Her eyes catch the line of red under his chin and she remembers the deep cut he'd sustained. "That cut, on your neck, did you patch it? It's deep, Indy."

"Oh, no, kind of forgot about it."

Y/N shakes her head, grabbing the few first aid items she'd brought along from her bag. She motioned for Indy to sit on the chair in the corner of the room as she came close, looking into his eyes as she began to clean his cut. Indy's hands came to rest on her waist, an action that had Y/N's mind blanking, her hands still as she simply stared down at him. Neither of them said a word, but Indiana stood from his seat, his hands resting on either side of her face. The two hovered in one another's space, Y/N waiting in anticipation.

"Are you gonna kiss me or not, Jones?" Y/N whispered with a sly grin. Indy shook his head and finally connected their lips, melting into a heated kiss. Her hands came to his hair, pulling him closer, as his hands fell dangerously low on her back. Indy pulls away, looking at Y/N with a knowing look. His nose brushes against hers, his lips almost grazing her skin as he speaks.

"Did you offer to patch me up so you could seduce me, Y/N/N?"

Y/N chuckles, chastely kissing his lips.

"Hm, maybe," she smiles a wide smile up at Indy, who lets out a breathy chuckle of his own, pulling her closer by her hips. He places another smothering kiss on her lips, followed by a sly smirk as he speaks.

"Smart girl."

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