#Bruce wayne x reader

[ashlovesfood]

Bruce Wayne! who loves to see you tremble and shiver all over his hands as he makes you cum multiple times. He‘ll be knuckles deep in your pussy as he finger fucks you, getting off on the sight of your whines. “Cmon bunny, one more for me yeah?” Your practically arched off the bed, sheets damp with your fluids as he flicks your clit, hot squirt soaking his abs. Link

Bruce Wayne! who’ll be balls deep inside your cunt, mercilessly pounding you into the mattress as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear. How could he resist when you’re just so soft and pliable for him? It’ll be late into midnight and he’ll still be fucking you thin and through, good luck if you want him to stop. Link

Bruce Wayne! getting an instant boner at the sight of your body wearing a cute sun dress, the frilly fabric hugging your delicious curves as you walk around the manor. His hands immediately reach for your ass, kneading the soft flesh as he bends you over the kitchen surface. Let’s just say, you got a different ‘cream pie.’ Link

A/N sorry for the delayed post, having issues with writing rn(｡-_-｡)

[k1tk4ttt]

[icupblog]

Where did the party go? (batfam x neglected reader) This is part 2!! part 1

Your hands shake as you bring the water to your parched lips. The cold embrace of the liquid makes you sigh in satisfaction. The outfit you were wearing suddenly felt too tight and your makeup felt like a second face on top of your own.

This was the biggest moment of your life... so far. Compared to your siblings it wasn't that big but to you, it was everything. You can't think of them now though. Even the mental image of any of your so-called family made you feel bile climb up your throat.

You don't need them, or their validation. After everything that has happened you need to forget their harsh words and unforgiving cruelty.

----------------------------------

2 years earlier

The cold hallways recognised your presence as you walked through them. You feel like a zombie, knowing who you were but pulling your body away from your brain, your mind slowing down as every-time you take another step a part of your image dies.

Maybe you were dramatic, maybe you were immature, maybe if they actually cared you wouldn't be. Your hands shake as you grip a bannister. Where were you going again. You didn't even know. Eventually you came to the familiar scene of the kitchen.

The sink was filled with dishes, had they eaten dinner already? what time was it? You hadn't even realised. All you could think of was that mask, his mask. Your supposed brother. The empty eyes that he would stare at you with when he slowly cut your skin open.

You were about to leave, the thought of food in your body made you feel sick. When you saw him. He never showed you his face but you could recognise him anywhere. He could never hide from you. You could spot him out from a mile away, seek him out in a crowd easily.

His body was fire, and yours was gasoline and paper. He would ebb away at you until all that was left was ash. His pupils widened in recognition at you. "name...hi" You couldn't move, he would attack you, throw you against the wall. As he slowly reached towards your shoulder you winced.

Was this some kind of cruel joke?, did the universe hate you that much? "listen, I-I'm sorry, I wasn't in my right mind and-" your breath became shallow. "I guess I took it out on you" tears filled your eyes, this is it, he came back to kill you. "besides me and Bruce are trying to work things out so-" he took his hand off your shoulder and put it behind his head. He wasn't touching you, could you escape? "maybe we could be a real family-" You bolted, you couldn't stay still anymore, you ducked under his arm and ran past him. Back to your room back to safety.

Turns out Jason's presence was not in fact a joke. He became part of the family, Or maybe he always was. He would make inside jokes with Damian, learn sign language for cass (something you had done when you first met her, not that she noticed). He would even hang out with Tim and Stephanie two people who could not physically stand to be around you for more than five minutes. Maybe in some way you wanted his attention because maybe if you had his you could be part of that family.

It got worse the more Dick came round, his cheery aura meant the family would constantly be around each other. And you were not part of that family. They would have movie nights (without you), hang out at arcades (without you) and even spend Christmas together (they would always forget to buy you presents). Even Bruce went along with them for gods sake, were you really worth so little? Just because you weren't in spandex? You were so insignificant that Alfred just referred to you as 'miss' almost as if he had forgotten your name.

In these moments you would think back to times when your mother held you in her arms as you opened your presents, it was never anything expensive but you would cherish every one, no matter how much it cost. When she smiled her eyes would crinkle, you always wanted that, a life full of smiles and laughter. Yet for some reason you only got sadness.

-----------------------------------

Present day

When you asked a Wayne child what they wanted to be when they were older they normally answered with something artistic and niche like when Damian said he wanted to be an artist. Except you knew he would be even more insufferable if he was one so you thought he was better staying in the tights. Or Cass wanting to do ballet, not Cass you mentally scold Cassandra, when has she ever asked you to call her Cass.

You on the other hand wanted to make an impact, a small irreversible dent on the world (not literally). So now that you are 18 you study law. Is it difficult? yes, but weirdly rewarding. Getting out of Gotham made you realise how shitty that place really is. The air felt like it was choking you and the overall atmosphere felt heavy. Moving to Metropolis was like getting a weight lifted off your shoulders.

You were able to get a scholarship with a college you had great friends. You loved how bright it was all the time, and you weren't being kidnapped every other month, you were feeling amazing.

You had made a life for yourself, a somewhat stable, broke, happy life. What you didn't expect was for the family to remember you or even worse miss you...

yippee I made another one!!

there might only be one more chapter for this series because I'm on exam leave and I'm sick but thank you for all the support!! <3

[kitkatscabinet]

TAKE ME TO YOUR BEST FRIEND'S HOUSE

Pairings: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Bruce Wayne x fem! reader.

Summary: So, he might be going against "bro code". He can't help it, though; his best friend's sibling is just too cute.

A/N: Reader can be imagined as biological/adopted/found family.

DICK GRAYSON & WALLY WEST

How Dick hadn't learnt to not leave his phone unattended was beyond Wally, especially when, for a vigilante, the man had such lax security for his personal phone. Nor should he have ever trusted Wally with the password.

Already drafting his absolute PR nightmare tweet on Dick's account, he's mentally rubbing his evil little hands together when his thumb hits the banner notification that pops up on the top of the screen.

My Heart: Thinking about you, come home soon xo

Alongside the text is a photo, a very suggestive photo of a woman dressed in nothing but one of Dick's hoodies. Wally knows because he bought Dick that hoodie, he's also very familiar with the woman in the photo on account of it being his baby sister.

He shrieks, the phone slipping from his slack with shock grip and landing on his big toe.

He doesn't hear the ringtone over his sudden stream of pained expletives, hopping on one foot, until he hears your voice from the speaker.

"Hey babe! You left your hoodie at - "

"YOU!" Wally screams, blubbering incoherently, pointing an accusing finger at the phone like you can see him.

"Jesus Christ," he can practically see you recoiling away from your phone, "Wally?" You've heard enough of your brother's meltdowns over the years that you can recognise him from just a single word.

"YOU, YOU - YOU HARLOT!" You snort at his words, staying silent until his stream of consciousness is finished.

"You done?" You hum, completely unphased at the tantrum Wally's just thrown for the past seven minutes.

"Am I, am I done? No, I'm not done." He squawks, "WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU? HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME!" There's a beat of incredulous silence on your end.

"Excuse me? What have I done to you?"

"DEFILED THE SACRED BOND OF BROTHERHOOD IS WHAT YOU'VE DONE, HE'S MY BEST FRIEND"

"The sacred bond of brotherhood? I'm your fucking sibling, you're supposed to attack him, not me!" Wally can't help but notice how you don't deny his words.

"Oh, believe me, Dickhead is gonna get what's coming to him."

"Yeah, whatever, I'm hanging up now, tell Dick I'm getting pizza for dinner."

"Don't you dare - " He doesn't even get to finish his sentence before you've followed through.

"Hey Wally, have you seen my ... phone?" Dick trails off as he spots the item he's looking for in his agitated friend's hand.

"You don’t fuck your best friends younger sibling. That’s like the number one rule of bro code!” Wally shrieked, not greeting him like a normal person, and not giving Dick even a second to realise what was happening before he was being grabbed and shaken by his shoulders.

"I love her." No explanation, no apologies, just pure earnestness and the softest look Wally had ever seen on his friend's face.

The declaration takes all the wind out of his sails, his shoulders slumping in defeat. He drags a hand down his face slowly,

Finally, he groaned and dragged both hands down his face. "Ugh. I hate that you’re so genuine. It ruins my ability to stay mad. Barry's not going to be happy you kept this from him though."

The mental image of the Flash going protective uncle giving him the slightest bit of sick satisfaction, until Dick shatters his dreams by casually saying, "he already knows."

"He what?! Am I the last to know?" Dick makes a show of thinking about it before shrugging with an unapologetic grin.

"Kinda, yeah."

"I'M SURROUNDED BY TRAITORS!" Wally yells, sinking to his knees in defeat.

JASON TODD & ROY HARPER

Nobody had ever accused Roy of being a detective. He might not be as smart as the bats (an impossible hurdle in Roy's opinion), but he wasn't completely fucking stupid.

An unfortunate reality for his sister, who he'd caught sneaking into the Titans Tower at the ripe time of 4:47 am, wearing a familiar leather jacket with a bullet hole in the sleeve. A jacket that could only mean one of two things.

You had joined a biker gang.

You were dating Jason Todd, AKA, his best friend, AKA dead fucking meat.

Because while option one terrified him, he'd still prefer it to the option he had a sinking suspicion about was actually correct.

The next afternoon, he finds Jason working out in the Tower's gym, and he grins wickedly. Bastard didn't even have to make Roy track him down.

"Hey, Roy." Jason greets, never once faltering in his reps, entirely unbothered, like he hadn’t committed emotional treason.

Roy thinks he could be forgiven for his following action, he could have done a lot worse than picking up the nearest kettlebell and throwing it at his unsuspecting friend.

"WHAT THE FUCK ROY?" Jason screeched as he dove for cover.

"YOU’RE DATING MY SISTER?!"

"Um, what?" He squeaks, before clearing his throat, "I mean... I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Don't try to gaslight me!" Roy jabbed a finger at him, seething. "You're supposed to be my best friend, and you went and... and started... canoodling my sister."

Jason’s brows shot up in amusement despite himself. "Canoodling?"

"Don't try and deflect either." Roy flushed as red as his hair.

"I’m not—well. Okay. I am. But in my defense, it wasn’t like I planned to fall for your sister."

"Have you kissed?"

Jason contemplates lying but bites the bullet and nods.

Roy gasped like an old lady hearing someone say cunt. "ON PURPOSE?!"

Jason gave him a flat look. "No, Roy, I tripped and fell. Of course, it was on purpose. More than once, too." He smirks, unable to stop himself from prodding the bear.

Roy spasms.

"Ok, let's not make this weird." Jason huffs.

"Make this weird? It's already weird, we're neck deep in it, NAY!, We're drowning in it!"

"Oh dear god," Jason sighs, squeezing his eyes shut and speaking before he can think better of it, "I love her."

Roy chokes, Jason startles, clearly surprising, even himself, "Oh my god, I love her."

There's a heavy, pained silence before Roy croaks "... Bro"

"I know." Jason tugged at the roots of his hair.

"…BRO." Roy was trying to prevent a panic attack, his panic fuelling Jason's.

"I know."

"You love me?" A slightly giddy voice breathes from the doorway.

Both men groan for different reasons as they spot you bouncing toward them.

"Babe, I -"

"I love you too," you beam, throwing your arms around Jason's neck and kissing him like your life depends on it.

Roy gags, forcing you to pull away. "God, this is gonna ruin every group hang for the rest of my life." He whined.

"Nah. You’ll get used to me kissing your sister in front of you."

"I SWEAR TO GOD —"

TIM DRAKE & CONNER KENT

Conner's knee is jiggling furiously. From across the room, Cassie raises a questioning brow, but Conner makes no effort to stop as he checks the time for the fourth time in less than three minutes.

You're late. So is Tim, but it's not him Conner's worried about. You're never late; you've always been a perpetually early person, and you always get so anxious if you aren't. Conner knows, having been on the receiving end of your time-anxious meltdowns more than once.

"Dude, calm down, they're not even five minutes late yet," Bart says, looking at him as if he's the weird one here, when clearly, something terrible has happened to you.

You've been in a car accident (you don't drive), you've been shot, (you're bulletproof), you've been taken hostage by Lex Luthor (plausible), you've -

"Hi guys, sorry I’m late, I slept through my alarm." You laugh bashfully, avoiding Conner's gaze, which narrows in suspicion.

"That never happens." He scowls, his enhanced hearing picking up the slight stutter in your heartbeat.

"Well, it did today." You rolled your eyes, crossing the room to sit next to Cassie.

Barely two minutes later, a harried-looking Tim scurries through the door, brushing his sweaty hair from his face, and in doing so, accidentally reveals a hickey just beneath the neckline of his shirt.

It's only for a second, but that one second is all he needs to connect the dots.

"No." He says, glaring at Tim as everyone else, including you, watches in confusion.

"No?" Tim repeats.

"NO!" Conner snarls, jumping up from his seat and pulling down the neckline of Tim's shirt to display not one, but three love bites.

"YOU’RE SLEEPING WITH MY SISTER?!"

"Technically, there wasn't much sleeping involved - " Tim mutters, with absolutely zero regard for his well-being.

"I trusted you with my life, and you go behind my back to DEFLOWER MY INNOCENT BABY SISTER?!"

"You're the same age?" Tim mumbles at the same time you scoff.

"Deflower? Innocent? Are we living in the Middle Ages? Are you my owner?"

"Stay out of this!" Conner whirls on you, his gaze dangerously red.

"Stay out of my own sex life?" You guffaw, ignoring the way Conner puffs up like an angry cat. "Besides, Tim's hardly my first."

Your words are enough to shock your brother enough that he drops Tim, reeling back with a hand on his chest like he's suffering a heart attack.

You take the opportunity to scoop your partner into your arms, flying away before Kon can recover, until you reach the safety of the bed you've both only just left.

"I think he's actually going to kill me." Tim mumbles, burying his face in your chest.

"Hmm, guess you''ll just have to keep me around forever, for protection."

"Sounds perfect." Tim dreamily says, clutching you even tighter in contentment.

BRUCE WAYNE & CLARK KENT

Once, there would have been a time when interviewing Gotham’s Bruce Wayne would have left him an anxious wreck, but now, Clark relished in the opportunity. Giddy that his best friend, no matter how much the man denied it, would turn to him (him! A Metropolis interloper), instead of someone like that tart Vicki Vale.

(That thought has him mentally apologising to his ma for his crudeness, but what she wouldn't know, couldn't hurt her.)

Needless to say, Clark was excited to have been given the chance, and he refused to squander it.

They were in Bruce's "office," a room they both knew he hardly ever even stepped foot inside, but had occupied to keep up the facade.

A brilliant facade it was, Clark thought in amusement, as he watched Brucie Wayne ramble on earnestly. Nobody would ever suspect the man, reaching for his wallet to pull out a picture of his kids in an interview on Wayne Enterprises' newest ventures, to be the fearsome Batman.

Clark, ever affable, just smiles, nodding along until a second picture flutters onto the desk. Bruce freezes, his perfected mask slipping just a fraction, but enough for Clark to notice as the unshakeable man's eyes widen in sheer panic.

Bruce was composed. He was always in control, a master of self-control. Bruce was unflappable, he had a plan for everything.

Bruce, evidently, did not have a plan, beyond freezing in horror, for when an intimate Polaroid of his girlfriend, Clark's sister, landed face up on the table between them.

You're wearing one of his button-up shirts, seated sideways across Bruce's lap, the man's large hand clasped over your thigh, as you stare up at him like he's your whole world.

Clark paused, staring at the photo on the desk like it was a live grenade.

Bruce, very carefully, snuck a hand out to retrieve it. Only to be thwarted by Clark's superspeed. He holds it between his thumb and his index finger like it might bite him, the blinding grin never once fading from his face.

Bruce thinks it's the most terrifying Clark has ever looked.

There's a long pause, with Bruce mentally calculating how long it will take before he has some Kryptonite on his hands and whetehr or not Clark will flatten him before then.

"Oh my god," Clark said.

Bruce grimaced. "It's not what it looks like."

"It looks like you're dating my sister."

"Ok, it's exactly what it looks like, but—" He cuts off once more as Clark speaks with surprising giddiness.

"You carry her around in your wallet. Like a real boyfriend, it's sickeningly sweet."

Bruce opened his mouth, closing it and opening it again repeatedly like a stunned fish as he blushed a brilliant red.

Clark wasn’t finished; if anything, he looked like Christmas had come early.

"Is there more?" Bruce stiffens, "There is! Do you have a shrine? I bet you have a shrine!"

"Clark."

"Is it in the batcave?"

"Clark."

"What about a scrapbook? Is she on the manor walls yet?"

"Clark."

"Do your kids know? Wait, am I the last to know?!" He seemed genuinely hurt by that thought.

Bruce looked up at the ceiling like it could save him from the confrontation; he thinks he'd rather fight than... whatever the hell, it is Clark's doing.

[ghost-girl277]

Reblogging cuz I want my crops to grow🌽🌽🌽 🌽

Sugar on the Rim vol. I

bruce wayne x afab!reader

aka the billionaires new friend

warnings: implied that reader is a virgin, age gap (bruce is older than reader), mentions of sex, smut in next part

You twist the stem of the wine glass around between your fingers slowly. Your chin rests atop your knees as you stare vacantly at the tiny puddle left of the drink. You could go refill it, but then you’d have to go back out to the main room and man…you really do not want to do that. So you’ll sit here, swiping your tongue across the bumps of the roof of your mouth as if it's a fascinating new discovery.

The creak of hinges has you shooting upright, your back thumping against the stair step behind you. You’re not immediately sure how to act as though it’s normal that you’re sitting in the stairwell outside the fundraiser rather than in it, fraternizing with old and new money alike. You freeze, trying to relax your posture so it doesn’t look like you’re alarmed at the sight of another person, but not so relaxed that you look as bored as you are.

Your neutrality stutters when you glance up to find the host of the fundraiser. The billionaire host of the fundraiser. Bruce Wayne, the billionaire host of the fundraiser. Your posture straightens right back up and your mouth snaps shut as you make eye contact.

Should you stand up? 

No, he’s rich, not royalty. 

You are in his house though—

He looks you over contemplatively, “I don’t know you,” It’s not accusatory, rather he says it like it’s something interesting.

You perk up at that, immediately formulating reasons to justify your presence. “Oh, uh, no—” the words nearly spill out of your mouth all at once. You clear your throat, “I’m just a plus one for my boss—”

“Who’s your boss?” he asks, relaxed. 

“Arthur Mullins.”

He looks to the side, squinting, “Mullins…he’s the executive at Williamson Industries, yes?”

You nod and he returns the gesture, slower, like he’s processing through something. “I’m Bruce,” he says warmly after a moment, holding his hand out to you.

You nod before you can even think to get any words to come out, “I—yeah, I know,” you accept his hand, shaking it as you tell him your name.

There’s a slight glint in his eye when he hears your name, and he repeats it quietly to himself. “A pretty name.”

“Oh, it’s just…” Just your name. But rather than fill him in on that fascinating tidbit, you let the sentence die off.

He smiles kindly anyway, “What are you doing in here? Party’s out there, or so they tell me.”

“I…I’m hiding in here,” you admit sheepishly.

He leans in towards you slightly, lowering his voice. “I’ll let you in on a secret—so am I,” he smiles at you like it’s easy.

Your grin matches his, “It’s your party,”

“That’s why I need to hide.” He tilts his head, “Doesn’t give you much of an excuse though, does it?”

“I don’t know anybody here.”

He puckers his bottom lip contemplatively, “Your boss.”

You shake your head, “I’m just his assistant. I’m pretty sure he just brought me as a precaution in case he needed a designated driver.”

He laughs at that, “Based on the way I’ve seen Mullins’ attempts to operate, his assistant would have to be a hell of a lot more important than just a designated driver.”

Well, he’s certainly right about that. Your boss doesn’t exactly “have it together” per se. He’s an unorganized man with little to justify his importance in Gotham, so he tends to insist on taking on more responsibility than he has any business having. Not to mention, he’s a bit of a try-hard and you’re constantly left to sweep up the pieces of his reputation that he shattered himself. Not to say he’s necessarily unprofessional, he just will do anything and everything to prove he belongs in any given space. It’s honestly a bit exhausting to watch. It’s more exhausting to try and convince him that the exchange went well afterwards.

You nod slowly, eyes on his shoes. “Mr. Mullins has…a unique approach to business. It does usually leave me fairly busy, I’ll give you that.” You take a quick deep breath, plastering on a fake smile. “But that means I occasionally get to go to fancy parties where I don’t know anyone, so..”

“Well then it sounds like you’ve got it all worked out,” he ribs, “Or don’t you agree?”

You smile coyly, “I would never be so bold.”

“I don’t mind boldness. For example, the reason I came in here is because he spotted me.”

You laugh at that, “Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce.”

“Mr. Wayne,” you suppress your smile as you pause, choosing your words carefully. “I think he’s just networking.” He doesn’t have the money to give.

He nods surely, “He’s definitely just networking.” He really doesn’t have the money to give. You allow just the faintest wisp of a smile to adorn your face as you look down again.

You check the time and realize that you’ve been hiding away for too long and that if he hasn’t already, your boss will notice soon. You sigh quietly to yourself, “I should..”

He turns his head to the closed door where the chatter can be heard from beyond, sighing in defeat as he shakes his head looking back at you. “So should I.”

You feel a bit insecure as you stand, the gown you’re wearing is pretty but it is very much affordable and you’re sure someone as wealthy as Bruce Wayne would know the difference.

If he does notice he makes no deal of it, motioning you forward gallantly to walk ahead of him.

He follows after you, hands behind his back. “Would it be rude of me to ask you to distract him while I run for the bar?”

It’s busy, even for a Sunday afternoon, and you have to sidestep past someone nearly every step you take. You stick next to the windows of the line of boutiques down the road, trying to balance window shopping and not bumping into other pedestrians.

You're in a nicer district of Gotham, truthfully an area you don't quite belong in. So far you’ve only managed to find a couple shops that weren’t several ranges above your budget. 

A call of your name has you blinking rapidly and turning around as if you’re lost. It doesn’t take long for you to pick the six foot two billionaire out of the crowd and it’s only half a second longer before you realize he’s walking towards you. A few people collide shoulders with you as they move past thoughtlessly, no regard for the personal space of the idiot that stopped in the flow of traffic.

You let him approach a couple feet closer before you ask him, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Wayne?” The presence of his figure in front of you allows for a break from being bumped into, as he seemingly makes for a far more easily seen and intentionally avoided target.

He sways a bit, “Bruce. I’m not sure yet,” he looks down to the couple of bags you’re holding, extending his hand out. “May I?”

It takes you just a moment to move past your surprise at the request, allowing him to hold them for you. “Are you in a rush?”

You shake your head quicker than you meant to, “No, I—not at all,” he gestures his head forward, allowing you to walk before him.

You traipse ahead in silence for a moment before deciding against biting your tongue, “What exactly is it you’re not sure about?”

He raises his voice a bit so you can hear him over the crowd, “Whether or not you’ve got plans on the 19th.”

You look back at him, “What’s on the 19th?”

He stops with you as you admire a set of jewelry inside a window display, “We’re hosting a gala for something or something else, hopefully less boring than the fundraiser.”

You blink, “You’re inviting me?” He nods. “Why?”

“I could use someone who wants to be there even less than I do.”

He said it so casually it takes you a second to even register his meaning. You blink, face contorting defensively, “That’s not—” you can barely make out the smile on his face as he continues on walking.

You shake your composure back together and trail after him, rushing to catch up. “I don’t think Mr. Mullins would be very happy to hear that I’m attending a business gala without him.”

He shakes his head as he scans over the crowd, “He can’t fire you for that.”

“He’ll try.” He would. A petty little man, he is. 

He scans across the rows of clothes leisurely. “Well, then he can speak to me about it. Besides, it wouldn’t be for business.” And then he just lets that sentence linger.

It takes you a moment to recover from those words and begin to start processing the world around you again. After a few more feet down the sidewalk he pulls you gently to the side by your lower arm, out of the rush of traffic, and looks at you dead on, “What do you think?”

You try not to waver under the weight of the eye contact, “I don’t…uh, I don’t really have…” you look down, hoping to get the message across without actually having to say the words.

He glances into the store window next to you and raises his eyebrows, “Well then I’d say we’re in the right place.”

You can’t manage to tell him that this store is definitely far too expensive for you, walking through the door as he opens it for you, albeit apprehensively.

Well. Up close window shopping is more fun anyways. 

The spotless white of the floors and walls has you intimidated, and just as much so by less by the no doubt designer clothes lining the walls. The saleswomen all look pretty highbrow themselves, hair up in tight buns and uniforms chic.

You only break from gawking at the store to look behind you at Bruce. You note the way his eyes roam around blindly, looking for something and clearly having no means to narrow down where it might be. You take one more glance around, immediately finding the women's section with no such difficulty. 

“This way.” You say, nodding your head over to the left. He recovers nicely and lets you lead the way towards the section of dresses. You peer back at him, “You don’t seem like someone that does much of his own shopping.”

Thankfully, he laughs at that. “Well, special occasions.”

You keep your gaze ahead this time, asking as casually as you can, “Is this a special occasion?”

He hums in consideration, “I’d say so.”

You stop upon approaching the dress section, taking in the immediately stunning display of options. 

“What are you doing up here anyways?” you ask, hand brushing across a particularly plush dress.

“Ah, I was headed to a meeting.”

“Oh,” you frown, looking at him. “Don’t you need to go?”

He shakes his head with a puckered lower lip, “No.”

A few seemingly heiresses roam down the aisle mindlessly, not caring much that you’re in their path. 

Bruce sees them before you do, knowing well that they were not going to excuse themselves. “Sweetheart,” he nudges you gently to the side, closer to him as the group passes. His hand remained open-palmed and flat as he guided you to the side, seemingly very careful not to touch you with uninvited boldness. Though you’re quite shaken by the chivalry of the gesture, a brazen touch wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world.

As your arm brushes against a rack of clothing your gaze follows, met with something rather appealing.

Bruce is quick to notice you admiring the sleek black dress that looks like something you’d see a model wearing on a runway. “You like that one?”

“It’s nice, yeah,” you murmur, not really thinking. You flip the price tag over and your face drops. “It’s $800.”

He nods thoughtfully, “We can find a nicer one,” he says, though it’s clear he knows exactly what your problem with the price tag was.

“I can’t—” you restart, “I would never have a reason to wear something this nice again.”

He shakes his head coolly, “That’s alright.”

Your shoulders drop and your head tilts seriously, “It’s not, though.”

“You like it?” He looks you in the eyes, his own searching for a truthful answer.

“I mean, of course, but it—”

He nods affirmatively, “Then we’ll get it. Problem solved.” He turns his back to the rack, casually observing the rest of the store goers. “Pick your size.”

Apparently not one to argue, you thumb through the row until you find one that should fit. 

You sigh, realizing that you’re running out of time to mention that you don’t have $800 to spend on a dress. “I can’t—”

“You don’t need to,” he says simply as he takes the dress off the rack and drapes it across his arm, making his way towards the salescounter.

You try to stop your mouth from hanging open as you follow, “It really is okay, I don’t need—”

His grin cuts you off, just in time for you to hear him mutter, “Sweet girl..” to himself. You stop right in your tracks, feeling very thankful that he’s not looking at you right now because you’re certain the look on your face would give you away.

He still doesn’t face you as he calls out, “Come on,” as he continues on.

Obviously you’re not stupid. You know what type of intentions a billionaire playboy must have with a younger girl that he doesn’t even really know. However, if said billionaire is offering to buy you a pretty dress…no, you’re not sleeping with him because he bought you a dress—of course not—and you’ve made absolutely no promises to do so, so what’s the harm in letting him? Really?

And yeah, maybe it’s a plus that he’s not bad looking, but how is that your fault?

You stand a bit awkwardly next to him as he puts his card in the machine, not even glancing at the outrageous number, and declines the offer for the receipt.

As you exit the store together and stand at the doors as he hands your original two bags back to you along with the new shiny black one that on its own looks like something people would pay for.

“You will be there?” he asks, eyes more hopeful than you were prepared for. 

You nod, gesturing the bag up, “Well you just bought me the dress.”

He shrugs that off, “I would’ve bought you the dress anyways.”

You linger in the midst of the ado wearing a dress that you feel far too overshadowed by, fidgeting with the half empty wine glass in your hand. Unfortunately, this time around you were invited by the host of the event and it would be extra rude to run away and hide. That doesn’t stop you from considering it, though.

A hand sliding across your lower back has you momentarily startled, and for reasons you couldn’t quite verbalize, you’d naturally assumed it was Bruce. The disappointment rings strong when you turn around to be met with the sight of an even older man, who looks considerably wine drunk. 

“Hello there, Miss.,” The words themselves are polite but the salacious smile on his face and the way his eyes have no trouble roaming your body gives you a solid idea of what this conversation is going to entail.

“Hello,” you fake a polite, tight smile and shift your attention to the rest of the room. 

This does nothing to deter him, as he takes a sizable step back into your line of sight. “Having a nice time?” 

The man is clearly from money, if his attire didn’t give it away his attitude sure did. There’s an heir of entitlement around him, like he’s inherently deservant of your attention—a quality you were notably surprised to not have found in Bruce. 

You give him your faux-smile again, this time tighter but half a second longer for the sake of politeness. A rookie mistake.

“Can I buy you a drink?” He asks, gesturing to the bar.

“I’m okay, thank you,” you say, gesturing your wine glass up.

A momentary flash of irritation crosses his face, but to his credit, he does a better job recovering from it than you would have expected. Though, that’s not really saying much. “Well, pretty little thing like you shouldn’t be all alone here,”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken,” Both of your heads snap to the side, finding a much more welcome surprise than you’d previously received. 

Your counterpart's posture straightens immediately, “Mr. Wayne,” he fawns, “What a lovely event you’ve thrown. I’m sure the Bernsteins will be appreciative.”

Bruce hums, eyes narrowed slightly. “You are…”

The man startles and rushes to finish off his sentence, “Alexander Watson, senior executive to the accounting department for the research wing of the company.”

He nods slowly, no recognition actually present in his eyes. “Ah. The research wing of the company that just blew fifteen million dollars on prototype self-operating cell phones.”

You’re trying hard to fight the smile creeping up on your face.

“What exactly is a self-operating cell phone?”

Watson’s face drops, hurrying to justify his approval of the proposal’s funding. As he rambles, Bruce’s gaze lowers to where Watson has once again placed his hand on your hip, though he’s not close enough to you for it to rest fully or naturally. You don’t know him well but you can say confidently that he doesn’t look pleased. 

He looks back up to Watson, attitude challenging. “Surely you’re not poking around where you’re unwelcome?”

Watson stutters at that, blinking and shaking his head quickly. “No, no, of course not! I was just hoping to provide the young lady with some company. That’s all.”

“And so you have.”

“I—,” about two steps behind in this conversation, Watson finally decides to retreat, “Yes, good evening, Mr. Wayne.” He bows his head and shuffles away back into the crowd.

“Mr. Wayne,” you smile knowingly, turning to him. “How are you?”

The hardness of his gaze fades quickly as he takes in your appearance, quite liking how you wear the dress you’d picked out.

“Things are looking up,” he smiles, “You look lovely.”

 “Thank you,” you glance over to where Watson has made his way to the bar, likely about to down an entire glass. “Mr., uh, Mr. Watson makes quite the impression.”

His smile turns a bit sullen, “You know last year he tried to convince the board that battery-powered battery chargers were going to be the next big thing?”

You blink, tilting your head, “Thought you didn’t know who he was.”

His eyes are fixed on the wall as he tugs the corner of his lip down, knowing he’s been caught but not really caring. “I’m sorry to have been away for so long, it seems everyone needs my attention at these things.”

“At the gala that you threw? I’d imagine so.”

He rolls past that smoothly, “You’re having a good time?”

“I am,” you say with a confirming head bob.

He regards the room with a numb expression, “You know, I think I’m getting bored with all of this.”

You smile at him, brow furrowed, “It’s only been an hour.”

He looks at you, eyes wide. “It’s only been an hour?” He’s exaggerating his surprise to make you smile, and it works.

“I think we should go,” he says lower.

You stare at him, bemused. “You still have a whole room full of guests.” 

He shrugs, “They’ll filter out on their own eventually.” 

He clocks your hesitation easily, accurately noting it to be more out of politeness than actually wanting to stay at the party. “What, you’re not ready to leave?”

You look around at all the mostly old, posh guests, disinterested small talk evident all across the room. You take a breath, “Alright, yeah. Let’s go.”

He smiles and leads you out a side door and through a corridor that’s significantly longer than you’d expected. 

“Do you always ditch your parties this early?” you ask, following closely.

He makes a sharp right at the next doorway, “If I can manage it.”

You look around at the high wooden ceilings and grand furniture. “Aren’t some of them friends of yours?”

He shakes his head, “My friends aren’t here.”

You frown at that, “Then why do you throw them at all?”

“Why did you show up last weekend?”

You nod slowly, understanding. “It’s your job.”

He returns the nod, adding, “Only difference is, there’s not a chance in hell you get paid enough for the work you do for Mullins.”

For the sake of maintaining your wishful facade of professionalism, you’re going to not acknowledge that incredibly accurate statement. Instead you smile politely and continue on walking. He seems to get the implication, returning it with an even brighter adornment.

“Well, money’s money,” you say wryly.

His smile fades a bit, “You shouldn’t have to worry about things like that.” 

You shrug, “A day in the life,”

He looks sullen upon hearing that, with more sympathy than you’d have expected from someone of his stature. He’s done nothing if not surprise you, though.

“Here,” he says, taking hold of the handle of a glass door. It opens to a garden, lit up beautifully by the moon and outdoor light. A fountain sits in the middle, water rhythmically gushing out of the top and trickling down the sides. The bite of the Gotham night air burns at your cheeks a bit and you find yourself thankful the dress you’d chosen is so long.

Bruce leads the way to an expensive marble bench positioned nicely in front of it, allowing you to sit first before following suit. Your hands find a place in your lap, clasped together awkwardly in an attempt to find warmth through contact.

It takes Bruce less than ten seconds to stand, remove his suit jacket, and drape it over your shoulders before sitting back down. The material is thicker and warmer than you would’ve expected, surely reminiscent of the perks of being owned by a billionaire.

He doesn’t look at you to acknowledge the grateful expression on your face, simply carrying on like it didn’t happen. “Was hoping it was warmer,” he murmurs.

Your focus momentarily goes to the icy cold stone of the bench under your thighs, initially finding it uncomfortable before deciding the coolness actually felt quite soothing. You remove your gaze from the gray stone and turn your head to find Bruce already focused on you.

You start to say something, though you’re not sure what it would’ve been, when he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip, pulling it down.

Well, he certainly knows what he’s doing, doesn’t he?

His eyes stay on your lower lip as he murmurs, “You’re a pretty girl, you know that?” 

God, he’s a professional.

You look up at him and refrain from saying anything, waiting to see if he follows it up with something that will make you regret agreeing to coming out here with him.

He doesn’t.

You shift, moving your hands off your lap to rest on the stone under you. “You can’t just do this—”

He smiles and lowers his chin to look you in the eyes, “Then what can I do for you?”

“You—” you blink rapidly, “Stop it.”

His coy beam persists, “Stop what?”

You raise your gaze up to him ever so slightly, a pouty expression across your face that you’re trying to sell as serious. “You’re trying to make me nervous.”

“Do I make you nervous?” He tilts his head down further, a ghost of a smile echoing on his lips, “I don’t mean to, sweet girl.”

Your eyes drop to the ground, biting your tongue. “Yeah.”

His simper grows, “I’m serious. I’d hate to scare away a new friend.”

You laugh at that and he perks up a bit at the sound, “What? We’re not friends?”

You cock your head to the side, “You’re the one who said none of your friends are here.”

He hums, “Maybe I spoke too soon.”

“You think so?” You should probably stop flirting so much. 

“Yeah,” he leans in a bit closer, “I do.”

“Why’s that?”

“Maybe I want to be your friend,” his hand finds a place atop yours. 

Your eyes flicker across his face as he closes in, “What if I don’t want to be yours?”

His eyes are on your lips, “I’m sure we can work something out.”

You take a slow deep breath, “Your intentions are blurry.”

He smiles lightly, amused. “We’ll have to clear that up then, won’t we?” His lips are inches away and his voice is soft as he says, “I’m going to kiss you now, okay?”

You look up at him eyes wide, barely processing his words as you nod. He gently grasps your jaw in his hand, tilting your head up. His other hand finds the back of your head, holding you in place as he kisses you with intention. Your hands hover in the air for a second before holding onto his forearms. 

He breaks the kiss only to give you another sweet one right after. Your mouths remain close when it’s over, eyes still shut, trying to catch your breath. You stay like that for a moment until he kisses you once more on your cheekbone before pulling away. His hands drop to rest on your knees, the weight of them gentle.

He hums lowly, “Sweet thing..”

Being under the heaviness of his gaze leaves you feeling vulnerable. It’s starting to get you concerned with the potential levity and implications of kissing him. The expectations.

“You…” you stare down at where his hands meet your skin, not quite sure that you actually meant to start that sentence. 

“What?” he frowns, brow pinched. Your chin lowers further as your mouth forms a tight line. He shakes his head, “No, it’s alright. What is it?” he asks gently.

It takes a surge of willpower for you to get the sentence out, “You just want to sleep with me..”

He frowns harder at that, pulling back a bit. “No. I’m…” he sighs, “I’m not trying to lure you in just to toss you out right after.”

That makes you look up again. His voice has a sincerity to it that you weren’t prepared for. 

He continues, “I would like to, yes. Yeah. You’re beautiful, of course I would, but..” he looks down at his hands before looking back up at you, “No, that’s not the most important thing to me.”

You break eye contact again, thinking over his words. If that’s not the most important thing to him, what is? You can’t think of what else he could possibly want from you, a billionaire who could have anything he wants..the only thing you could have to offer in his eyes is sex. 

Right?

He exhales, “If you want to leave, I’ll call you a car. No hard feelings.” He nudges your chin up gently so you’ll look at him, but he gives you the freedom to fight against it if you wanted to.

You let him move you.

“I don’t want to leave,” you tell him, looking into his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you want,” he says it like it’s automatic. You physically can’t help but roll your eyes at the corniness of it. He doubles down, though, “Seriously. Anything.”

You smile in disbelief, shaking your head.

“Alright,” he returns your smile, straightening, “Here’s what we’re going to do. Do you need a ride home?”

You blink at him, “I’m going home?”

“You are,” he nods softly, “Do you need a ride?”

“No.”

He nods again, more like he’s working through something in his head. “Okay. You’re going to go home and think through what you want. If you decide you want to, come back here next Saturday.” he stands up, extending his hand out to you, “Then you can let me know what else you want and we can get to work on that too.”

You start to shake your head, “I can—” 

He drops his chin seriously, “Think on it.”

You relent easily, taking his hand and coming to a stand.

“Alright?” Again, his question is genuine. He does really want to know if you’re on board with this plan. 

Already going against his request, you agree without a thought, “Okay.”

He starts to lead you back over to the garden door with a head nod and a kind smile.

It ultimately was not a decision you had to think very hard on.

You’d considered every scenario of how this could play out and none of them ended with regret as far as you could guess.

You’ll still admit though, there was one scenario you had missed, apparently, which is why you were immeasurably confused when you showed up and he invited you to play chess.

He’s not wearing a fancy three piece suit this time, but his clothes are still very nice. With the sunlight peeking through the windows, you’re able to see the manor more clearly than you had been the other night. It really is a beautiful home, clearly very old and charmed, but there’s a lot of little details of character and history scattered around. There’s portraits and photographs of his parents from when he was young and furniture decorated with trinkets all throughout, kept absolutely spotless and dust free. Everything is neat and tidy but there’s still traces of the house being lived in with the patched throw pillows and worn carpets. Still, it’s very, very placid.

You’ve met new money plenty of times over the course of dealing with countless businessmen for Mr. Mullins but old money is something entirely different. You don’t really have a frame of reference here. New money is almost always brash and demanding, they like things done quickly and correctly the first time around. They’re usually not very interested in hearing what you have to say (even if it would save them a lot of trouble) and prefer it when the assistants women keep their mouths shut. Bruce has proven to be very different from these standards already and you’re not sure where to begin with placing new ones.

You’re about halfway through a second game, and while you’re not awful at chess, you get the impression that he’s easing up on you considerably.

You sit on the floor in front of a short coffee table, the game having no clear lead so far.

“I think this is stressing me,” you mumble, no actual weight behind your words.

“It’s just chess,” he says, not looking up from the board.

You watch him move his knight forward as you ask, “And that’s all we’re doing?”

“As it stands, yes,” he looks up at you, though you don’t return his gaze.

“Yeah,” you sigh, sliding your rook, “But later?”

“Later?”

“Well, you said...” you meet his eyes, “You said you wanted to sleep with me.”

He nods slowly, “I do. Is that alright?”

You consider it for a moment. You already knew that, if you really weren’t okay with it you wouldn’t have come here. And yeah, the idea makes you a little shaky, but in a good way.

“Yes,” you tell him, moving your queen forward two spaces.

“Are you sure?” he presses, moving to sit on the side of the table rather than behind it.

You do the same, sitting on your knees. “Yeah, I just..” you shift your weight, eyes wandering. “I’m not…overly experienced.”

He just smiles at that, like it’s endearing. Your words didn’t quite convey your meaning but your tone did. In any case, he understands the implication. “That’s alright, sweetheart. I’m not going to throw you in the deep end.”

You nod, looking down again.

“You’re nervous,” he comments.

“No, I’m—I mean, maybe,” your voice is barely a murmur by the end of the sentence.

He’s quiet for a moment, observing the way you fiddle with your rings. “What if we get you something pretty to wear? Something that makes you feel pretty. Whatever you want.”

He fishes his wallet out of his pocket, opening and pulling out a lump of cash without even looking. He holds the money out to you wordlessly and you can see from the bill on the outside that it’s at least a couple hundred dollars.

You shake your head instantly, “I can’t take that.”

He doesn’t put the money down but his eyes turn to begging. “Please. I just want you to feel good.”

“Bruce—”

He wavers a bit at that but it’s more of a falter than you’ve seen from him before so it’s easy to take notice of. “What?”

He shrugs barely, “I like when you say my name.”

Your eye contact holds for a moment and your resolve starts to shake almost instantly.

You exhale, “I’m not taking more than a hundred.”

“Two hundred.”

“Bruce.”

He smiles and picks out some of the cash and pockets it, handing you the rest. You don’t comment on the fact that it’s a hundred and fifty more than you’d agreed on.

You look down at the money in your hand like it’s a foreign object, shaking your head. “I don’t even know what to get.”

His thumbs start to rub reassuring circles by the bend of your knees, “Anything you want,” he tells you. “What do you like? Silk, lace, cotton, anything.”

You look up, tilting your head at him with a furrowed brow. “It doesn’t matter what I like, th—”

“It only matters what you like,” He says seriously, lowering himself to meet your gaze. “I’ll love it, no matter what you pick. Don’t worry about that.”

You lean forward a bit instinctually, “Okay.”

His eyes scan across your face in something that you can only recognize as awe.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” you whisper.

“I want to kiss you again,” he says, voice even quieter.

Your eyes go to his mouth and you can only manage a nod, lips already parted.

He moves forward not a second later, kissing you with more fire than you’d gotten to see the other night. His hands grab at your waist, squeezing lightly as you hook one hand around the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

You hear the clatter of chess pieces falling over as he moves nearer to you, large frame leaning over you. You push up on your knees, meeting his lips up at his level. His hands caress around your hips as the kiss gets deeper.

You just start to fumble with the hem of his shirt when he takes your hands in his, pulling them away before breaking the kiss.

“Easy, sweet girl,” he smiles, nudging you back with little force.

You groan, “Why?”

He barks out a laugh at that, stroking your hips again. “I’m not fucking you for the first time on the floor.”

“Then let's go somewhere else,” you nod up towards the stairs.

He shakes his head, that soft smile still playing on his lips. “Not tonight.”

You sit back on your heels again, frowning.

He brushes your hair back, murmuring, “No. But for now, I'll kiss you ‘til you can’t think if that’s what you want.”

You really hope you didn’t perk up at that as much as you think you did.

part two

🌾🌽 i heard a rumor that if you like without reblogging your crops will be cursed but hey what do i know 🌾🌽

[pomegranatelifethis]

Little Trouble

The Gotham night was thick with mist, the kind that clung to your skin and made every shadow look like a threat. At 16, you were the youngest of the Batfamily, adopted by Bruce Wayne after a rough start on Gotham’s streets. Tonight, you were supposed to be on patrol with Jason Todd, your reckless older “brother” and the Red Hood. But instead of busting criminals, you were knee-deep in a sibling prank that had spiraled straight into GCPD custody.

It started innocently enough—at least, as innocent as anything involving Jason could be. The two of you were staking out a warehouse in the Bowery, waiting for a rumored gun-running deal. But the deal was a bust, and Jason, never one for sitting still, got that glint in his eye. “Hey, Y/N,” he’d said, leaning against a rusted shipping container, his red helmet tucked under one arm. “Wanna mess with Dick? He’s patrolling the Narrows tonight.”

You should’ve said no. Dick Grayson, the first Robin and now Nightwing, was the golden child of the Batfamily. Annoying him was like poking a bear with a stick. But Jason’s grin was infectious, and you were bored. “What’s the plan?” you asked, already regretting it.

The plan was stupidly simple: hack into Dick’s comms and blast the cheesiest pop song you could find while he was mid-patrol. Jason had the tech skills, and you had the playlist. You both cackled as “Never Gonna Give You Up” echoed through Dick’s earpiece, followed by his exasperated, “Jason, I swear to God—” But then Jason, never one to quit while he was ahead, decided to up the ante. “Let’s tag his bike,” he said, pulling a can of spray paint from his jacket. “Something subtle, like ‘Nightwing Sucks.’”

You snorted but followed him to the alley where Dick had stashed his motorcycle. The paint was bright pink, and you took turns scrawling the words across the bike’s sleek black frame. You were halfway through a heart around the insult when a spotlight hit you both like a punch.

“Freeze!” bellowed a voice. GCPD. Of course.

Jason could’ve bolted—he was fast, and his grapple gun was primed—but you froze, paint can in hand, and he stayed. “Not leaving you, kid,” he muttered, raising his hands as two officers approached, guns drawn. The irony? You were vigilantes, trained by Batman himself, but tonight you were just dumb kids caught vandalizing.

The ride to the station was mortifying. You sat in the back of the cruiser, Jason’s knee pressed against yours, his usual cocky smirk replaced by a tense jaw. “Bruce is gonna kill us,” you whispered.

“Nah,” Jason said, though his voice lacked conviction. “He’ll just make us clean the Batcave for a month. Alfred, though? He’s the one I’m scared of.”

At the precinct, the officers recognized you both—not as Red Hood and the newest Batfamily recruit, but as Bruce Wayne’s adopted kids. That made it worse. Commissioner Gordon himself showed up, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You two again? What is it with Wayne kids and trouble?”

Before you could answer, the Batfamily descended. Bruce arrived first, his face a mask of controlled fury, the kind that made hardened criminals sweat. Dick followed, still in his Nightwing suit, his motorcycle towed to the station with your pink graffiti blazing under the fluorescent lights. Tim Drake and Damian Wayne trailed behind, Tim looking exhausted and Damian smirking like this was the best entertainment he’d had all week.

“Y/N, Jason,” Bruce said, his voice low and lethal. “Explain.”

Jason opened his mouth, probably to say something smartass, but you cut him off. “It was my fault,” you lied. “I dared him to mess with Dick’s bike. Jason just went along with it.”

Jason shot you a look, half-grateful, half-annoyed. “Yeah, sure, blame the kid,” he muttered, but he didn’t contradict you.

Dick crossed his arms, glaring at the defaced bike. “You rickrolled me mid-fight with a gang, and now this? I’m framing that paint can as evidence of your betrayal.”

Damian snorted. “Amateurs. If you’re going to prank Grayson, at least make it permanent.”

“Enough,” Bruce snapped. He turned to Gordon, who was barely hiding a smirk. “Commissioner, I’ll cover the damages and ensure they face consequences.”

Gordon waved a hand. “Just get them out of here, Bruce. And maybe lock them in the manor until they’re 30.”

The ride back to Wayne Manor was silent, Bruce’s knuckles white on the steering wheel. Alfred greeted you at the door, his polite “Master Jason, Miss Y/N” laced with enough disapproval to make you both wince. The family meeting in the Batcave was brutal. Bruce laid out your punishment: no patrols for a month, extra training with Alfred, and a written apology to Dick. Tim, ever the overachiever, suggested you also debug the Batcomputer as penance. Damian just called you both idiots.

Later, as you sulked in your room, Jason knocked and leaned against the doorframe. “You didn’t have to take the fall, y’know,” he said, tossing you a candy bar he’d swiped from the kitchen. “I’m the screw-up here.”

You caught the candy, shrugging. “You’re my brother. We’re in this together, even when you’re an idiot.”

He smirked, but his eyes softened. “Next time, we prank Damian. Kid’s got it coming.”

You laughed, already imagining the chaos. “Deal. But no paint cans.”

As he left, you realized that despite the police station, the lectures, and the grounding, you’d do it all again. Jason was trouble, but he was your trouble—and in the Batfamily, that was worth everything.

[myladyship]

"Here," you said handing over the baby. "You left this in my vagina!"

"You begged for it." He casually said, holding the baby.

[12welveinched]

When YN starts developing an identity, a nickname, a social security code, and even a postal code. Girl, who is Jenny? She ain't me.

I understand OC x character. But putting it in x Reader is unbecoming.

[msfantasy-comics]

The BatParent Dynamic

Bruce Wayne x Batmum! Reader

Summary: A fluffy story in which Dick and Jason would climb into bed with you and Bruce.

Nothing was more meditative than listening to the muffled sounds of the crickets chirping, as the cold night air filtered though the high ceiling windows. The opposing warmth exuding from your husbands form as he pulls you in closer. Melting around your napping figure.

His airy breath tickling your ear, nuzzling further into your neck.

He’s taking his time, holding you close, breathing in your scent as he presses chaste kisses to your shoulder slowly waking you from your bliss dream into his blissful arms.

Not a single word is spoken, both just enjoying the romantic lul.

But of course, this is the Wayne Manor, where any number of things can happen that leads to loud and rambunctious events.

“Ma! I need a hug!” Dick shouts outside the door, a quick twist of the door nob and the door is slammed open, destroying any sense of peace within your shared bedroom. “Jason is being Jason again!” Dick jumping into a swan dive, aiming to land in the middle of the bed where you and Bruce are currently huddled.

Bruce quickly slides out of the way leaving Dick to land perfecting in the centre of the mattress, he rolls over wrapping his arms around you. Cheek pressing against your arm making his lips press into a pout just like they always did when he was a young boy clinging to you for comfort.

You look down at your eldest son with a warm smile. Eyes almost sparkling at his cute demeanour, even as an adult, Dick will still be your sweet child.

Bruce, however, is feeling other feelings.

“For some silly reason, I assumed that when you boys grew up. You’d finally stop seeking your mothers comfort. In MY bed.” He grumbles irritatedly which only makes Jason’s hulking figure shake with laughter as he takes a quick snapshot of Dick snuggling up to his parents like the man child he is.

“Seriously bro? You go cryin to ma because I wouldn’t share my sandwich with you?” Jason muffles with a mouth full of bread.

He strides towards your bed, stepping up onto the mattress ignoring Bruce’s refusal to move, he shoves himself into the small space left between Dick and the almighty Batman.

Bruce grumbles irritably as he accepts his fate.

Your heart couldn’t help swelling at the sight of your two grown boys, still behaving like the naughty trouble makers.

You still remember a younger Dick, crawling under your sheets so that he could finally sleep though the whole night without being awoken by his nightmares.

Often the young boy would have reoccurring and vivid nightmares about his parents, and would more often then not, come to your bed seeking comforts.

Slinking up the centre between your sleeping forms, Dick would snuggle up towards you as your sleepy arms encircle around Dicks anxious form.

Whilst Jason was already a grown pre-teen when he came into your home. However, when traveling around South-East Asia, Jason caught an aggressive parasite from stagnant water. He was so Ill and weak, you were too nervous and tired to leave him alone, so he slept between you and Bruce until he made a full recovery.

Now you look at your boys, they both lay between you and Bruce, arguing, elbowing and shoving eachother. You look at your husband sweetly, as if silently discussing how this scene warms your heart.

It’s moments like these, you remind yourself how lucky you are to have such a loving family.

[ichorai]

chiropterology — mother's day.

drabble synopsis ; mind the pretzel dips! warnings ; swearing, some good ol' sibling rivalry.

series masterlist.

“Ground rules!” Stephanie called out to the hoard of bats gathered together in the living room. It was the early hours of Mother’s Day—so early that the sun had yet to rise. Each year on this day they all had a not-so-friendly competition on who could successfully pamper you the most. It was undoubtedly one of your most favorite holidays of the year. “Only two people attend to Mom at once—we don’t want to overwhelm her. To ensure everyone gets a fair shot today, you can only stick to her for two hours at a time. You’re allowed to spend time with her again later, but you need at least an hour cooling period in between.”

“What if someone goes over the time limit?” Jason grumbled. “Some people apparently have really bad “internal clocks.”” He placed air quotes around the last term with a scoff. 

Everyone simultaneously glared at Tim, who blanched at the sudden attention. “What? I’ll stick to the time limit this year, I swear!” 

“Uh-huh,” Steph said, giving him a stink-eye. Last year, Tim had gone to the movies with you on Mother’s Day, hogging up many hours of your precious time, much to the rest of their fury—it was safe to say that he was disqualified from the competition.

“And what does the winner get this year?” Damian asked, foot tapping against the polished hardwood. 

Steph’s grin widened. “Winner gets first pick for movie nights for the next three months.”

“Oh, the horror!” gasped Jason in an exaggerated fashion. “You all have such terrible taste!”

“God, if I have to rewatch Pride and Prejudice one more time—” Tim moaned. 

Jason kicked at Tim’s shin with a fiery glare. “Shut your mouth. It’s a good movie—!”

“Loser?” Cass asked.

Duke wavered nervously. It was his first year competing, and he was more nervous than a baby bird about to take flight for the first time. “There’s a punishment for the loser?”

Tim shot his hand up. “To give our dear Alfred a break… Loser does everyone’s laundry for the next three months.”

“Ooh, evil,” said Jason, a sharp grin pulling his lips thin, recalling the many condiment-soiled uniforms he had tossed into the hamper. “I like it.”

“Alright. Rules aside, I want a clean competition this year. May the best man, boy, or woman win,” Dick declared. “Though, I’ve known her the longest, so I really do think you guys should be congratulating me on my victory beforehand.”

Damian stared up at him balefully. “Oh, please, Grayson. Do you even know what Mother’s favorite chocolate bar is?”

Dick scratched at the back of his neck. “Uhm… Kit-Kats?”

“Wrong,” Damian said, an edge of pride sharpening his voice. “And even if you were right, you are an idiot to inform the rest of us of such precious intel.”

Dick crossed his arms. His little brother got him there. “Rats.”

“All agree?” Cass asked. “No bribe.”

They all nodded at each other. This was a sacred holiday, and cheating was the last thing on anyone’s minds.

“Great!” Steph exclaimed. “Let Mother’s Day begin!”

The kids were being terribly attentive this year. You could hardly step in one direction without one of them appearing in front of you with wild, eager, almost manic eyes. All of them offered to give you a massage, or read one of your favorite books to you, or run a warm bath for you, or run to the store to grab you a tub of your preferred ice cream, or clean up your lab, or volunteer as a test subject for your newest experiments (which was very much appreciated).

Urgh. You loved Mother’s Day. 

Bruce watched the kids fret over you, sipping lukewarm coffee from a mug that said Okayest Dad of The Year. “Why don’t they ever do this on Father’s Day?” he muttered.

“Please,” you scoffed, kissing your husband’s cheek. “If the kids hovered over you like this, you would go into hiding for the next fortnight.”

Bruce grumbled some more, but didn’t disagree with you.

The hours drew on, and the kids grew increasingly frantic. You caught sight of Tim hurriedly scribbling in his notebook out of the corner of your eye more times than you could count—presumably trying to keep score, even though you weren’t at all keeping track of how many favors each person was doing for you.

However, there were still very notable, thoughtful things the kids did for you today that you would cherish for the rest of your life. Steph had made you a playlist of all your favorite songs, and a few of her own recommendations that she thought you would enjoy, and she was very much right. Cass had one of your favorite books translated to braille so you were able to read in the dark without worsening your eyesight. Damian sketched a large portrait of you and your beloved cake robot together, and signed your name in beautiful Arabic calligraphy. Jason and Tim both assisted you with clearing out the closet full of your old inventions in one of the upstairs rooms, even offering to help you test if any of them still worked. Both of them walked out of your lab two hours later sore, winded, and dizzy. Dick, with the help of Alfred, made you a photo-album with old pictures from his time as Robin. Afterwards, you and Dick went out for a short session of karaoke, and it was the most fun you ever had singing to depressing 90s music. 

But there was one thing that stood out to you the most. One thing that immediately made up your mind on who was going to be the winner.

Duke had come up to you an hour before The Reaping (AKA when you picked a winner and a loser), looking somewhat nauseous. He hadn’t gotten to spend much time with you today, so he was already quite nervous.

“Hey, bud!” you cheerfully greeted, holding a basket of broken car parts. There was grease smeared over your cheek, which Cassandra had stepped forward to wipe away with a warm, damp towel. “What can I do for you?”

“I actually…” Duke fiddled with the clasp of his bag. “I had something made for you. I asked Luke to help me out with all the mechanics, but… I’ve been working on it for the past few days.”

He pulled out a long column of metal, fitted with thick, tinted glass on either ends of the tube. It resembled a telescope of sorts. 

“Ooh, how neat!” you exclaimed, dropping the basket and taking the contraption from him, lifting it up to your eye-level to examine the handiwork. Your eyes sparkled with curiosity. “What is it?”

Duke placed a hand on your shoulder, and gestured up the stairs. “I think it’s best to explain it on the balcony.” As he led you up (with Cass silently trailing behind like a ghost), Duke said, “Remember when you told me how much you loved stargazing? But doing it in Gotham is almost impossible, considering—”

“The light pollution,” you said, tilting your head. “Don’t tell me this is…”

Duke pushed open a door to one of the many balconies of the manor. “Take a look.”

You blinked at the boy, shocked at his thoughtfulness, before hastily pressing the lens up to your eye and angling your face up to the sky. And there it was—a kaleidoscope of scintillating stars like shattered glass freckled all throughout the dark canvas of Gotham’s normally murky horizon. They winked at you knowingly. You made a garbled, shocked noise, stumbling back a few steps from the balcony in your urgency to tilt your head back and see more. Duke steadied you with two hands over your shoulders. 

Duke sounded sheepish as he said, “Luke had it specially designed to filter out certain wavelengths of light. It was really all him, but I was the one who thought of it.”

Finally, painfully, you tore your gaze away from the sky. And when they met Duke’s, he was surprised to find your expression overcome with emotion.

“Oh, Duke. I don’t even know how to begin to thank you. This is so thoughtful.” You enveloped him into a warm hug. “You win, by the way. Competition’s over.”

“I promise I didn’t just do it for the competition—!” Duke protested, but you shook your head anyway.

“I know, hon. But it doesn’t matter. You win anyway, hands down.”

The time had come for The Reaping. All the kids crowded around you in the library, begging to know who would be the winner this year—and movie-picker for the next few months. Cassandra and Duke, of course, already knew, but they stayed relatively silent in comparison to their rowdy brothers and sister.

“Alright,” you said, which immediately halted the argumentative chatter. “This has been an amazing day for me, truly. From the bottom of my heart, thank you. I love you all so much, and I’m so touched that you guys go through all this trouble every year for me.”

“You deserve it,” Dick said, which earned a chorus of agreement. 

“Now, don’t butter me up just yet. I’ll start with announcing the loser,” you said, clearing your throat. You looked towards Jason. 

“Oh, no,” he said.

“I’m sorry, hon,” you told him, taking his hands. 

“No. Mom, no. How could you do this to me?” Jason appeared genuinely betrayed by your decision. The rest of the kids burst into raucous cheers at avoiding three months’ worth of stinky vigilante laundry. Alfred was also going to be very glad. 

Trying your best to stifle your laughter, you clutched his scarred hands closer to you and dramatically uttered the next few sentences as if you were giving a eulogy. “I love you so much. But when you called me from the amusement park asking what kind of pretzel I wanted, I told you I wanted a cinnamon pretzel with chocolate dip. You came back with a cinnamon pretzel… and a caramel dip. I’m so sorry Jason—I hereby declare you this year’s loser.”

“Shit,” Jason groaned, head falling back as he realized his mistake. One goddamned caramel dip cost him his victory!

“Hah!” Damian proclaimed. “So it is clear, then. I am obviously the winner this year, and you will all be watching—”

“Actually,” you interrupted, shooting Damian an apologetic wince, “this year’s winner is Duke!”

“What?” Damian barked. “Impossible! It is his first year. Nobody wins on their first try.”

Bashful, Duke awkwardly waved when everyone’s eyes fell on him. 

“He had a special telescope made for me,” you said, brandishing the gift from its protective case. Everyone clamored closer to get a good look at it. “One that lets me see Gotham’s stars through all the smog. You guys are not allowed to touch it without my explicit permission, by the way. I’m serious! I will suspend you from patrolling, and Bruce would be happy to see it through!”

They all gulped nervously.

“Wow—” Steph said once she got a better look, eyes widening as she whistled a low note. “No, yeah, I didn’t stand a chance against that. Way to go, Duke!”

The rest of the siblings clapped Duke on the back, congratulating him on the win. Tim handed him the sleek back remote to the theater room’s large monitor. “For you, my liege.”

You carefully put the telescope away, then ruffled Damian’s hair. “Better luck next year, kiddo.”

“Tch. It will be war next year, Mother.” He looked up at you, determination burning within his dark green eyes. “And I shall be the last one standing on the battlefield!”

“Okay, you little gargoyle,” Tim said, gently shoving Damian away, who angrily kicked at Tim’s shin (which was already bruised from Jason’s kick earlier that day). He pretended like it didn’t hurt, and gave you a warm, one-armed hug. “Happy Mother’s Day. We love you, Mom.”

[cinnamongrl2006]

what are some bruce headcanons u have? i mean like what do u think he smells like? music he likes? his favourite food etc.

a/n: Hiii!! Omg yes! There’s so many iterations of Bruce, and I think they’re all veryyy different so I’ll write specifically about (my man) Bale!Bruce Wayne. Warnings: none, these are all sfw (my nsfw Bruce headcanons are here)

warnings: established relationship, age gap (legal), fluff— really the same thing as always.

Bruce smells really good and he prides himself on the fact. He likes colognes and perfumes that smell fresh, clean, notes of jasmine or talc because he subconsciously associates them with family, with comfort, since his parents' scents smelled like that.

On another note, I don’t think he’d be into woody or very sweet scents because he finds them overwhelming.

He’s perfectly fit and healthy but will let out an over exaggerated groan whenever he sits down on the couch. And then he’ll sigh as if that was pure exertion. Same thing whenever he leans down to pick something up, whenever he carries something heavy, when he crouches or gets on his knees.

But he will never do that when he’s on patrol, when he’s in the suit he could very well be twenty years old. (he does it for attention)

He will NEVER ask for help with anything. He grew up practically alone, with only Alfred to guide him, and he feels entitled to get his butler’s help with anything he needs (obviously so), but he’d never willingly go seeking for help.

I think it’s also a kind of I don’t need help, I’m so independent type mindset.

HOWEVER, when you offer your help he will quickly (although begrudgingly) accept your help, not before telling you how little he needs it. Really, he is fine, you needn’t worry. But, fine, if you’re offering so nicely. Will tell you he does it so you shut up, totally doing it because he likes spending time with you, and kind of actually needed help.

He’s always busy, wether it’s for Wayne Enterprises stuff or Batman stuff doesn’t matter, he always has something to do, some deadline breathing down his neck, which in turn means he spends most of his time at the cave or locked up in his study.

That’s why he loves mornings. Waking up to you in his arms, fast asleep. He’ll bask in the quiet early morning sunshine for a few minutes, brush your hair back from your face, trace the slope of your nose with one finger, softly, as if to not wake you up.

When you wake up, meet his eyes through your lashes, he’ll kiss the top of your head and go shower.

He’ll have coffee with you every morning, listening to you sleepily chat about anything and everything. It’s your time to catch up every morning, you’ll barely see him for the rest of the day, so he tells you (as little as he can) about his nightly escapades.

He’ll talk about hating memes and internet culture and how it rots your brain but he’ll laugh at the cat videos you send him.

If you send him memes he won’t understand a single one, and he’ll feel so bad if you call him old because of it because he feels so guilty about your age gap.

A reporter once called him a cradle robber and his face went so white you could’ve sworn he saw a ghost.

He likes calm music that will slow his heartbeat, listens to frank sinatra, Sade and jazz. Owns a record player but will play his music through his phone and speakers, he’s the type of guy who will ask you why you’d want a cd or record if you can just use apple music. YES, HE IS AN APPLE MUSIC MAN, DON’T PLAY WITH ME.

Doesn’t really get the value of money and loves giving gifts so he’ll shower you in little presents. You’ll be walking down the street, make an offhand comment about how a dress or a top in a shop window is so pretty and he will pull you inside the store, a hand firmly resting on the small of your back.

He will gift you random presents throughout the year, mostly jewelry and clothes— things he can see you in; however, when it comes to birthday presents or christmas presents he is extremely thoughtful. A book you mentioned in passing one time, the concert you’d been talking about dying to go to, a weekend trip for you and your friends.

Bruce is kind of old fashioned when it comes to his moral values (it happens when an old british man is your butler) in the sense that he prides himself on the fact that he is the one who takes care of you, who loves you. He’ll get you flowers for every date, send flowers to your house if he can’t make it to dinner, and always send a bouquet to your door at the start of the week (with a little note, sometimes an attempt at a joke, sometimes more romantic things).

────୨ৎ────

tags: @laceyfaeryy @cherrycolaheartss @resting-confused-face

[k1tk4ttt]

when you just finished one of the most beautiful fics ever written and you see that the author has a masterlist full of other fics

[notsodelirious]

also, I can’t believe I’m saying this and I hope this doesn’t have to be said

but in light of several of my fic getting scraped for AI training on my ao3, pls do not put my x reader fics into AI to expand them, continue them, program a chat bot, what have you

you will never have my permission to do so, I will never give it so don’t ask, be a proper writer and get high like the rest of us (that is a joke, don’t do drugs kids)

(heavy on the chatbot—I don’t want my fic to be the basis of a character on C.ai; i don’t care to discuss the fandom ethics of chatbots, I just don’t want my fics in generative ai, thanks)

[ellesthots]

this is your sign to write that fic. that idea that’s been sitting in your head? that thing that sounds fun or interesting to write? please write it!!!! fuck imposter syndrome! fuck perfection! fuck cringe culture! all you need is an idea. there is no skill requirement in fandom. the only way you’ll get better is if you write. everyone starts somewhere! don’t be afraid to! it is SO rewarding to look back at what you’ve accomplished—the chapters, the arcs, and any friends you gather along the way who are interested in the same characters and worlds as you! yes, it’s vulnerable, but in that vulnerability is room for SO much fun, fulfillment, joy, and connection. you are good enough to write that story. write it! write it good, write it bad, just write it.

if anyone wants help or has questions or wants a pep talk, DM me any time !! or comment, or send me an ask!! i used to be too scared to post my writing, but it has been such a beautiful journey. GO FOR IT !!!!

[ashlovesfood]

Tags:Bruce n fem!reader, nsfw, jealousy, pounding, squirting, cum, plug, link

...·.·*.✵.*·.·... ...·.·*.✵.*·.·... ...·.·*.✵.*·.·...

You knew how much Bruce hated when jealousy got the best of him, like a lingering parasite leaching onto his mind. He would rather let himself try to at least make peace with his feelings, but god, you were teasing him.

Bruce watched closely at your figure, all pretty and dolled up for him right? Well, maybe not because the way you’re talking to the cashier says otherwise. You battered your eyelashes and leaned onto the counter, breasts pushed together showing cleavage in that small top you wore.

Oh, well shouldn’t have done that.

Bruce plowed into your tight cunt, groaning as he fucked you for his pleasure. “Fucking little slut- tryin’ to get another man’s attention in-front of me? Could’ve bent you over right there and treated you like a flesh light..!” If you weren’t coming then now you were.

“Wait! nnghh- didn’t wanna make you jealous..!” You tried, really hard. Bruce’s girthy dick and your cunt were a pair matched from the heavens, his breeder balls slapping against your ass. He denied your release, slapping your clit when you tried yourself.

He latched onto your nipple, biting the flesh as he used his teeth, sucking on the bud like candy. You were screaming, jolting up into his body as pleasure took over. Bruce let go with a ‘pop’ as he continued his merciless fucking.

“Fuck fuck fuck- Tiny little pussy made just for me yeah? Cmon bunny what’s the matter?” He was snickering, in your damn face while he pounded into you. Drool ran down your chin, eyes stuck up in your brain and you were squirting alllllll over him. The shlickkkkk sound made you sob.

Bruce’s thick cum filled your womb, making you have a pudge as he pulled out. His cock was sheen with the mix of fluids, plugging your hole with his fingers as the cum dripped out.

He spanked your asscheek, pushing a sparkly plug to keep his cum nice and warm inside. Well, jealousy isn’t that bad right..?

A/N Found out that this guy has a six pack and now I wanna see… (。・_・。)

[pomegranatelifethis]

New Robin

The Batcave smelled like motor oil, leather, and the faint tang of Alfred’s freshly baked cookies, which you were currently swiping from a plate on the workbench. You, the newest and youngest Robin, were sprawled across a chair, one leg dangling, a cookie in one hand and your phone in the other, giggling at the latest chapter of your very spicy Batman fanfiction. The working title? “Caped Crusader’s Forbidden Night.” Pure genius, if you did say so yourself.

“Shouldn’t you be training?” Dick Grayson, the first Robin and current Nightwing, leaned against the Batcomputer, arms crossed, giving you that annoying big-brother stare.

You grinned, popping the cookie in your mouth. “Training’s boring. Punch, kick, dodge, blah blah. I’d rather write my masterpiece.” You wiggled your phone at him, knowing it’d make him squirm.

Dick’s eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you’re not still writing that… stuff.”

“Oh, I am. And it’s steamy. Wanna read the part where Batman—”

“NO.” Dick’s voice cracked, and he threw his hands up. “I’m begging you to keep that away from me.”

You cackled, loving how easy it was to rile him up. Being the youngest Batfamily member had its perks: you could get away with murder (figuratively, of course). At sixteen, you were a whirlwind of chaos, a Robin who preferred pranks over protocol, jokes over jabs, and daydreaming over discipline. Bruce had taken you in after catching you hacking into the Gotham City traffic system to create a smiley face with the lights. He saw potential; you saw a playground.

“Focus, kid,” came a gruffer voice. Jason Todd, Red Hood himself, stomped into the cave, wiping blood off his knuckles. “You ditched sparring again. I was gonna go easy on you.”

“Easy? You threw me into a dumpster last time!” you protested, sitting up.

“That was an accident,” Jason said, smirking. “Mostly.”

You stuck out your tongue and went back to your phone, typing furiously. “Batman’s cape billowed as he pinned the mysterious stranger against the wall, his gravelly voice a low growl…”

“Yo, what’s she typing?” Tim Drake, the third Robin and resident caffeine addict, peeked over your shoulder, then immediately regretted it. “Oh, God, no. Why is Bruce in this? Why is there romance?”

“It’s art, Timmy!” you declared, clutching your phone to your chest. “You wouldn’t understand true creativity.”

“It’s a crime against humanity,” Tim muttered, rubbing his temples. “Bruce would have an aneurysm if he saw this.”

“Then don’t tell him,” you said sweetly, batting your lashes.

“Tell me what?” The deep, unmistakable voice of Bruce Wayne—Batman himself—echoed through the cave as he stepped out of the shadows, cowl off, looking like he’d just survived a board meeting and a gang war.

You froze, phone slipping from your fingers. “Uh… nothing! Just, um, writing my… mission report?”

Bruce raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. “You’ve never written a mission report in your life.”

“Rude!” you gasped, hopping to your feet. “I’m a great Robin! I stopped that bank robbery last week!”

“You stopped it by rigging the sprinklers to blast ‘Baby Shark’ until the robbers surrendered,” Dick pointed out.

“And it worked!” you shot back, hands on your hips. “Admit it, I’m a genius.”

“You’re a menace,” Jason said, but there was a glint of amusement in his eyes.

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “You’re supposed to be training. Being Robin isn’t a game. It’s discipline, focus—”

“Blah blah, I know,” you interrupted, mimicking his gravelly tone. “‘I am the night, I am vengeance.’ Lighten up, B! I’ve got this.”

The cave went silent. Dick looked horrified. Tim looked impressed. Jason snorted, muttering, “She’s got guts, I’ll give her that.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed, but before he could lecture, Damian Wayne—the current Robin and your reluctant partner—stormed in, katana in hand. “You skipped our patrol route planning again!” he snapped, glaring at you. “You’re an embarrassment to the mantle!”

“Oh, chill, Baby Bat,” you said, ruffling his hair, which he dodged with a scowl. “I was busy creating culture. Besides, I already memorized the routes. West End, Crime Alley, then the docks. Easy peasy.”

Damian sputtered. “You—how dare you call me—Father, she’s insufferable!”

“Join the club,” Tim muttered.

You grinned, undeterred, and tossed Damian a cookie. “Eat a snack, Dami. You’re cranky.”

He caught it but looked like he wanted to throw it back at you. Bruce, meanwhile, was still staring, clearly debating whether to ground you or just give up. “You’re on probation,” he said finally. “No patrols until you complete a full training session.”

“Probation?!” you whined, flopping dramatically onto the floor. “This is oppression! I’m being silenced!”

“You’re being disciplined,” Bruce corrected, turning to the Batcomputer. “And delete that fanfiction.”

“Never!” you shouted, scrambling to your feet and bolting for the stairs. “You’ll have to catch me first!”

Jason laughed outright as you sprinted out of the cave, Alfred’s voice calling after you, “Miss, your laundry is still unfolded!”

Hours later, hidden in the manor’s library, you were curled up with your phone, adding another chapter to your fic. “The mysterious stranger smirked, tugging at Batman’s utility belt…” You giggled, knowing full well you’d never delete it. Being the naughty, carefree Robin was too much fun—and the Batfamily, for all their grumbling, wouldn’t have you any other way.