#bruce is stretched thin

[kimbapisnotsushi]

i love wfa but them acting as if gotham is isolated and alone is antithetical to what this whole entire joker arc is about

[theinfinitedivides]

if there was an emoji for lying down on the ground staring up the ceiling feeling like the world is spinning around you while your ears are being blessed with beautiful music i would insert it here rn. btw.

[jade-zzz]

INTERMEZZO

( platonic batfam x neglected reader)

SUMMARY : The family reels under a rising tide of public backlash. As headlines vilify their pursuit against crime, an unexpected solution is offered: reaching out to Bruce's estranged firstborn, a figure trusted by the people, ultimately forcing the family to confront their past. TRIGGER WARNINGS ! Child Neglect. No other warnings at this moment.

a/n : this is just me spitting out an old idea i had, most likely wont become a series or a p2. but a lot of neglected reader stories start off with them young and uninvolved with the vigilante scene and i was like 'oh yeah, let me make reader a badass crime fighter so they have a chance against these crazies. if this was longer it would eventually continue into batfam becoming yandere but theres none of that here dw Interactions and Reblogs encouraged!

The Batcave was bathed in the cold, sterile glow of the Batcomputer’s multiple monitors. A sickly blue light flickered over the dark, cavernous space, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch in every direction. The screens were awash in a flood of headlines, each one a blade dipped in poison. Bruce sat motionless before them, his jaw clenched, lips pressed into a thin, hard line, as if the words themselves had weight enough to crush him. The same phrases repeated over and over, like the beat of a relentless drum:

“Vigilante Justice: A Dying Breed?”

“Do vigilantes cause escalation in criminal activity?”

“Batman’s War Against Crime: Our Cost”

Each headline felt like a knife twisting deeper, the rot of public opinion spreading faster than a wildfire. The truth, it seemed, no longer mattered—only the perception.

Jason’s figure loomed above them, leaning casually against the railing of the upper level. His arms were folded tightly, muscles tensed in a way that seemed natural to him. The flickering glow of the monitors cast eerie highlights across his face as he surveyed the headlines with squinted eyes. “I gotta admit,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing. “This one... actually makes a few decent points.”

“Don’t start,” Dick shot back, his voice sharp but tired. He was sitting on the stone steps, his hand running through his hair in a frustrated motion. 

Tim, seated at the foot of the steps with his legs folded cross-legged and a tablet in hand, was already knee-deep in data, scanning through analytics with practiced ease. Empty energy drink cans—some familiar, some strange—littered the ground around him, a quiet testament to his dedication to stay awake for this situation. "They’re using our own cases against us," Tim said, his voice low and serious, his gaze never leaving the screen. "Even if we are the good guys, that only goes so far. Gotham knows we’re willing to work outside the law.”

The sharp clicking of keys echoed in the cave as Barbara’s fingers flew across the Batcomputer’s keyboard. Every keystroke seemed like a futile attempt to dam the rising tide of bad press. But for every article she deleted, two more appeared. "I won’t be able to keep this under wraps for much longer," she said, her voice tight with frustration. “Gotham Gazette ran the story last night, but now it’s on CNN, Forbes, The Times. The commentators are tearing it apart.”

Barbara paused, scanning an article that flickered on her screen. “It’s all cherry-picked data,” she muttered, shaking her head in disbelief. “They’re drawing correlations without even attempting to prove causation. It’s all smoke and mirrors. But people are desperate for a reason to turn against us.” She looked up, her eyes meeting Bruce’s. “And that’s what they want. Someone to blame.”

From the dark corner near the Batmobile, Damian’s voice cut through the tension like a dagger. He had been silent until now, observing from the shadows, his figure barely visible in the dim light. “They don’t want truth,” he said, his tone cold and detached, almost predatory. “They want a scapegoat. And Father”—his eyes flicked to Bruce, his expression unreadable—“is the easiest target.”

No one dared to disagree.

The Batcave settled into a thick, suffocating silence. The low hum of the machines filled the space, a soft, mechanical murmur that only seemed to highlight the oppressive quiet. From the cavernous walls, water dripped steadily, each drop a tiny echo in the vast emptiness. Above them, the city pulsed with life—its towering lights burning bright against the ink-black sky. Below, however, the family who had sworn to protect it sat, bound together by blood, sweat, and the weight of their shared past, in a silence heavier than lead, an unspoken acknowledgment of something that had shifted irrevocably.

Bruce stepped away from the console, his movements slow and deliberate. He stood for a moment, staring at the glowing screens before him, his face drawn, his expression unreadable. “We’ve survived worse.” His voice, when it came, was low—raspy, like it had been dragged through the years with him. Yet there was something different now. This wasn’t just another crisis. It wasn’t just the press or another criminal on the streets. This hit too close to home. This was a reminder of his very beginning, of the fragile thread that connected him to the man he had once been.

‘Armed robbery, double homicide, has a taste for the theatrical, like you.’ The words Jim Gordon had spoken to him long ago echoed in his mind, the memory of that first case—a playing card left behind, like a message that would haunt him forever.

Barbara’s voice broke through his thoughts, soft but firm. “But we haven’t mended worse,” she said, her gaze not leaving the screen in front of her. “This one’s different. People used to think of us as the lesser evil. Now, they’re starting to wonder if we’re just another form of crime.” The words struck Bruce harder than he cared to admit. She wasn’t wrong. In their attempt to be Gotham’s saviors, they had come to embody something far darker in the eyes of the public. They had always lived in the shadows, but now those shadows were threatening to swallow them whole.

Alfred, standing near the table with a tray of untouched tea—its warm fragrance drifting through the room—cleared his throat, cutting through the tension. "Perhaps what’s needed," he said carefully, his voice measured, "is not another war fought in the shadows, but a reminder that others still stand with you."

Bruce’s eyes flicked toward him, his gaze narrowing, as if weighing the butler’s words. The others followed suit, their expressions unreadable, waiting for Alfred to elaborate.

“What are you suggesting, Alfred?” Bruce’s voice was edged with uncertainty, something he rarely allowed to show.

The butler gave a small, measured nod, his hands setting the tray down with the practiced grace of someone who had spent decades in the service of this family. "I believe, Master Wayne, that what the people need is reassurance. A bridge. Someone they trust. A voice they still believe in."

Jason raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "There’s not exactly a waiting list of pro-vigilante influencers out there, Alf."

“On the contrary,” Alfred said, a quiet confidence in his tone. "There is one. Someone still admired by the people. A symbol of protection, not fear. They’ve worked openly with first responders, collaborated with officials, stayed in the public’s good graces and operated within the law..."

Tim blinked, his mind struggling to process the thought. “In Gotham?”

Dick’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “Wait… you’re talking about—?”

Bruce’s expression darkened, a flicker of something unreadable flashing in his eyes. But the question hung in the air, unspoken, like an invisible thread tugging at the edges of his resolve.

Alfred’s lips curled into a faint, wistful smile, his voice gentle as he spoke again, almost as if recalling a cherished memory. “Yes. I am referring to your firstborn child, Master Wayne.”

The silence that followed was absolute, a sudden detonation of shock and disbelief that rocked the room. Damian froze mid-step. Tim and Jason exchanged a glance, eyes wide with uncertainty. Barbara shifted in her chair, almost as if waiting for someone to confirm that she hadn’t misheard. Dick’s throat tightened, a knot of guilt coiling in his chest. The past was a fragile thing, fragile enough that sometimes it felt better to pretend it didn’t exist. But in moments like this, the weight of regret bore down on him like an anchor, pulling him deeper into a well of emotion he had long since tried to forget.

Bruce remained still, frozen, his gaze distant. "They haven't been involved in family matters like this for years..." His voice trailed off, thick with the unspoken history between them. The bitterness in his words wasn’t lost on anyone in the room.

“And yet,” Alfred countered, his voice soft but unyielding, “they have remained exactly what this city needed from us.”

A long, heavy pause lingered in the room. The truth was that Bruce had not heard from them in years—not since they had left everything behind at eighteen, vanishing from the world they had known. Alfred had maintained a fragile connection, sending occasional messages through a burner phone, reminding Bruce of their existence whenever he saw their exploits on the news, despite his stubbornness to avoid all topics linked to them. But how long had it been since any of the family had tried to reach out? How long since anyone had even bothered to speak to them, beyond the occasional fleeting word, a distant acknowledgment of someone they once knew?

“People trust them,” Alfred continued, his voice softer now, almost tender. “They believe in their methods. Their clarity. Their distance from... all of this.” He gestured around the cave, to the monitors, to the chaos, to the shadows. “If there’s anyone who could speak to your cause and be heard, it would be them.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened. “They wouldn’t want to be dragged back into this.”

“No,” Alfred agreed, his voice calm, “but perhaps they deserve the choice. After all, they didn’t walk away without cause.”

Another silence fell, heavy with the weight of years and regrets left unspoken. Bruce’s mind churned, searching for answers in the fragmented memories of a younger version of himself. He tried to picture their face, but the years had stolen the details—just a pair of small eyes peering up at him from behind Alfred’s legs when they had first arrived at Wayne Manor. 

“It might be nice,” Alfred added softly, almost as an afterthought, “to have them on your side again.”

A/N: feeling devious hinting towards something happening in the past but not mentioning it,, meanwhile reader is sitting on their sofa, watching the news as their prayers for their families downfall worked

[rosemaryhoney27]

“Danny vs. Gotham: Rogues, Riddles, and Regret”

aka: Gotham's Villains Realize They've Made a Terrible, Terrible Mistake

Vlad wanted to leave. He wanted to scoop Danny up, fly far away, and pretend the Gotham trip never happened. But Bruce had insisted Danny stay another week for “family bonding.” And Vlad—against his better judgment and his rapidly thinning sanity—had agreed.

What he hadn’t agreed to was sending Danny out on a “light patrol run” with Red Robin and Spoiler.

“He’s a child!” Vlad hissed. Bruce shrugged. “He suplexed a gang leader and sword-fought Damian with a smile.” Tim sipped his fourth espresso and muttered, “Kid’s got better reaction time than half of us. Might as well let him stretch his legs.” Vlad: internal screaming intensifies

Later That Night – Gotham Financial District, 10:22 PM

It should’ve been a routine patrol.

SHOULD’VE.

But this was Gotham. So naturally, they ran into Riddler. And not just Riddler. Riddler with a microphone, a speaker setup, and a slideshow.

“Riddle me this, Batbrats!” he declared, laser pointer in hand. “What flies forever, rests never, has no lungs but can still scream?!”

Danny blinked. “That’s wind.”

Riddler paused. “…I—I wasn’t done.”

“You said it in the wrong order. Classic misdirection. Also, you did this one in Amity Park two years ago. You posted it online.”

“…What?”

“Yeah, it was part of your ‘multi-state riddle tour.’ You rhymed ‘obfuscate’ with ‘paperweight.’ My friend Tucker roasted you for a week.”

Spoiler wheezed. “OH MY GOD.”

Tim was filming. “This is gold.”

Danny smiled like a polite little demon. “If you want new material, I can send you Tucker’s podcast link. He does villain reviews.”

Riddler stared, brain lagging. “I—I have—graphics—”

“You spelled ‘cerebral’ wrong on slide 4.”

“…I hate it here.”

Five Minutes Later

Riddler’s henchmen surrendered unprompted. Riddler ran face-first into a recycling bin while trying to flee. Danny phased him through the lid and said, “Please stay in there until Gotham has better riddles. Thank you.”

Tim couldn’t breathe. Spoiler was crying laughing. Danny handed Riddler a sticker that said “I Tried My Best (And Failed)” before floating away.

But It Got Worse

Because then, Scarecrow showed up.

And naturally, he released his newest fear gas on the group.

“Let’s see what horrors hide in your soul, little ghost,” Crane sneered.

Danny blinked as the gas swirled around him.

Then sneezed.

Then sniffed it.

Crane: “What—what are you doing—?!”

Danny: sniff sniff “Ooh. Cinnamon and despair. Very vintage.”

Crane: “THAT’S NOT HOW FEAR GAS WORKS—”

Danny exhaled, glowing green, and the gas dissipated.

“I’ve been inside the Ghost King’s mind, dude. This is like spa day fog machine levels. You want real terror? I have a VHS of Tucker’s high school poetry.”

Crane dropped his canister and backed away. Spoiler whispered, “He’s ungasable.” Tim, still filming: “That’s not even the weirdest thing I’ve seen this week.”

Danny offered Scarecrow a cough drop and a tissue.

“Bless your heart,” he said.

Crane ran.

Later – Back at the Cave

Danny was handing out debrief cookies. Again.

Bruce was watching the security cam footage with the face of a man who was trying to process “he sniffed the fear gas.”

Dick leaned over. “This kid’s either going to save Gotham or traumatize it into behaving.”

Jason nodded solemnly. “He gave Riddler a sticker. That’s psychological warfare.”

Damian looked up from sharpening his sword. “He told me he once bit a cursed toaster.”

Vlad, in the background, was staring at the Batcomputer like it had personally betrayed him. “I—he—he ate fear gas. He corrected Riddler’s grammar. He is not normal.”

Bruce looked at Danny, who was humming while reorganizing the med supplies.

“…He’s a Wayne.”

Vlad: “NOOOOOOOOOO—”

[sheep-from-rad]

Photograph (Platonic Batman x reader) (second half inched on the yan territory)

Notes: I made a joke that I wasn’t held enough as a child. Well, jokes on me because it was apparently not a joke. I'm still shit at making endings, help Merry Christmas folks <3 

Masterlist 

dividers by: @strangergraphics

“Isn’t this for newborns?” 

Bruce sat shirtless on the room’s armchair. The room didn’t exist until this week, back then it was just another one of the big guest rooms inside the mansion. From formal, vintage patterned, dark green wallpapers it changed into a soft pudding yellow (Jason’s suggestion)  and the corners are filled with soft plushies. He looked down on his shirtless self again as Alfred stood by the crib to prepare the four month old infant. Years of fighting rogues but it was the thought of holding a baby that made him nervous. 

He takes a silent pride on his body, from his back muscles to his strong arms, from bruises and scars, he wears them like an intangible medal. He thought that the media would question how a businessman like him would have such build but he was easy to conceal it with his ditzy public persona. Ladies did love it but then again holding a lady and holding a baby are two different things. 

“You might have missed their newborn days but bonding as father-baby is not too late”, Alfred explained. “Ah, skittish like your father when it was his first time holding you” 

Bruce’s hands protectively closed around the sleeping babe. He reclines as Alfred helps lay the baby on his chest, one hand on the head and neck and the other under their bottom. Skin to skin and warm. Warm. He didn’t know an infant could produce such warmth. Is this how his father felt the first time he held him? The feeling of happiness like a small glowing bubble melting in his soul, a warm innocent light in the gloom. 

He tensed again when he felt his little baby moved, their tiny arms stretching with all their might. “Alfred I think they are —” Before he could finish his words, he found himself staring at a pair of (eye color) eyes with their little lips curled in a curious ‘o’. They can barely lift their head for a long time but keep doing so to keep the little staring contest going. “What are you doing? Are you memorizing me?” He cringed a little especially knowing that he just butchered the movie quote. The little cringing turned to a small panic when the baby’s little trembled. He braced himself for a wail but instead he was greeted by a gummy smile and a giggle. 

A giggle! Sure he missed the days of them being a newborn but they were here to witness the giggle milestone. “You think dad is stupid for quoting it wrong?” As if understanding his words, their giggles turned louder. “Master Bruce, language please.” The master of the house didn’t hear the older man nor the sound of the camera going off, capturing the moment. A picture, one of the many to cherish in the later years. 

✮⋆˙(alternate ending here because I can’t make up my mind) ✮⋆˙

Bruce found himself in the room that he hasn’t been in for years. Each step that he took was heavy as his heart, echoing regrets and apologies that needed to be said not just in words but also in actions. 

The room was empty with the exception of the barebone furnitures and thin sheet of dust. The only sign that someone once lived in the now lifeless room was a picture frame that was left behind and placed facing down. It was left behind as if mirroring how they had abandoned you. “Where has time gone?” he asked, taking a seat at the edge of the bed. He is envious of his younger self in the picture. He wished he could turn back time, hold you close and hold you tight, and reclaim the promises he had forgotten to do. Forgotten like the pictures and the memories and the wallpapers in the room. All yellowed on the edges and faded. 

The small sound from his phone snapped him from his trance, he had to compose himself before picking it up. 

“Dick?” 

“B, we found them” 

“Bring them home”

[fear-is-truth]

mature content ; mdni ┆warnings: mentions of sex + pregnancy. baby fever.

BRUCE WAYNE stared at his phone, the latest tabloid cover flashing across the screen. is gotham’s most eligible billionaire about to be a father? the headline was emblazoned next to an out-of-context photo of you—his girlfriend—your hand resting over your stomach as you laughed, caught mid-conversation at a gala. the picture had been taken at the wrong moment, the pose completely innocent, but the image itself stirred something inside him.

it wasn’t a new thought, not really. the idea of starting a family with you had crossed bruce’s mind many times—always during the occasions when he’s hitting it raw, buried to the hilt inside you. it was then, two thrusts away from euphoria (aka pumping your womb full with his cum), that the thought would slip in, unbidden: what if this led to more it? the telltale twitch of his cock was always accompanied with the idea of you, swollen with his child. it wasn’t something he normally dwelled on, but now, with the possibility spelled out in bold, blocky letters on the screen, it was tangible, no longer just a fleeting idea or a half-formed daydream. he couldn’t push the thought away.

he imagined you barefoot in their master bedroom, your bare feet pressing into the softness of the rug as you stood by the window; your figure swathed in the first light of dawn, the sky a pale wash of pink and gold, and outside, the sprawling grounds of the wayne estate stretched out, untainted by the darkness that was gotham city. here, it was truly quiet, the kind of quiet bruce only found when he was in your company. you held your arms.

he pictured your expression, tender and serene, your eyes focused entirely on the baby—his baby—in your arms. the soft, chubby cheeks, the tiny hand curling instinctively around your finger. a connection between mother and child that made his chest ache. it all felt like something ethereal, as if it had been plucked from a dream.

shifting slightly in his chair, bruce frowned as his trousers grew a touch uncomfortable, and the realisation sent a flicker of heat across his face. he pressed his lips into a thin line, shaking his head at himself. this wasn’t like him—getting caught up in a fantasy, letting something as trivial as a tabloid headline get under his skin. brushing a hand across his jaw, he exhaled slowly, as if it helped release the tension coiled in his chest (it didn’t).

maybe this wasn’t something he could keep pushing away.

[gaddaboutgriffon]

The Year of the Dragon.

(Name edited, credit to @jedipirateking for the suggestion.)

A joke the fandom has been making for a while is that Tim is forever stuck at 17. What if we make that something the rest of the Batclan notice too? (I am not following cannon.)

It was just after the annual Family picture day and the new group portrait was taking the place of last year’s and looking at it they noticed 15 year old Damian is now almost the same height as Tim. And Tim is pretty much the same as last year.

Jason and Damian take the opportunity to tease Tim calling him a shrimp and other short jokes. Which Tim rolls his eyes and goes to work on a case or something with Wayne industries. But Bruce, Dick, and Alfred are more concerned, may feel guilty thinking letting him be a vigilante stunted his growth. And looking back at the photos they have of him notice that he wasn’t growing as much as a normal teen boy should have.

Bruce decides he is going to be more active in running Wayne Enterprises while Alfred plots to cut back Tim’s coffee limit. And Dick is going to help out coordinate the patrols. (He had to move back to Gotham when the Bludhaven city spirit forced all the people out before the city got blown up. It’s a long story but dick has been really down and unmotivated after that.)

Tim is not taking any of this well, and feels like his family being stifling. So he decided to start going through the basement and vault of Drake manor. Which he has been putting off since he didn’t really have time for it between patrols and WE. And in the family heirlooms vault, shoved way in the back with covered in dust and many other things sitting on top, he finds an oak box with an ornately caved dragon on it. Opening it up he finds it is velvet lined and has a large pendant that looks a silver dragon curled deep violet amethyst egg. And next to the pendant is a scroll made of thin leather.

He pulled out the scroll first and tried to read it but it was too faint of lettering to make out in the somewhat dim vault light. But what little he could make out it it was really old 14th century English and mentioned something about a coming of age. He rolls it back up and puts it aside to instead pick up the pendant. When he touches it there is a faint static shock that surprises him other then that the silver and purple necklace doesn’t seem out of the ordinary.

His phone lets off a chime to remind him that diner is in an hour, so he pack the pendant and scroll back in the box and places it in his bag with a few other items he finds interesting and wanted to look into more later. Then returns to Wayne manor to eat before patrol. It isn’t until he wakes up the next morning he realizes that he should have probably read the scroll before touching the pendant.

He wakes up to knocking on his bedroom door and someone yelling at him to get up. He had gotten into the habit of locking his door back when Damian first moved in. He yelps in surprise, falling over because his center of balance is all out of whack when he tried to stand. Now he is fully awake and takes stock of himself.

Scales?

Scales! Why are his arms covered in scales?! His hands look like a mix of paws and talons. He struggles out of the sheets to look at the rest of himself. His pjs are stretched and torn in places to accommodate the new digigrade shape of his legs. Not to mention he now has a long tail and wings and a longer neck. He rushes to his personal bathroom and awkwardly stands up on his two legs so he can get a good look in the mirror. And yep that is a distressed dragon face looking back at him. He catches himself making a weird keening sound as he plops down to sit on the bathroom floor.

Moments later he hears the sound of his bedroom door’s lock being picked. Bruce calling his name and Duke explaining he had heard animal noises from the room. Tim scrabbles to try and get the balcony door unlocked so he can escape and find a way to change back before anyone can see him, but moving on all fours and the new talon hands he is not used too take up too much time and the bedroom door is open.

Living in a family of vigilantes, their reaction time and fight or flight instincts are quick, and Tim is tackled to the floor by Duke while the others start looking at every inch of the room for clues as to what happened to their seemingly missing brother.

Bruce is looking at the dragon in Tim’s pajamas for a second before saying, “Tim? Is that you chum?”

Tim tries to answer but all that comes out is a warbling chuff. Which takes Tim by surprise and has him nearly start to cry in panic. He can’t Talk!

“Hey, you’re ok Tim. Deep breaths. Duke get off him. Breath with me Tim. In 1, 2, 3, 4. Out 1, 2, 3, 4.” Bruce spoke in his soothing a scared child voice. Tim was half annoyed at himself for how much it helped.

“B, Look at this!” Dick said holding the box with the scroll and dragon pendent instead open. Now the gem is a very pale see through purple with only a sliver on the bottom the original color.

They take it down to the bat cave and get to work deciphering the scroll. Turns out the Drake family line are descendants of some ancient medieval prince named Aragorn and that there was a family tradition that on the sixteenth birthday the child would have to live a year in dragon form to let it catch up in maturity. But after the dragon form catches up they will be able to freely shift between forms. But if they don’t follow the tradition they don’t age properly, and the longer they put off the tradition the longer they have to spend as a dragon.

And that is all I had time for before bed. So who does this affect the family dynamic? What about the relationship between Tim and Damian? How do we bring Danny Phantom into this? Does he think Tim is a ghost dragon at first?

[nikovraskol]

crack baby ; five

wc ; 3068 masterlist after dying, you expected to be greeted with the open arms of the void swallowing your body, mind and soul. what you didn't anticipate is waking up sixteen once more with a chance to change your fate -- but something strange is happening, why are the locks changing and why are all eyes suddenly on you ?

tw ; death, suicide, abuse, cursing, neglect, panic attacks, mentions of violence

prologue, one, two, three, four, five, tbc..

You didn’t have much as a child.

You lived in a shitty apartment on the outskirts of Crime Alley. It’s been years since you’ve stepped foot in that place, but you remember it so clearly.

The wallpaper was peeling, there was always mold crawling around the corners of the roof, and the window in the bathroom was broken – all your appliances were left over from previous tenants, so you’d have to give the oven a hard smack before cooking. Your TV was surprisingly nice, the grumpy, old man gave it to your mother before he killed himself.

His death upset you, despite what everyone thought – he was a nice man. When your mother was working or in a bad mood, he’d occasionally let you sit in his house. He’d offer you a lollipop and then go to sleep. You always got the feeling he was similar to your mother. Perhaps it was the look in his eyes?

Your bedroom – if it could be called that – was actually just a small storage room. Your mattress was old, found in a dump, so it had many holes that would cause springs to dig into your back, scratching you through restless nights, and you only had a thin blanket to keep you warm. 

Compared to your mother’s sleeping arrangements, it was perfect. She let you have that box, in return she slept on the dingy, old couch next to the door. She said it was fine, but you would always hear her panicked cries whenever the gunshots got too loud.

Despite that, those days in that shitty apartment would always be worth more than your life in Bruce's care. Why?

The heating that stretched to every corner of the manor, it didn’t compare to cuddling with your mother for warmth. And the meals, prepared to suit your every tastes, didn’t compare to the take-away your mother would place before you, leftovers from her job, a grin on her pretty face that was always etched with exhaustion (that sometimes twisted into something scary).

That’s right. The cold stares would never compare to your mother. Even if she was unpredictable – hysterical, as the man next door would say. She looked at you, held you, consoled you.

And when she’d lose her mind and grab at your throat, and cry about how you’re a curse. She’d make up for it, eventually.

“My dear [Name].” Your mother called, her eyes softening as she crouched before you. She smelt of grease and cheap burgers, a rather comforting smell despite how nauseous it made you. Her hands gently, hesitantly, reached forward. Resting on your face as her thumb caressed the bruise forming on your cheek with a grimace.

You knew better than to flinch.

“How do you feel?” She asked softly, her eyes glossed with unshed tears. She was frowning. The sight made your chest ache as if someone were reaching through and prying open your ribs, leaving your heart vulnerable. 

She didn’t let you answer, she never did. Instead, she pressed a soft kiss to the blooming ache on your cheek before reaching into her old bag.

“A teddy bear?” You questioned softly, your head tilting at the sight of the toy. You’d never had something so.. innocent before. Nothing so clean, all your toys were second-hand, given through preformative charities.

“Yes. A teddy bear, it’s for you.” She placed it into your hands with a gentleness that belied the dead gaze she always wore. It was soft, unblemished. New. Not once in your life had you ever had something new, something that belonged only to you.

“How much did this cost?” 

“Well, that’s not for you to worry about, my dear.” Your mother smiled, her lips curving into that familiar grin. But you saw the ache in her bones, in the very way she moved. She had worked too hard, but she had done it for you.

Was it selfish that you didn’t feel bad? That you felt happy?

“I can do this, I can do this, I can do this.” The words were spilling out and you didn’t even realise it.

You were outside the hospital, looking like a lunatic. You were soaked to the bone, shivering, and muttering to yourself like a moron – right outside a mental institution. It was no wonder everyone took a detour at the sight of you, crossing the road as if you were some sort of pervert. Though you couldn’t blame them – living in Gotham, you learn it’s best to steer clear of the crazies.

Your heart was racing, your stomach was churning. You were scared. You hadn’t seen her in so long, not since– not since you were eighteen in your previous life. 

And now you were sixteen, standing outside, stalling. Well, shivering in the rain was much better than being in that damn Manor, surrounded by those damn bozos…–

It was strange, why are they always hovering? Each time you’d ever try to leave, someone is there. Someone is around. 

Why? It’s sickening. The thought of them perceiving you. Why did it make your skin crawl? Why did it make you feel so.. Filthy?

You’re sure, back before you died, that you would’ve jumped at this chance, at the chance to really incorporate yourself into the circle that you’ve always been pushed out of. Why was now different? 

Why did you want to reach out and rip out Dick’s eyes whenever he regarded you with such a condescending gaze? Why did you feel nauseous at the very way Bruce looked at you – like a puzzle piece that’s been misplaced in the wrong set? A puzzle piece he wants to throw away. Or– Or the way Tim looks at you – Or Jason’s stupid arrogance, from the beginning he’s always thought he was better than you. And you just dread thinking about Damian.

You just want your mother.

And yet, your feet remain stuck to the floor. The rain continued to patter around you, is this a good idea? You have no idea what condition she’s in, when you last saw her (when you were 18), she was better. Stable. She smiled at you and her eyes seemed brighter.

“It’s fine, it’s either this or I go back to that abhorrent house.” You mutter bitterly, filled with sudden determination at the thought of returning to that hellhole. With a huff you shove open the doors to the sterile hospital. 

The fluorescent lights hit you first, then the overwhelming smell of antiseptic, the sound of beeps and overworked nurses mumbling about evaluation reports and the latest Gotham news. It was overwhelming – but you have to push through!! For your mother!

With another sigh you begin to walk forward, and the air seemed to thicken – as if something was trying to stop you from walking forward, from facing something horrible, though that was crazy. It was probably just the lingering fear from your past, but so much has changed in this life, there’s some comfort in knowing that your mother will be waiting.

“Excuse me,” you say to the lady working as a receptionist, she looked tired – eye bags heavy under her eyes as she looked up at you with something akin to annoyance, “I’m here for (Mother’s Name).”

Immediately, the woman’s eyes softened into something soft, pity? Impossible. “Oh, I’m sorry, what were you to her?” She immediately mumbles, typing furiously on her computer that you could tell was funded by Wayne Enterprises.

“I’m– I’m her child.” You say nervously, a sickening fear crawling up your stomach into your throat, like a parasite that’s been festering through the grief you’ve felt through the years. You want to ask if something’s wrong, but the lady beats you to it.

“I’m so sorry for your loss, have you come to collect her things?”

“Her– Her things? Has she been dismissed?” Your heart is racing so fast, beating so intensely that it drowns out her words, as if protecting you.

“..She’s died.” The receptionist says, her eyes looking away as she reads something on her computers, “You didn’t know? That’s strange, all her immediate family should’ve been notified, but–”

You don’t hear the rest of her words, you hear nothing but the beating of your damn heart. It’s so loud, why won’t it just shut up!? Why can’t you reach into your chest and rip the disgusting thing out, to rid yourself of the useless organ. The parasite’s that’s kept you alive — the parasite that always tries to protect you when it’s too late.

It’s sickening, everyone is always too late.

“She can’t be dead…” You mumble, your hands are trembling. Why? “She had– She was supposed to live longer, this isn’t how it goes.” 

The image of her, when you were older, flashes through your mind. You remember it clearly, her face – finally with some colour as she smiles gently at you.

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“It happened fairly recently, I’m so sorry.” The receptionist said clearly, her eyes filled with the kind of sorrow that can be held by people who’ve seen this a thousand times before. But you can’t see it, you can’t hear anything but that damned phrase.

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“How did she die?” 

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“She–” The receptionist shares a wary glance with her coworker, who’s holding a stack of papers.

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“She killed herself – We’re so sorry, it’s through our neglect that she was able to–”

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“..-- Tie a noose and…–”

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

It’s only when you feel the rain trickle down your cheek that you realise you’re outside, car’s illuminating your hunched figure with headlights as the distant sound of a gunshot pierces the air. You look down, you’re holding papers.

Your mother’s will – that’s right. The receptionist gave it to you, as well as her regards, and some numbers to some people to handle things you don’t want to handle.

“Are you okay?” A soft, quiet voice pierces the air, you turn and–

Another clown has entered the circus.

The sight of Orphan, rain trickling down her suit. What is she doing here? What time is it? You swallow thickly, everything feels so fake that you can’t process anything.

“(Name)? Why are you out so late?--”

What is she saying? You can hear her but.. You can't understand a thing she’s saying. When have you ever spoken to her? Has she also come to play pretend? She’s too late. Everyone is always too late.

“Why are you talking to me?” Even you are surprised by the venom in your voice. Why are you being so mean? Cassandra’s not– bad.. She’s certainly not someone you.. She isn’t someone you know, why is she acting like she cares? 

“I saw– Well, you looked upset. I just wanted to check that you’re–”

“Don’t talk to me, don’t act like we’re anything more than strangers.” Who’s speaking right now? You don’t feel like it’s you. No, your mother would feel upset hearing you so angry. “You’re all so fucking annoying, please, just leave me alone.”

You don’t see her face through her mask, nor can you decipher her body language. You just clutch the crumpled up, soaked papers, to your chest and walk home.

“It’s not safe to walk Gotham alone at night.” You hear her say, it’s the most you’ve heard her talk. Though you’ve never spoken to her, never experienced the warmth she gives to the other clowns.

“It’s fine,” you say, your voice dripping with sarcasm though you feel nothing but genuine emotions, “I have Batman to protect me.”

You don’t see her face, you don’t have the energy anymore - for anything. 

It’s not an understatement to say you feel nothing, not as you walk Gotham – with eyes upon your back, not when you trudge through the Manor past someone who might’ve been Alfred, or Dick. But Dick’s supposed to be Nightwing, right? He shouldn’t be in Gotham. Silly you.

You feel nothing at all, until you enter your room, until you see the familiar layout, exactly as you left it. Until you see the teddy bear, worn and broken, sitting on your bed with it’s sorrowful eyes cast upon you.

Then, you feel everything.

The hardwood floor hits your knees with a deafening thud that echoes throughout the lifeless manor. Tears scorch your skin as the air suddenly thins swiftly, like someone’s trying to kill you. You clutch your hands to your chest, snaking under your shirt to dig into your disgusting chest, nails desperately clawing at your thick skin. Your heart is too loud, the floor is too hard against your legs – your hair, it sticks to your scalp, each strand tickling your skin as you pant heavily, your breath escaping before it can reach your lungs – you��re going to pass out. You’re going to die.

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

Why did this happen? She wasn’t supposed to die. There’s no way she would’ve killed herself, no.

No matter how much she gripped your throat, no matter how much she cursed you, throwing glass and plates at you, dragging porcelain across your skin then crying while patching you up. Peppering each wound with kisses that carried words of sorrow that couldn’t be conveyed through simple speech.

She would’ve never left you.

Even if you were the one to ruin your life, she’d always come back with a smile. This can’t be it. She’s supposed to be happy.

You’re supposed to be happy.

Her will remains soaked on your bedroom floor, the ink smudged through rain and tears, mingling each word and telephone number together. Though, there’s an envelope that remains unopened, the envelope that the nurse gave to you. The one belonging your mother left to you.

What an incredible woman.

With trembling hands and blurring eyes, and lungs with no air, you rip open the soaked envelope. Your hands are surprisingly gentle despite the insistent tremor, as if holding a priceless artifact.

The moment the envelope opens, money flows out. And not just pocket change, stacks and stacks of bills that no lower-class-woman could achieve alone. Afterwards, a single letter falls out.

You’re barely able to pick the paper up, barely able to comprehend the words that seem to dance together – taunting and mocking your grief. But there’s no time to grieve; you push those disgusting emotions deep into your subconscious as you calm your breathing – counting to 10 in between each gasp for air until your heart finally shuts up.

Your eyes clear, you can see again, the moment your eyes fall upon the paper you hear your door click, and your heart stops. In speed that could rival the flash himself  you swipe the money under your bed before Dick walks in with a pitying smile.

“(Name)...” He says gently, his eyes flickering with something similar to surprise as his gaze falls onto your disheveled, wet, grief-stricken appearance  (disgusting, you want to reach forward and smash his head against your wall), “You.. stormed out earlier, are you okay?”

“Why are you here? Don’t you have better things to do.” It’s almost scary how quickly you’ve grown accustomed to creating conflict with the very people you once sought to cradle close.

“.. I was worried, I can’t just up and leave when my precious sibling is..”

Bullshit. It’s all fucking bullshit.

“If you’ve got nothing meaningful to say, then shut up and leave.”  You snap, your hand clenching around your mother’s letter, it’s slightly damp and you don’t want to smudge the ink so you release it from your hands – letting it drop to your floor slowly, it sways in the air as if it doesn’t want to leave your embrace. “I’m so sick of everyone fucking hovering, you’re so annoying.”

Your gaze moves from the paper to Dick, and–..

And you freeze.

His eyes are relentless, boring into you with such an intensity it makes you feel like a criminal he’s interrogating. No, it’d be more accurate to describe yourself as a bug he’s placed under a microscope, studying you with such a cold gaze you’re stopping yourself from apologising on instinct.

It’s genuinely terrifying, his mouth is pressed in a thin line, his brows are furrowed ever so slightly and his hands – his hands are clenching and unclenching.

Is he going to hit you?

“My dear (Name), I’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t I? I’m sorry.”

“My dear (Name), he’s caused you a lot of pain, hasn’t he? I’m sorry.”

“My dear (Name), they’ve caused you a lot of pain, haven’t they? I’m sorry.”

“(Name), I’m going to cause you a lot of pain, aren’t I?”

“(Name).”

“(Name)!” A voice breaks you out of your thoughts and you blink, oh, it’s Dick. He’s closer now, glancing at you with a sorrowful expression as he grips your shoulders with a force that makes you uncomfortable, “you seem out of it lately, are you okay? You know, you can tell me everything.” You feel a bit disoriented, what was that just now? 

“I’m fine, I’m tired.” You shove his hands off with all your strength – though you suspect he let you go to appease you. Jackass. “I’m going to bed, please leave me alone.”

He frowns – clearly wanting to say more, but the blank look on your face tells him that you’re not in the mood. What a shame, and he was going to invite you to spend time with him.

Oh well, he has all the time in the world, he doesn’t want to strengthen this relationship on an uneasy foot.

“I understand, (Name), I’m always here for you.” He smiles lovingly, his hand ruffling your hair like he’s actually your brother, “I do care for you, y’know. You've been so distant recently!” 

His chuckles fade in your silence as he awkwardly shuffles out of your room with one more lingering glance. So fucking annoying. Your eyes wander down and-..

He was standing on your mother’s letter.

um hey guys.. hey... uh hey,,, i feel like i owe yall an explanation but um, basically i had this all written out and then i have to move cities because i was unsafe, and i lose THE FUCKING DOCUMENT WITH THIS WHOLE CHAPTER. i was so devastated because i had expanded on literally everything so i had to rush this.. sigh.. maybe i'll rewrite this bs when exam season is over, but i feel like if i pump this chapter now i'll have more motivation to write the rest because i am so excited for the ending tee hee hee!!! anyway, thank you all for your patience. as a thank you, i will try my best to pump out all the inbox requests and, i'll try my hardest to add everyone to the taglist but it'll probably be a while..

anyway enough yapping, thank u for reading, sorry for the short chapter! and i want to thank everyone who checked in on me, yall are awesome

can you guys tell i have motherly issues or.

taglist -

@estreiiuh @beyondblissxoxo @jjsmeowthie @vanessa-boo @delias-stuff @d3nnji @wizzerreblogs @lilyalone @strawbrysapphic @regulus-things @iimichie @meepmoopbadabeepboop @buckturd @eloriis @xoxossam @verypersonaldazzel @froggy-voidd @shycreatorreview @wassupbroski55555 @eyeless-kun @anakilusmos @devotedlyshamelessdetective @peehall @bigeyedbambi @chaeugwii @lover-girl009 @lostsomewhereinthegarden @bunniotomia @bongwaterflavoredgatoraderedgatorade @d3ly-p4v @moonstonedust24 @girlithinkimgay

[flwrkid14]

Tim and Jason: Caught Between Healing and Fear

note: completely inspired by this amazing post! tysm to @timdrakewhump for letting me use it as inspo!! <33

Tim doesn’t flinch around Jason. Not exactly. It’s more of a stiffening, a tightening of his shoulders, a flicker in his eyes that he knows Jason catches. He hates it. Everyone else has moved on. Dick forgave. Bruce rebuilt. Even Damian, with all his sharp edges, has softened into something survivable. But Tim? He still expects a hit that doesn’t come, still hears the echo of fists in the dark.

And that? That’s on him, right? It has to be. Because if everyone else can move on, why can’t he?

They don’t talk about it. Not directly. The bats have always been good at side-stepping, at smoothing over the cracks with enough shared history to pretend the damage never happened. They act like everything’s fixed, like Jason is something fragile they have to keep close, hold together. They ignore the way Tim’s shoulders tense when Jason’s voice gets too loud, the way his hands shake when shadows fall just right. They brush off his excuses to leave the room or, worse, look at him like he’s the problem.

“Jason’s trying, Tim.” “He’s better now.” “Don’t hold onto the past.”

But Tim isn’t holding on. He’s bracing.

Every patrol with Jason is a test. Every sparring match, a gamble. Jason keeps it light—punches pulled, jabs softened with crooked smiles—but Tim knows what Jason’s hands are capable of. He remembers the brutality, the raw fury that doesn’t vanish just because it’s been filed down to something more manageable. He knows Jason’s trying. He knows Jason’s better. But there’s a thin line between better and safe, and Tim’s still learning how to balance on it.

When Jason starts spending more time at the manor, no one questions it. They welcome him with open arms, eager to fill the empty spaces his absence left. He’s part of the family, they say. He needs support, they insist. So Jason sits at the dinner table, helps out on patrol, lounges on the couch like he’s always belonged there. And Tim... Tim watches from the corner of the room, a shadow on the periphery, pretending he doesn’t notice the way everyone else orbits around Jason like he’s the sun.

They send Tim on solo missions now—so Jason can have space. They say it like it’s a good thing, like they’re doing Tim a favor. More responsibility, more autonomy. He should be grateful. And he is. Or he would be, if it didn’t feel like being exiled. The irony isn’t lost on him. They don’t want Jason to be alone, so Tim has to be.

The apartment is quieter than the manor, the kind of quiet that presses in too close. No hum of the Cave, no distant footsteps of someone always nearby. It’s fine. He’s used to it. He tells himself that every night, like a mantra. He likes the solitude. It’s familiar, comforting in a way that makes his chest ache. But sometimes, when the silence stretches too thin, he thinks about calling. Jason always picks up now. He’d probably offer to come over, bridge the gap that Tim never asked to be there.

But what would Tim say? Sorry I still see the blood on your knuckles? Sorry I can’t forget how it felt to be the replacement? Sorry you came back, and I thought it would fix things, but it didn’t?

He doesn’t call.

They’re terrified of losing Jason again. They hold him close, desperate, like he might slip through their fingers if they let go for even a second. Tim understands that. He really does. He remembers the hollow ache that filled the manor after Jason died, the way grief settled into the walls like a permanent stain. No one wants to go through that again. They’d do anything to keep Jason safe, to keep him here.

But no one asks what Tim gave up. What he’s still giving up.

Jason is here, but Tim feels like he’s the ghost.

Sometimes, when they’re all gathered together—Bruce at the head of the table, Dick and Steph cracking jokes, Duke helping himself to another slice of pie—Tim looks around and wonders if anyone would notice if he slipped away. Just stood up, walked out, and didn’t come back. Would they miss him? Or would they be too busy watching Jason, making sure he doesn’t disappear again?

He catches Jason watching him sometimes, eyes sharp and knowing. Jason’s not stupid. He sees the cracks. Tim wonders if he feels guilty, or if he’s just waiting for Tim to say something, to break the silence that’s grown too thick between them. But Tim won’t. He can’t. The words stick in his throat, heavy and bitter.

So he stays quiet. He goes on solo missions, patrols alone, comes back to an empty apartment that feels less like home every day. And he tells himself it’s enough.

Because it has to be.

[kitty384]

The Space Beneath

Summary: After a hard mission, Y/N disappears into the one place that still feels safe. She doesn't want to talk, doesn’t want to be seen—she just wants to hide. But Bucky knows her too well to let her stay alone.

Content Warnings: PTSD symptoms (mild), emotional shutdown, hiding/coping behavior, soft comfort, hurt/comfort, fluff, established relationship, Bucky being the best boyfriend

There was something about the weight of silence that hit differently after a mission.

Not the kind of silence that filled the air when you were safe and still—no, this was the silence that followed chaos. A silence too loud in its emptiness. It rang in Y/N’s ears, humming over the memory of shouting, gunfire, the way her heart had pounded so hard it made her ribs ache.

She didn’t say much when they got back to the compound. No one pressed her.

Steve gave her a nod of acknowledgment. Natasha squeezed her shoulder. Bruce offered her a gentle smile. Bucky had searched her face for something—maybe a sign, a hint—but she hadn’t given him one. She couldn’t. If she spoke, if she let her hands shake, she might shatter. She might cry in front of everyone, and she wasn’t ready for that.

So she disappeared.

Not in a dramatic way. No slammed doors, no angry exits. She just… walked away. Slipped down the hall in her mission gear and socked feet, turning corners until she found the hallway that always led home.

The living room was dark. A few lights glowed dimly on the far wall, casting a soft haze over the carpet. She moved like a ghost. Not because she wanted to be seen that way, but because that’s what Hydra taught her: move quiet, move unnoticed, vanish when the world gets too loud.

She dropped to her knees beside the couch.

There was a time she would’ve chosen a closet. A locked room. A vent, maybe. But that was five years ago. Back when she didn’t know what safety was supposed to feel like. These days, safety was a warm blanket on cold furniture. The smell of peppermint tea and vanilla candles and whatever Natasha’s perfume clung to. It was this room. This couch. This space beneath it where the world didn’t exist.

Y/N crawled under slowly, her chest tight, every breath calculated.

It was cramped. Her elbow bumped a wooden beam. A few random socks were jammed into the back corner, probably Clint’s. She curled up into herself, pressing her cheek to the soft carpet. Her fingers tugged the throw blanket down from the couch edge, letting it fall like a curtain in front of her.

Darkness.

Not scary darkness. Not the kind that held nightmares or ghosts or memories of needles and sterile white light.

No—this was gentle. Close. Still.

She didn’t cry. Not yet.

She just breathed.

Time stretched thin.

She didn’t know how long she was under there. Long enough for her heartbeat to slow. Long enough for the quiet hum of the compound to settle in her bones.

And then—

Footsteps.

Slow. Careful. Not heavy like Thor’s. Not rapid like Sam’s. These were measured. Soft.

Bucky.

She knew that sound by now. She knew the way he walked, like he was always trying to make up for the times he didn’t have control over his own limbs. The way his boots barely scuffed the floor, how he hesitated just before he stepped into a room where he thought she might be.

She tensed.

Would he pull her out? Ask her what was wrong? Try to fix it?

The footsteps paused. Then there was a soft sound, the groan of leather, the clink of his knife being dropped onto the coffee table. Then—

Silence again.

Until:

“…Didn’t check here first. That’s on me,” Bucky’s voice was quiet, almost like he was talking to himself.

Y/N stayed curled up, eyes half-lidded, her fingers gripping the throw blanket.

Bucky didn’t crouch down or peek under. He didn’t call her name.

Instead, he lay down.

Right there on the carpet.

She heard the shift of his weight, the soft oof he let out as he adjusted onto his side.

And then his hand slid under the edge of the couch, palm up, open.

No words.

No pressure.

Just him, lying beside her.

Y/N blinked, throat tight. Her chest ached, but not in a way that hurt. It was… overwhelming. The good kind. The kind she still hadn’t fully learned how to hold.

She reached out slowly, her fingers brushing over his knuckles, then lacing through his. He was warm. Solid. Real.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t have to.

Minutes passed. Maybe more.

At some point, Bucky’s thumb began to trace soft circles against her skin. She couldn’t see him—just the floor, and shadows, and the safe little world she’d built under this couch—but she felt him.

Eventually, her voice broke the silence, barely above a whisper.

“I couldn’t be around them. I wanted to be okay, I did, but I just… couldn’t do it.”

“I know,” Bucky murmured. “That’s why I came here.”

Y/N let out a shaky breath. “You always find me.”

“That’s the deal,” he said simply, like it was a fact of the universe. “You don’t have to explain. I just want you to know I’m here.”

Another pause.

Then she said, voice even smaller: “I thought I was better at this by now.”

Bucky’s hand squeezed hers gently. “You are. Being better doesn’t mean you never hide. It means knowing where to go when you need to. It means trusting someone enough to let them stay.”

Tears welled in her eyes then—not from sadness, but from love so thick it filled her up and spilled over.

She pressed her forehead to the back of his hand, breathing him in.

Metal and warmth and home.

When she finally crawled out from under the couch, blinking at the soft overhead light, Bucky didn’t say a word. He just opened his arms and pulled her close, letting her melt into him.

They sat on the floor together for a long time. Just breathing.

And for the first time since they got back, she felt okay.

Masterlist

Request

[invincibledc]

Please please pleaseeeee can we have more of Jack?

જ⁀➴𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐠! 𝐏𝐨𝐰! 𝐁𝐨𝐨𝐦!

 ────୨ৎ────

𝐉𝐀𝐂𝐊 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐍𝐍 (𝐎𝐂) 𝐗 𝐁𝐀𝐓𝐒𝐈𝐒!𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑

Synopsis: when Jack explodes. He explodes. All because his own henchmen had fucked with the wrong person to kidnapped. The one to be the start of his obsession.

Genre: oneshot/slight yandere

Info: this OC is an OC I’m written for my own amusement. He’s the son of Harley Quinn and joker. Full name, Jacklyn Oswald Quinn. I got bored. Reader is the twin sister of Damian, but Damian is the older twin of course. Im only a writer so you can imagine who he looks more like but all I can is he is handsome canonically in my head and anything. Boy’s crazy but handsome.

Word count: 822

Anger barely encapsulates what Jack feels in this moment. His men had promised him a surprise, and he had little patience for surprises.

With his dyed green hair and piercing cold blue eyes, he strode into the warehouse where his so-called henchmen awaited. Sucking on a blueberry-flavored lollipop, his favorite, he remained unfazed by the setting around him.

Jack positioned himself in front of the massive door, inhaling deeply before stepping inside. “Where are they?” he demanded, his voice low and gravelly. He navigated through the stacks of storage boxes until he finally spotted his henchmen—three older men—glaring at him with the usual joker goon attire. Their lack of enthusiasm set a tone that didn’t sit well with him.

“What’s this all about?” he asked, moving assertively toward the trio.

“Guess what!” one of them chimed in, a bald man Jack had nicknamed Baldie due to his shiny head. Jack bit down harder on the lollipop, feeling his time stretched thin.

“Spit it out,” he ordered coldly, his expression darkening. He longed to return to the place he reluctantly called "home," even if it hardly felt like home at all. The three men exchanged glances before one of them shifted away, prompting Jack to raise an eyebrow in skepticism.

Minutes later, Jack sees a girl with a bag over her head. She seemed to be unconscious, making Jack furrow his brow and narrow his eyes to almost slits.

“Who the hell is she?” he snapped, the Brooklyn accent sharpening his tone. “Don’t tell me you brought me some damn girl off the streets.” As he spoke, he yanked the lollipop stick from his mouth, discarding it recklessly.

Jack strode toward the girl’s body, a confident smirk on his henchmen’s faces as they watched him take action with a decisive, swift movement.

But as Jack saw her, his eyes widened in shock. His henchmen misinterpreted this reaction, thinking he was simply entertained.

“Tada! We captured Bruce Wayne’s daughter. Aren’t you thrilled, boss?” the bald one taunted, while the others nodded in agreement.

Jack stayed quiet, his hand caressing your face. Your beautiful face with a busted lip, a small bruise under your eye. His hand started to shake, his other hand balled into a fist, it was obvious they caught you off guard.

They harmed your face.

They dared to mar the beauty he cherishes in you. Jack rose to his feet, a shadow cloaking his face. He began to laugh slowly, but it was not the familiar laugh that echoed in the past.

No, this one was chilling, dark, and laced with malice. He felt something more profound than mere anger—he felt a fierce rage, an overwhelming possession, an all-consuming obsession.

He would be the one to confront you; he would dominate this cat-and-mouse game. They have interfered with his design and obliterated its very essence. They have trampled on his obsession.

Jack's laughter erupted, louder and more menacing, sending a spine-tingling sensation through his henchmen. The pride that once adorned their faces began to fade, replaced by the dawning realization of fear.

“You.. you did this?” He says, still laughing through words as he points to your body, tied up by ropes that also seem to bruise your body.

“W-we did..” one of them said with uncertainty how to answer.

With that simple answer, Jack stopped laughing. He turned his head to face them, finally giving them a glance at his crazed expression. His cold eyes were freezing, the natural blue now deep ocean blue eyes.

“That’s all I wanted to know.” Immediately with that, Jack pulled out a gun, pointing it with a dark expression. “It was fun when it lasted, pathetic.”

The bald one stood up straight, feeling brave as he walked towards the boy. “That’s a toy gun, you aren’t fooling anyone, Junior.” the man says, trying to lighten the situation.

“Is it?” Jack said with a mused grin, the bald man went to snatch the gun when a loud gunshot ran through the air.

The man fell suddenly in front of Jack, Jack’s cold blue eyes stared at the bleeding body. Blood spattered on his clothes and face. Jack effortlessly wiped the blood off his painted face with his gloved thumb.

He looks up at the other men who seem like they sit in their pants, which is good to know.

“I’m not forgiving the rest of you who stuck with this plan.” He raises his arm, the men try to protest, trying the find the words to plead to the emotionless boy.

“Wa-wait!—”

Two gunshots went off.

Jack sighed, putting his gun up and looking at your body with a somber look. “Oh baby girl, they fucked up ya' face, your beautiful face my beloved.” He says softly, untying you from the ropes.

He lifted you bridal style and left the warehouse, not caring for the bodies as all he cared about was you.

His obsession.

[witherby]

It’s me again!! And with another LW idea:))

Alr so- imagine Kon and Mouse having a little movie night over at the manor and js trying to have fun but Bruce and mouse’s brothers (and maybe Hal and Alfred) keep trying to get between them whenever they get too close for their liking- like even if it’s js Mouse leaning on Kon’s shoulder.

-🌻

OH MY GOD AMAZING

The Littlest Wayne: Movie Night

Conner Kent x GN!Reader

Masterlist is Here!

Conner: tries to do the yawn-and-stretch maneuver as they sit together in the theatre room

Dick, materializing out of thin air: HEY GUYS WHATCHA WATCHIN CAN I JOIN

Mouse: Oh! Hey...yeah, I guess! There's plenty of seats over —

Dick: amazing!!!!!! I love family time!!!!!

Dick: squeezes purposefully between Flittermouse and Conner despite the numerous seats in that big-ass theatre

Dick: I LOVE PLATONIC FAMILY TIME SO MUCH

Mouse: :(

--

Mouse and Kon: streaming a movie on a laptop in Mouse's room

Mouse: scoots closer and wraps an arm around Conner

Conner, red as a cherry: h-hi, hey....how about this movie, huh? Real...action-packed and —

Mouse: we're watching a rom-com?

Conner: I'm sorry, I...wasn't paying attention. I was thinking about making out with you.

Mouse, grinning and leaning in: what a coincidence. I was thinking the same thing...

Damian, kicking the door in: BABY SIBLING, WHY IS YOUR DOOR CLOSED. YOU KNOW THE RULES WHEN THE HALF-BREED IS HERE.

Conner: Half-breed? :(

Damian: WHERE IS THE ROOM YOU'RE MEANT TO LEAVE FOR JESUS

Mouse: Dami, we're Jewish. Also why are you here, you have a shift at the hospital today >:(

Damian: I'M ASKING THE QUESTIONS. I WILL TAKE THE LORD'S PLACE TO MAINTAIN YOUR PURITY. SCOOT OVER AT ONCE AND PLEASE RESTART THE NOTEBOOK. PASS THE POPCORN.

Mouse: >:((

--

Mouse and Conner in a movie theatre just trying to enjoy themselves: :)

Conner: holds Mouse's hand as they share the arm rest

Tim, sitting directly behind them: Keep those mitts to yourself, Kent.

Conner, lacing his own fingers together in his lap: :(

Mouse: >>:((

--

Jason: Don't even think about it

Mouse: oH COME ON, I JUST WANNA WATCH A MOVIE AND CUDDLE WITH MY BOYFRIEND

Jason: Movie cuddling is the gateway drug to movie making out, which is the gateway drug to movie head, which is the gateway drug to movie sex, and then bam, you're six months pregnant with your third child and suing the baby daddy for child support.

Mouse: what the fuck

Jason: LOL, I'm just fuckin' with you. Bruce put me in charge of chaperoning your little date but I don't give a shit what you get up to.

Mouse: :D

Jason: Just no head

Mouse: D:

Jason: I'm kidding. Head if you want. Just make him wear a condom.

Mouse, sobbing: I just wanna watch a fucking movie, why are you all making it weird, I hate this family

Conner: was genuinely wondering for a second if he was about to get head

[mimiiiiiiiiisstuff]

"Here"

Ok yall I'm back with chapter 7!! Hopefully this posts bc it wasn't working yesterday. Sorry if it's confusing, I rewrote it like 5 times! I tried not to use {y/n} but i mightve slipped up! Hope ya'll enjoy!! The plot is finally moving!! Lmk if you have any questions. Likes, reblogs, and asks motivate me! I love when yall send me your ideas and comments and asks! Wish me luck, I'm posting this and then taking my math exam! If you don't like it, don't read, stop sending mean asks and submissions!

Breakfast the next morning was horrible.

The awkward silence lingered, thick with unspoken words and eyes that felt like they were scanning every inch of you. You could feel their weight on your back, like a thousand invisible hands pushing you deeper into your seat, forcing you to stay in this uncomfortable moment.

You could already feel the heat rising in your chest, but you bit your lip, forcing yourself to take a deep breath. You weren’t going to lose your cool—not yet.

Damian’s gaze was fixed on you, like he was waiting for some kind of reaction, his lips pressed into a thin line. You knew what he was expecting: compliance. Submission. He expected you to shrink back under his scrutiny. And yet, there was something oddly satisfying about not giving him that satisfaction.

Instead, you focused on the plate in front of you, stabbing your fork into the pancakes with far too much force. You were still hungry, but the food felt like cardboard in your mouth, tasteless and dry, even though Alfred’s cooking was always the best.

Bruce was still watching you, his eyes heavy with a kind of expectant patience, like he was just waiting for you to crack. You could feel the tension in the room like a ticking clock, the seconds stretching longer than you’d ever thought possible.

"Why are you all staring at me?" you finally muttered, breaking the silence, your voice low but biting. You didn't look up from your plate, but you could feel the eyes on you. They all thought they could break you. They thought you were some fragile little thing, someone they could fix with their pity and their "family time." But you weren’t. You’d stopped being that person a long time ago.

Dick was the first to speak, his voice softer than usual, like he was trying to tread lightly around you. “We’re just trying to connect, I know it’s been a long time, and things got… complicated, but we don’t want to lose you again. Not after all this time.”

His words weren’t as comforting as he probably thought they were. In fact, they made your skin crawl. He was trying to be kind, but it felt forced, like he was reading from a script. You didn’t need this. Not from him, not from any of them. You wanted them to stop pretending like they could fix everything with a few hugs, a couple of "we missed you"s.

“I didn’t ask for this,” you said quietly, your voice almost a whisper, but it carried a weight. “I didn’t ask to be here. And I didn’t ask to be part of this family anymore.”

Bruce’s jaw tightened at your words, but he didn’t say anything at first. You could feel the flicker of something in his expression—guilt, maybe. Regret. He was looking at you, like he was trying to see the person you used to be. The person you had been before everything fell apart.

You weren’t that person anymore. And he needed to understand that.

“You don’t get to decide that,” Damian suddenly said, his voice a little too sharp. “You can’t just shut us out like this. You’re still a part of this family. Whether you like it or not.”

Your eyes shot up to meet his. " I can shut you all out, I can do whatever I want” you snapped, the frustration leaking through. “You’ve done it to me for years.”

Dick’s brow furrowed, his lips pulling into a frown. For a second, he looked genuinely taken aback by your words, “You don’t understand,” he said, his tone quieter but still laced with an edge. “We didn’t abandon you. Not on purpose. You think we didn’t care? You just never seemed to need help.”

You could feel the sting of his words, but you pushed it down, locking it away. You weren’t going to break. Not for him. Not for any of them. Of course you never needed help, you were too busy trying to be perfect.

“I was just a kid,” you replied, your voice a little rawer, louder than you intended. “And I was ignored by the people who were supposed to be there for me. So fuck you and fuck your family time too.”

There was a long pause, everyone looked around in shock, not expecting you to be so combatant and then Jason finally spoke up, his tone softer than usual, less teasing. “We’re trying, okay? I'm trying. We’re not perfect, and I’m not asking you to just forget everything. But we want to try. Let us try.”

You shot him a look, your eyes narrowing. “Trying isn’t good enough,” you muttered, your voice tight. “Not when it’s years too late. I don't want scraps of love anymore, not when i've had the real deal.”

Everyone seemed to quiet at the last part of your statement, suspicious of what it meant and from who you received "love" from. What convinced you that you didn't need them anymore?

“Then what do you want?” Tim interjected, his voice suddenly sharper, more direct than before. “What do you want from us? We’re here, and we’re trying to make it right. But you’ve got to meet us halfway.”

You wanted to scream. You wanted to tell them that nothing would ever be good enough, that the damage was already done. But you didn’t. Instead, you just stared at Tim, meeting his eyes with a challenge of your own. You didn’t owe them answers. Not anymore.

“I don’t know,” you said finally, your voice quieter now, almost defeated. “I don’t know what I want.”

It was the truth. You didn’t know what you wanted. You didn’t know if there was anything they could do to fix things. But one thing was certain: you didn’t want to stay in this mansion, suffocated by their expectations. You didn’t want to play along with their idea of a happy family.

Before anyone could respond, you stood up abruptly, pushing your chair back with a loud scrape against the floor.

“Don’t worry about me,” you said, turning on your heel. “I’ll figure it out on my own. I always have.”

You heard Duke’s soft voice in the background, calling after you, but you didn’t stop. You just walked out of the dining room, your heart pounding in your chest as you made your way toward the staircase.

As you climbed the stairs, you could feel their eyes on your back, the weight of their presence pressing down on you, but you didn’t care anymore. You didn’t care if they watched. You didn’t care if they were disappointed. You just wanted to be alone.

That day, you stayed in bed. You ignored every knock on your door, every phone call, every beg and plead to come down and eat. You just wanted to be alone.

You woke up to the quiet hum of the manor, but it was far from peaceful. The silence was suffocating, a constant reminder that there was no escaping them—not now. You tried to pretend the night before hadn’t happened, that their constant attention wasn’t as overwhelming as it was, that you were going back to New York soon. Unfortunately, fantasies don't become realities, especially when reality is chasing them down.

Every one of them was here, waiting. Watching.

Bruce stood near the staircase, his presence larger than life. His eyes lingered on you as if he expected something. You weren’t sure what. Maybe gratitude, maybe obedience. He said nothing, just watched you with that expression of silent insistence.

“Good morning,” he said in that deep, calm voice of his, but there was something off about it. There was a layer of expectation beneath his words, like he was waiting for something from you.

You ignored him, brushing past him without a second glance. You didn’t want to engage, didn’t want to pretend like everything was okay. But it didn’t matter. They were all around you now, slowly closing in.

Tim was the next to corner you. You could feel his calculating eyes on you the moment you stepped into the kitchen. He had a cup of coffee in hand, but his focus was on you. Just you.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, the question seemingly casual but the undertone too sharp, too analytical. It wasn’t just a question, it was a probe, a way for him to gauge how much control he had over you.

You rolled your eyes, reaching for the fridge to grab something that could distract you, something that could make the reality of this house feel a little less like a cage. But the moment your hand touched the door, he was there, standing far too close, watching you, almost breathing down your neck.

“You know,” Tim said, his voice low, “we can talk today. If you want. We need to keep your abilities in check, make sure you’re safe, protected. ” His tone lingered on that last word, like he was reminding you that you were under his watch now.

You hated how calmly he said it. It made your skin crawl.

Steph was next, adding onto what Tim said with her stupid signature smile, "He's right y'know. It's dangerous out there. For you especially."

You ignored them both. Payback for their years of negligence.

Tim just stood there for a moment, his eyes scanning your face. “Fine, be like that,” he muttered, before walking away, but you knew he wasn’t done. He never was.

And then there was Dick. His usual cheerful demeanor didn’t falter as he breezed into the room, but it was too cheerful, too bright. He was pushing something, forcing something, like he was trying to manufacture happiness out of thin air, trying to remind you of who you were, who you used to be.

“Hey! How about we do something today?” he said, his voice far too eager. “We could go out and grab coffee, breakfast, anything. I know you’re probably not feeling it, but you need to get out of this house for a bit.”

You wanted tear him apart for thinking you could just “forget” everything and fall back into some comfortable, happy routine. But you didn’t. Instead, you just nodded stiffly, walking past him without acknowledging his words.

“Come on,” he tried again, following you, “It’ll be fun, I promise.”

“Just drop it, Dick,” you said, your voice like ice. “I’m not going anywhere. Ya'll made that pretty clear.”

His face faltered for just a moment before he plastered that damn grin back on. But you saw it, the frustration and determination behind his eyes. He wasn’t going to stop. None of them were.

Jason leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a smirk you couldn’t quite decipher. “Ah, the princess finally comes out her tower,” he teased. “What? Got tired of throwing shit around in there?"

You narrowed your eyes, feeling the heat in your chest rise. Jason always had a way of pissing you off with his words, making everything seem like a joke, but you knew there was something darker underneath. He wanted to get a rise out of you, he craved it. He wanted you to go back to being his annoying little sister with anger issues.

“Shut up, Jason,” you muttered, turning away from him, not caring that you weren’t hiding your anger anymore. “I’m not in the mood for your bullshit today.”

Jason just laughed, but there was a hint of something softer there, something that felt almost... like concern, buried beneath the sarcasm.

“Stop,” you snapped, but before you could escape, Damian stepped in.

Damian was the most direct, the most unforgiving in his attempts to bond. He stepped into your path without hesitation, his posture rigid and eyes narrowed, as if daring you to push him away.

“You don’t get it, do you?” he said, his voice low, yet intense. “You think you’re some rebellious teenager trying to escape, but you’re not. You don’t get a choice in this.” His words weren’t harsh, they were final, like he had already decided your fate. And you were staying here, whether you liked it or not.

“You’re wrong,” you spat, your voice venomous. "I don’t need you.”

Damian tilted his head slightly, an unsettling calm settling over him. “You’ll need us eventually. Whether you want to or not. And you'll be grateful we never let you go.”

Your heart pounded in your chest, but you didn’t let him see it. Not yet. His audacity was insane. To think that you'd be thankful for being trapped in Gotham. Never.

As you tried to walk past him, you collided with Cass, who was standing silently behind you, her eyes filled with that knowing, unspoken concern. She's so creepy. She didn’t say a word but you could feel her presence, like a weight pressing down on you.

Cass placed a hand gently on your arm, her touch barely more than a whisper, but it was enough to make you freeze.

Why are they acting like this? What changed these two weeks?

"You’re safe here," she said quietly, her words cutting through the tension in a way that made your skin crawl. It wasn’t a suggestion, it was a command.

You pulled away sharply, nearly punching her, your fists clenched at your sides. “I'm not happy.” you said, more to yourself than to her.

But she didn’t respond. Of course she didn’t. Her eyes just followed you, and that was worse than any words.

Barbara was close by, but she didn’t need to be loud. She never did. She had this way of talking in soft tones that made everything sound so reasonable. So loving.

“You don’t have to keep shutting us out,” she said gently. “You can talk to us. We just want to make sure you’re okay. All of us. We care about you.”

You felt the weight of her words crash down on you, suffocating you with their sweetness, with their hidden demands. Care. It was just another word for control, for keeping you locked in their world, locked in their gaze. If they cared, they would let you be happy in New York.

“Just stop,” you whispered, more to yourself than to her. “Just... stop.”

You sat in your room for hours again, ignoring everyone.

Bruce had spent the last few days carefully watching you, keeping his distance just enough to make you think you had some semblance of freedom, but now he was ready to step in, to claim his role as your father.

He had promised himself when you left for France, he would make it right. That he would make up for everything he had missed, for every moment he had abandoned you for the greater good of Gotham. But now, as the silence stretched between you two, he was determined to close that distance.

You had just returned to your room after another breakfast you didn’t want to be part of when you heard the knock.

It was Bruce.

“You’re not busy, are you?” he asked, his voice almost too warm, too hopeful.

You shot him a glance, wondering if he truly thought this would work. After everything that had happened, after all the times he had failed you, he still thought a few “father-daughter” moments could make things better.

"I guess not," you replied flatly, stepping aside to let him in, your mind already racing with how to get through whatever this was going to be.

The moment he entered, Bruce seemed to settle, as though he had a plan in mind, one he was eager to execute.

“Good,” he said, looking around the room, his eyes scanning for something, maybe an opportunity. Then, he turned back to you, hands clasped behind his back. “I thought today, we could spend some time together. Just us. It’s been a while since we’ve done something like this, hasn’t it? School starts soon and you'll get busy, you won't have time for me anymore.”

He was trying to joke around.

School. More like prison. The more he mentioned school, the angrier you got. You'd never done something like this. He did it with all his other kids though, with Tiffany. As you thought of her, all ideas of being nice to Bruce, of trying to bond with your father, flew out the window.

The words felt like a slap, and you couldn’t keep the bite from your tone. “Is that what you think this is? Quality time? You really think we’re just gonna pick up where we left off? Think you can change the past with brunch?”

Bruce’s eyes softened for a moment, his expression cracking, but only slightly. The guilt was there, unmistakable, but it didn’t erase the unspoken expectation behind his words. His voice became more gentle, more insistent.

“I know it’s not easy,” he said, his voice steady but laced with something else—something almost pleading, though he would never admit it. “But I want to make this right. You deserve this. You deserve... me. We can go out, maybe catch a movie, grab lunch, talk, whatever you want. I just want to be with you. Like you always talked about.”

You didn’t respond immediately. For a moment, you just stood there, frozen, as the weight of his words crashed over you. It was nice watching him beg for once. You had always wanted this. Wanted him. Wanted him to be a father, to care for you like he did the others. But that was before you tasted freedom, before you tried love.

Now, the idea of spending time with him felt like a betrayal to everything you had tried to protect: your own independence, your own space, your freedom. You didn’t want to be a part of his perfect little family anymore.

“No.” you muttered, unable to stop the anger from flooding your chest. “You really think that’s going to fix things? You think I just forgot what you did? Because i'm nice sometimes?”

Bruce didn’t flinch at your words, didn’t even show any sign of anger. Instead, he just stepped closer, his presence filling up the room, looming over you like an impenetrable wall. His tone remained patient, almost too controlled, like he was walking on eggshells.

“I know I can’t undo the past,” he said quietly, a trace of regret slipping through. “But I can be here for you now. I won’t make the same mistakes. I promise.”

A cold laugh escaped your lips. “You already have.”

You could feel your pulse quicken, the anger bubbling up inside you, but you pushed it back. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing you break.

Bruce’s eyes softened even further, the guilt twisting in his expression, and for a moment, you saw something else there—desperation. As if he was begging you to let him in, to give him just one chance to prove he wasn’t the same person who had abandoned you for years.

“We could just sit and talk,” he said, his voice low and sincere. “No expectations. No agenda. Just us. I’m not trying to fix you or make everything perfect. I just want to spend time with my daughter.”

Something in you snapped at the mention of daughter. The word that had haunted you for years. The word that had felt like a lie every time he used it. You clenched your fists, struggling to keep your composure.

“No,” you said, your voice flat, cutting through the tension like a knife. “You don’t get it. I don’t want this anymore. I don't want you anymore.”

Bruce’s face faltered, just for a moment, before he recovered. But the hurt was there, tucked in the corners of his eyes. “I'm sorry. I hope you know that.”

You shook your head, not wanting to hear it anymore. The damage was done. He couldn’t erase it. No amount of “father-daughter time” was going to make you forget what it had been like when he wasn’t there for you.

“Stop,” you snapped, taking a step back. “Just stop. You don’t get to do this, Bruce. You don’t get to waltz in here and act like everything is fine. Like everything’s fixed. You’ve ruined it. All of it.”

Bruce opened his mouth, but no words came. You could see the conflict in his eyes, the struggle to understand where it had gone wrong.

“I’m just trying to make up for it,” he said quietly, but the sound of it made your stomach churn. The way his voice cracked slightly at the end of the sentence only made it worse.

And you hated yourself for feeling even a little guilty for saying no.

But no. You wouldn’t let him do this. Not again.

“I don’t want your apologies,” you spat, your tone sharp, venomous. “And I don’t want your ‘time.’ You don’t get to play the father now.”

Without waiting for a response, you turned on your heel and walked toward the door. You needed to escape. You needed space. You needed to breathe. You were leaving your own room to get away from him.

Bruce’s voice stopped you, and you felt the pull of his desperate plea in the back of your mind. His words clung to you, too heavy, too much. “I'll go, don't leave. This is your room. I just want you to know I’m here. I’ll always be here.”

You watched your father walk away, and only after he left did you fall to your bed and cry.

The next days before school were a blur. You spent them locked in your room, alternating between crying on the phone with Ariel, avoiding the family when you went down to sneak food to your room, trying to butter up Bruce and convince him to let you go back to boarding school, and online shopping.

Yet somehow Monday morning you were up at 5:30 getting into the shower.

The thought of returning to Gotham Prep made your stomach churn. How could you go back to a place where you had no true friends? A school where you’d been bullied by half your grade. Where Tim pretended you didn’t exist, Damian and Tiffany ridiculed you in front of everyone, and Duke ignored you like you were invisible. Where you ate lunch in the bathroom, alone and cried in the janitor's closet like a loser.

But you weren't the same girl who walked through those halls last year. No, this year was going to be different. You were different.

Last night, as you scrolled through Tik Tok, a new idea formed in your mind. You’d had enough of being invisible. It was time for a change.

You had a plan.

You found the bleach blonde hair dye in your bathroom, hidden away in the back of a drawer. You didn’t need permission, and you certainly didn’t need anyone to hold your hand.

By the time the dye had set and you’d rinsed it out, you felt like a new person. It was the kind of hair that would make people stop and stare.

You woke at 5:30 and hopped in the shower, you wanted to take your time getting ready. You plugged in your pink dyson and curled your new blonde hair, it would fall into a blow out later in the day, complaining about your family to Ariel and Claire. You spent the next two hours getting ready, perfecting your makeup. You’d learned to contour, learned to do your eyeliner just right, and became a bronzer girl over the summer. You grabbed your favorite Chanel palette and messily applied dark eyeshadow in smoky charcoal, blending seamlessly into the crease of your eyes and eyeliner. You smudged on a bold dark burgundy lipshine that drew attention. You weren’t trying to be anyone but yourself, your new self.

Then came the clothes.

You'd already shortened your Gotham Prep skirt by more than a few inches. It was below your knees and now it showed off the thighs you spent all summer tanning. You wanted to make a statement, and if they didn’t like it, that was their problem. The white blouse, originally oversized, was now form-fitting, you wanted it to give that one Bella Hadid picture. You left the top buttons undone, the tie hanging loosely around your neck in a deliberate, I-don’t-care gesture. You could feel the fabric clinging to your skin, reminding you of how much control you were regaining. You looked like the kind of girls you used to call whores last year.

You looked through your drawers for your signature jewelry you collected over the summer and during school. Big gold hoops on your ears, studs in all your other ear piercings, a tiffany heart necklace that rested on your exposed collar bone, and multiple bracelets stacked on each arm, jingling as you moved.

As you stood in front of the mirror, you smiled. You looked good.

Lastly you grabbed your Isabel Marant sneakers, chic and effortless, and slipped them on. They were expensive, but it wasn’t about the price—it was about the look. The vibe. Then, more than few spritzes of perfume. Something sharp, and not too sweet. You wanted to make a lasting impression, to turn heads as you walked.

By the time you were done, you felt invincible. The girl staring back at you was someone who didn’t care what anyone thought. You weren’t going to be bullied anymore. You were going to be the one who dictated the terms.

You walked out of your room, head held high, your heart pounding with anticipation.

Downstairs, the Batfamily was gathered at the breakfast table, doing their usual routine. They all stopped talking the second they saw you.

You’d barely stepped into the room when the heavy silence fell over the table. Bruce looked up, his expression instantly darkening. His lips pressed together in a thin line, his gaze flicking over your appearance.

“Is this what you're wearing?” His voice was tight, a hint of disapproval slipping into the words.

You gave him a look that said everything. “Is something wrong? I thought it was cute.” Your tone was soft, teasing, but with a bite underneath. You weren’t asking for his permission. You were daring him to say something.

Tim, who had been looking at his phone, blinked up at you with wide eyes. He’d been so engrossed in whatever he was reading that he didn’t even seem to know how to respond. His fingers hovered over his screen, unsure whether or not to comment.

“Are you seriously going to school looking like that?” His voice was tight, an edge of surprise and confusion beneath it.

You crossed your arms, leaning back in the doorway. “What? You don’t like it? Your friends might.” You knew how to unsettle him. That much you were sure of. You wanted to push his buttons, make him paranoid.

Dick was the next to react. He put down his coffee, glancing over at Bruce before looking back at you. “I get that you’re, you know, trying something new,” he began carefully, but the unease in his voice was clear. He was trying to be supportive, trying to understand, but it didn’t take much to see how disapproving he felt. “But—”

“But what, Dick?” you interrupted with a sudden change of attitude. “You don’t like it? That’s a shame. It's so crazy I literally never asked.”

His mouth opened, but no words came out. He simply shifted in his seat, uncomfortable.

Jason snorted, clearly not impressed. “You trying to turn heads or get yourself in trouble? Skirt's too short, change that shit.” His voice was low, but it had a sharpness to it now. His gaze scanned you from head to toe, his mouth curving into an almost imperceptible frown.

You weren’t fazed by his dismissive and angry attitude. If anything, it made you want to lean into it more. “I'm not changing, you want alonger skirt? You go put one on and come talk.” You shrugged nonchalantly, your tone saccharine sweet. "And I don't want trouble, but i don't mind it."

“Yeah, I can tell,” Jason drawled, eyeing the large hoops dangling from your ears. “Nice hoops. Real classy.” His lips twitched, mocking the exaggerated size of them. "I didn’t realize big was your thing now."

You smirked, reaching up to tug at one of the hoops, the gesture playful, but intending to piss him off. “Big boys like big things, Jason,” you replied smoothly, without missing a beat. “And you know what they say, the bigger the hoop, the bigger the....” You were quickly cut off before you could finish talking and ruining everyone's apittite.

Damian, ever the hater, set down his cereal with a dramatic flare, slamming it down and glared at you. “You look like you belong in a cheap nightclub, not Gotham Prep. Should we drop you off on the nearest corner?” His words were sharp, cutting—typical Damian, though you could hear the pure anger in his voice.

You chuckled softly, not phased in the slightest. You'd rather be at a cheap nightclub honestly. “I’m just bringing a little fun to Gotham, Damian. You should try it sometime, maybe then you wouldn't be so hateful all the time." Your tone was uninterested, like his insults weren't even worth your time.

Steph and Cass exchanged a look, both clearly unsure of how to react. Cass, as always, seemed more interested in watching you than engaging, while Steph’s gaze flickered between you and the rest of the family. Barbra was just staring at you in disbelief.

“Is it really that bad?” Steph finally asked, though her voice wasn’t quite as gentle as it could have been. There was a nervous edge to it. “I mean, you’re, uh, pulling it off…” She trailed off, clearly unsure how to proceed.

You ignored her, who cares what she thinks? Her and the rest of them are irrelevant. If you like it then so what. Her comment did make your lips twitch into a smile subconsciously though.

Alfred, who’d been quietly observing the exchange, cleared his throat before standing. “Miss, I must say, it’s a rather bold change. But perhaps not one that will be received well by the staff and teachers.” His words were polite, but you could hear the disapproval in the undertones.

You gave him a bright smile, not at all sorry. “I’ll take my chances, Alfred. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine. I've played this game before.”

Bruce, who had been seething quietly, finally stood up from the table. His usual calm demeanor was replaced with a tense frustration. “Go change. Now.”

You raised an eyebrow, your lips curving into a slow, deliberate smile. “Make me.”

There was a flicker of surprise in his eyes, then something else, something more. He clenched his fists for a moment, clearly fighting to maintain control. But you weren’t backing down. Not this time.

“I’m not going to let you walk out of here like that,” Bruce snapped.

You didn’t miss a beat. “You won't let me do anything. I go to school like this or I don't go at all. And since when do you care?” You crossed your arms and stuck your foot out, pouting like a child, staring him down waiting for him to surrender.

Bruce hesitated for a moment, his expression softening ever slightly. “Fine. But you’re pushing it. You're not going like this tomorrow.”

Bruce 0, You 1.

Jason, who had been watching the exchange with interest, chuckled. “You really know how to work him, don’t you?”

You flashed a smile at him, leaning back in your chair as you stood up and grabbed your bag, ready to leave the room. “Come on, let’s get out of here. We're already late. Jason, you driving?” Jason was the most fun, and he wasn't as nosy as Dick or Barbra.

Jason raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, I’m driving us all today. Come on, let’s go before Dad starts pulling rank.”

With a dramatic sigh, Bruce reluctantly agreed, shooting a last, disapproving look at your outfit before turning toward the door.

The engine of Jason’s car hummed steadily, but the air inside was anything but calm. You had decided to make this ride your moment. If you were uncomfy, you'd make them all feel the same. The others in the car—Damian, Tim, and Duke—were bracing themselves for your usual attitude, though this time you could tell there was a noticeable edge to the tension.

Jason, who was driving, was trying his best to keep his eyes on the road, but you knew he was glaring at you through the rearview mirror. Damian was next to you in the backseat, arms crossed and eyes narrowed, like he was ready to throw down at any second. Tim sat on the other side, buried in his homework, something to do with Gotham Prep’s ever-pressing academic requirements. Nerd.

And Duke? Duke was the least bothered, but you were sure he was mentally rolling his eyes at you the moment you stepped into the car.

You were far too busy with your phone, flipping through TikTok videos and checking your DMs, but every so often, you’d glance at the boys just to see their reactions.

“So…” You leaned forward a little, propping your elbow on the middle console. Your voice was light, casual, but you could feel the energy shift around you. You knew this would get under Jason’s skin. “You think any of the boys at Gotham Prep will notice my glow up? ”

You heard a long, heavy sigh from the driver’s seat before Jason muttered, “She's in that phase huh,"

But you weren’t listening. You were too busy smirking at Tim, who barely looked up from his book. You could feel his eyes narrow, probably out of sheer annoyance. “I mean, it’s inevitable, right?” you continued. “I'm 16 now, I'm better looking. Is there any fresh meat since I left? Anyone interesting, new friends maybe??"

Jason was silent for a moment, but you could see the grip on the steering wheel tightening in his peripheral. He wasn’t going to let you get away with this.

"Listen," Jason said, his voice calm but with that sharp edge he always used when he was trying not to lose his temper. "I don’t want to hear about boys, okay? Not today, not ever."

You blinked dramatically, as if you were the one being attacked. “Oh, come on, Jason, don’t be such a buzzkill. I’m not doing anything. I just wanna know if anyone’s looking.” You reached forward and pressed the button to connect your phone to the car’s Bluetooth, your nails clicking loudly across the screen as you searched for the perfect song to add to the atmosphere.

You knew you were getting to him. Jason was always so serious when it came to boys, always so guarded, especially when it came to you. It was fun getting under his skin. He glanced over his shoulder at you, but you were already half-distracted by your phone.

“Relax, Jase,” you shot back, ignoring his glare. “I’m not doing anything wrong. I’m just curious. It’s just—boys.”

You needed something to stop the ache that came with your new powers.

“Don’t make me pull this car over,” Jason threatened, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror again.

You laughed softly, loving how easily you could provoke him. You leaned back in your seat, stretching out your legs, and noticed Damian watching you like he was deciding whether to strangle you with his own scarf.

“Damian, you’re so serious,” you sigh, you'd been ignoring him lately but you forgot how easy he is to provoke. “You know, you should loosen up. Boys are fun to look at, and to—” You cut yourself off before you could finish the sentence, letting the tension simmer.

Damian’s face twisted in that way he did when he was trying to pretend you didn’t bother him. “I don’t care what you do with boys,” he muttered. “But if you think I’m going to sit in this car while you talk about them like you’re some kind of—”

“Oh, no,” you interrupted with a teasing smile, “Not some kind of what? Some kind of what?” You stretched your legs a little further, drawing more attention to the hem of your skirt as you adjusted yourself in your seat. Making it even shorter now that Bruce wasn't here. You felt the eyes of your brothers boring into you, especially Jason's. “Honestly, Damian, lighten up. If you stopped being such a little grumpy loser all the time, you’d get more attention from girls. You have my looks y'know. ”

Tim, who had been pretending to focus on his homework this whole time, finally looked up from his papers with an exasperated sigh. “Can you not?” he asked, voice strained. “We’ve got school in twenty minutes. We don’t need a whole lecture about boys in the car.”

“Hey, no need to be so dramatic, Tim,” you said, turning your attention to your phone. You found your favorite song, the one that was guaranteed to annoy everyone in the car. “I’m just having fun. It’s not like I’m gonna do anything crazy. I just wanna know who’s gonna be there today."

You were making them all uncomfortable, and you loved it. You could already see Damian’s jaw tightening in the rearview mirror and Jason’s knuckles whitening around the steering wheel. Tim was staring at you like you were a whole new level of annoying. Even Duke rolled his eyes.

But that wasn’t enough. You needed them to be seething.

“I’m telling you right now,” Jason warned, his voice dead serious, “no boys today. No messing around. You’re going to class, and you’re staying focused. I'll check your phone if I have to. Got it?”

You put on your best innocent face, looking up from your phone as if you hadn’t just been causing a small riot in the car. “Okay, okay, Jason. No boys. I'm more into men anyway.”

Damian scoffed again, muttering something about how “pathetic” it was. You just grinned and rolled your eyes.

“Hey, you’re just jealous because girls don’t look at you,” you said, winking at him. “Maybe if you weren’t such a pain in the ass, you’d get noticed more.”

Duke, who had been quietly observing the entire conversation, finally spoke up from the backseat, his tone easygoing but with a hint of amusement. “You got any tips for me? Am I chopped liver”

You rolled your eyes at him, still not over his betrayal. “Glad you’re entertained, Duke. I don't think even I could help you.”

As you said that, you grabbed the aux cord and plugged it into your phone without asking.

Jason let out a sharp sigh, but you just grinned. “I’ve got it from here,” you said as you clicked on Drake’s Hotline Bling. The song blasted as you maxed out the volume. Damian looked like he was about to combust.

“You really are a pain in the ass, aren’t you?” Tim muttered under his breath, trying to focus on his schoolwork again.

You grinned. “I like to think of myself as entertaining.”

Duke nodded his head to the beat, tapping on his phone and Jason’s eyes darted to the rearview mirror, but you could see the playfulness in his face. He was trying not to smile, despite himself.

“I’m just saying, no boys today, no skipping, no trouble” Jason reiterated, trying to keep a semblance of control. “And if I hear anything about you messing around, we’re going back home, got it?”

You leaned back in your seat and stretched again. “Sure, sure, no boys. But just so you know, if i get into "trouble" it’s not my fault.”

Jason didn’t respond.

When you finally arrived at Gotham Prep you sighed, grabbed your bag, straightened out your skirt one last time, and nearly ran away from them so you didn't have to walk in with Duke, Damian, and Tim. “See you later, losers,” you said with a grin, pulling your sunglasses on as you walked away from the car.

Gotham Prep didn't know what's coming.

Taglist:

@strwberryglass @lilithquillete @delias-stuff @bellatrixmld @damainwayneisthebestrobin @kittzu @lilyalone @yokesmam @sanjisluvbot @facelessisnthere @dollwhite @superstarbucks

@angelunatic @littledollete @cutelittlesugarfairy @darbystrange @sxftiebee @zealous0mouse @trashlanternfish360 @galaxygirlsblog @euphoria-looney @1simpchunkygirl @a-lurking-fae @analuixxy @naturallyspontaneous @horror-lover-69 @pastel-mouse @ladyrosemone @frankie-moon3 @catley1011 @justannie18 @yandereaficionado @ithoughtthinks @asdfghjklgayblog @shadowyknightbeargoth @peche4et3chocolat @boredselkie @rogueofbullshit @iamabeaner @rosesunderthegarde

[winkofcharm]

Spinning, Spinning, Spun - Chapter 1

Please help me, this is far longer than I expected it to be lmao.

Batfam x Reader {platonic} [Previous] [next]

Barbara Gordon is simultaneously the first to notice, and the sort-of last to know. 

It begins as most nights do for her, preparing for her shift as Oracle, waiting for you to send over the photos of the day. Scanning through the reports, planning out the routes each Bat would take, keeping an eye on any sort of forum, social media, police report, etc - that might drop a hint for what criminal activities may be planned for the night. It was a familiar pattern, one she had held to for years, even before she joined The Family. 

She’d known for as long as she could remember that she wanted to be in law enforcement, and since she was strictly forbidden from joining the GCPD by her Dad, what better way than this?

 First as Batgirl, fighting along Batman and Robin - being brought into the fold, into the family. She even remembers the first time she was brought into the batcave, and became aware of the men behind the masks; The Bruce Wayne, The Dick Grayson. She was going to work with the legends she modelled herself after. The ones who inspired her to take up a mask, to hit the streets of Gotham, and fulfil her dream. But it wasn’t just the two of them, was it? There was their butler, Alfred Pennyworth, former military, hyper-competent, and a master of what he did. And then…there was you. 

Barely a toddler, not able to comprehend what was going on, even if you wanted to. You were a cute kid, for sure, but she didn’t really know much about kids, and wasn’t interested in learning either. She had more important things to do, and yeah, she felt kind of bad brushing you off whenever she stopped in during the day, but that’s what Bruce told her to do - and at the end of the day, he was your dad, and had the final say. If she ever was curious about who exactly was watching over this child while She, Bruce, Dick, and Alfred were all preoccupied, then it was only a fleeting thought before refocusing on the job at hand. 

She watched you grow in glimpses and glances. Sighing a breath of relief when Bruce told her you were in on the secret, and letting another when he mentioned you wouldn’t be involved. By the time you were told, she was already Oracle, and balancing another vigilante would be stretching herself a little too thin. You learning the secret, also led to her seeing you less and less. And if she were completely honest with herself, it was a solace, a weight off her shoulders - one less person she needed to lie to. 

It became so much easier once you started leaving The Manor, she didn’t need to worry about running into you, and the awkward greetings that would follow. Barbara could get right to work, without needing to censor any discussions or plans. Anytime you were home, you seemed to get the hint quickly and make yourself scarce. The contact was minimal, until Bruce came to her with a request.

You were getting popular on social media, and with that popularity came risk. Risk of people getting too curious, of not just your safety, but the others safety being compromised as well. So a plan was put into motion. 

Every day, at 5pm Gotham time, you would send over any pre-planned posts and pictures, and Barbara would scrub them clean of meta-data. She would cross-reference any details regarding the rest of the family, making sure the timelines of events stayed consistent (though, she admits, you were pretty good at that already - and getting better at covering your own digital tracks. It seemed almost redundant to have her backtrack over everything, but who was Batman without redundancies?). Then, once satisfied, she’d send them back, and you would post at predetermined times. 

For the last five or six years, this system worked. You were always punctual, provided the few times you were late due to scheduling conflicts with the regular time, but even then, you always let her know ahead of time. Until this time, that is. 

5 pm, 18:00, 5 in the evening - came and went, and not a text, or dm, or email in sight. Maybe you were busy, maybe you were sleeping? You were in Hong Kong, possibly on your way elsewhere at the moment, and time zones could be tricky at best - but you never missed the 5pm cutoff. 

And honestly, she may have been the first to discover your disappearance, if she hadn’t been immediately distracted by a new thread on the Gotham subreddit. An unconfirmed source, one she needed to follow up on asap, claiming a grumbling in the underground - a rumour, unsubstantiated, but all rumours regarding any of the rogues needed to be followed up on. 

Thus, your lack of contact went unappreciated, and unheeded. 

The second to notice, and the first to inquire, was one Stephanie Brown. 

Steph - as she insisted to be called - was probably just as active in the realm of social media as you were, even if she wasn’t quite as popular. She never really got the invites to collaborate and create as much branded content as you did, but she didn’t really want that. She was okay with being “Gotham famous”, where people who were chronically online may recognize her out and about, but she wasn’t being hounded. Not like you were, and that was perfectly fine. 

She didn’t want to be as famous as you, hell, from the few times you actually made conversation, you didn’t want to be as famous as you are. The first time Wayne Enterprises pushed for a collab between you and her, you had been so... so…something. 

You had been sat beside her in a boardroom, the company PR team presenting why it would be so great for You, at the time the only known biological Wayne heir, and Steph, at the time girlfriend to their youngest ever CEO, to run a series of posts together online to promote brand engagement and blah-blah-blaaaaaaaaaah. Meanwhile, Bruce and Tim sat opposite her and you, nodding and agreeing with whatever business talk came out of the team's mouth. 

She also remembers nodding along, even if she didn’t understand what they were saying. It wasn’t like either of you were going to turn down the proposal, especially since it was coming directly from Bruce. She “uhuhed” and “okay’d” at all the right times, and you…you just sat there. 

You never even really looked at her, and Steph recalls how angry that made her. How you glanced over her once before looking away (before looking down) and never really looked back at her (never looked back up). She thought you to be stuck up and rude, some bratty kid living rich off their daddy’s money. It wasn’t until later, when you actually were working together for a supposedly “candid” photo opportunity, that she realized you were just quiet and a little awkward. 

In person, you were a complete 180 from how you presented yourself online. Online, you were confident, bold, clever and witty. In person, you shrunk into yourself. Shoulders hunched, eyes looking anywhere but forward - until the camera started rolling and then, then you transformed. Shoulders back, eyes forward, smirk playing on your lips. You went from random nobody, to someone who couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than the child of Bruce Wayne.

 It made her curious, and for Stephanie Brown, curiosity was dangerous. 

She started by asking Tim about you, but he couldn’t give any more information than she already had, and even then, some of it seemed to just be about the online you - not the real one. When pushed, he got frustrated, and ended up starting a small argument. 

“Does it matter? All you have to do with them is pose for some pictures - it’s not like they do anything else.” 

And didn’t that set Stephanie off. You were a person, more than an online presence - so she and Tim didn’t speak for a week, until you had left town again, and the reason behind the argument semi-forgotten. 

Then she made the mistake of asking Bruce - and fuck, wasn’t that one of the most terrifying conversations (could it even be called that?) of her life. She tried to play off her questioning as small talk - 

“Man, they’re completely different in person y’know. I expected them to be just a rich kid, but -” 

Bruce cut her off. He hadn’t even been looking at her at first, but the moment he realized she was talking about You, his head had whipped around at her. His eyes hardened, his face twisted into one she’d only seen before aimed at lowlife thugs. Stephanie could feel the fear creeping in, her palms starting to sweat. She had made eye contact for just a moment, before casting her eyes elsewhere. Why had he reacted like this? She just wanted to know more about his kid. She didn’t think that was wrong - how could it be? 

“All you were to do was a job. They’re to be left alone outside of that.” She tried to defend herself, mostly out of surprise, but Bruce wasn’t having it. Anything she spoke was met with a cold and stern:

“Drop it.”

So she did. For a bit. The next time you were in town, and you were asked to work together again, she tried to bring it up again - and Bruce got even angrier. She ended up benched, and if she had to choose between you and Spoiler? 

Well, she didn’t know you that well. And Spoiler, Spoiler was always going to be more important.

Even after she and Tim broke up, you played the part of her digital bestie - and she would catch glimpses of the real you, the you no one else had seen, whenever she could. At one point she realized she knew more about you then the ones purported to be your siblings, and it sent her into a spiral. At best, you were coworkers, and she knew more than the people who were supposed to know everything.  

It helped that you posted several times a day, everyday. And sure, a lot of it was the fake influencer bullshit, but sometimes you’d sneak in the truth. Those were the posts she went out of her way to like and repost. She learned your favourite colour and favourite hot beverage in the same post, and made sure the next time you went out together for content, that it was prepared correctly, in a mug of your favourite colour. 

The small smile that lit up your face was perhaps the first real smile she had seen you make. And if it made her heart flutter, well, she kept that secret close. 

So it became a habit of hers. To scroll through your posts everyday, except today - 

You hadn’t posted anything. Not a thing. Nothing on twitter, on instagram, on snapchat, on tiktok - nothing. She refreshed each one multiple times, just in case, and kept switching between platforms, just in case.  

It set her on edge. Made her stand a little straighter - and then - the panic set in as she recalled - 

You queued everything.

You queued your posts for up to a week out at a time - meaning while there was nothing made public today, you hadn’t posted anything for the last week. 

So Stephanie did the only thing she could think to do, and went to the only person who might know more and be willing to share.

Alfred.

Thus Alfred became the third to notice, and the first to know. 

He remembers when you came to the manor. How little you were, the power of your lungs as you cried out into the world. A cry that would, if he were honest, barely ever be answered. 

Barely two weeks old, and already being forced to learn how cold the world is - he tried to apologize for it, but how could he? Nothing could replace what had been lost, nothing could replace what would never be given. 

Your mother had died in childbirth, or shortly after. The timeline wasn’t quite clear, but she had enough time to list one Bruce Wayne as the father on your birth certificate. Something neither he or Bruce had expected - let alone the call that came from the hospital, requesting someone come pick you up, lest CPS get involved. Bruce eventually relented under that threat, wanting to avoid any sort of government digging, but only if a DNA test proved you to be his child.

The Hospital agreed, and two days later, the results came back positive. You were his, and he was all you had. They refused to allow Alfred to collect you, no matter how hard Bruce pushed - he had to be the one to pick you up. So Bruce brought Alfred with him, and the moment he laid his eyes on you, he was yours. You were, in Alfred’s opinion, the most valuable thing in the world. 

Bruce, his ward, his son in every way but blood, to Alfred’s disappointment, did not agree. There was no time for an infant, not in his crusade. Despite trying his best to care for you and Bruce at the same time, Batman’s schedule made it impossible. 

An infant needed around the clock care, and if he was in the Batcave watching over Bruce and Dick (who hadn’t even been told about you - didn’t even know you were there in the manor, having been put in the nursery wing at the far end, where your cries were only to be heard by a nanny no one had bothered to hire), then there was no way for him to watch over you -  there was more than one morning you woke covered in your own mess. 

Alfred at least got Bruce to agree to hire a Nanny after the second week. He refused to have the Nanny in the main house, however. And how was that supposed to work anyway? Another person, poking around Wayne Manor with all its secrets? Bruce would never stand it. 

The solution broke Alfred’s heart, even if he agreed it was for the best. 

A country house, unused since the days of Thomas and Martha Wayne, and a Nanny, paid an ungodly sum and handpicked by Alfred himself for her silence and skill. Off you went, nearly two hours away, out of the grasp of Gotham and its shadows. The Nanny they had hired was instructed to send reports every week - written and verbal. The written reports went to Bruce’s desk, with any requests for new furniture, clothing, toys and other expenses were signed off on and sent back. The verbal reports? Those were Alfreds. 

He was kept up to date with every milestone, from learning to turn yourself over, to your first words and steps. The Nanny mentioned more than once she was worried about how quiet you were, how hesitant to ask for anything, from physical needs to emotional ones - and it hurt him to hear. You were a Wayne, the world would be at your fingertips, nothing should be out of reach - except, perhaps, your own family's affection. 

He assured the poor woman that the quiet was normal, that Bruce himself had been a quiet baby before exploding into a vibrant child (until reverting back after the alley). He did insist, as you grew older, that you would be brought into the phone calls. How delightful it was to hear you, even if it was just a few scattered words. 

Years passed like this, until suddenly you were at the cusp of puberty. And Bruce had no choice but to bring you back into the main house. The Nanny who had raised you, who you clung to for all your needs, was ready to retire. Alfred was the one to convince him to let you back, Dick was leaving, and he couldn’t imagine the Manor without some sort of childish light. Perhaps you could even get to know your father, grow close to him, and never be sent away again. 

How futile a wish. 

You never stood a chance. 

Alfred went himself, to collect you. Your sparse belongings had been sent ahead, having arrived in the Manor two days before you had - and had been placed once again in the nursery (though the crib had been removed, and replaced with a large four poster bed - curtains in your current favourite colour, and ready to be replaced when you changed it). 

You were polite and proper in your greetings, exactly as you were raised and taught to be. A firm handshake, your tiny hand in his - something you should have learned from your father, but was taught by a stranger. You remained silent the entire way home, looking out the window as the countryside changed. And Alfred couldn’t help but look back in the mirrors, and try his hardest to memorize everything about you. 

He should have known better. He spoke to you, as you approached the grounds, how your father was waiting to meet you (and held back on speaking about Dick, if only to ease the blow on how your father would rather raise a child that wasn’t you). He had thought Bruce would do the right thing and be waiting to greet you, as he had been raised to do whenever family arrived, so when he finally pulled up to the front doors and Bruce wasn’t there, he felt ashamed. He apologized for your fathers faux pas, and you just brushed it off - claiming you understood how busy he was. 

He would later find Bruce in the Batcave, with Jason Todd in tow. He would scold Bruce privately later, for doing all the things he had expected him to do with you, with Jason instead. A tour of the manor, showing you your room, introducing you to the history of your great family - all things Alfred had done instead. 

It was Alfred who helped you adjust, who prepared you for your new role as a Wayne heir. It was Alfred who introduced you to Jason, upon escorting you to the library and catching him there as well. And it was Alfred who went and yelled at Bruce for allowing you to assume you were like the others, an orphan taken in by a wealthy patron. 

It was an innocent question on Jason’s behalf, one he apologized for immediately after - 

“Did Bruce take you in too?”

And you turned to Alfred, unsure how to answer - he could see the words of affirmation forming in your mouth, the questioning furrow of your brow, before he cut you off - 

“Young Master is Master Bruce’s child by birth, sir.”

“Oh! Sorry! I’m really sorry, he just didn’t mention anything and I just assumed, and I’m rambling, I’m sorry.”  The embarrassed blush that bled onto Jason’s cheeks was probably the only thing that saved him from a scolding for asking such a question, along with your own response:

“It’s okay, you didn’t know - “ and thus your introduction was awkward and stilted, but at least you might finally have someone else by your side. 

He should have known better. 

He told Bruce of your meeting Jason, of the conversation you’d had, and how for a moment (perhaps much longer) you had thought yourself another ward, hadn’t been assured that the Wayne family was, in fact, your family. And While Bruce never addressed your feeling of lack of belonging - he did stress that you and Jason were to be kept separate, as much as could possibly be done. 

 Alfred verbally agreed, and mentally decided to make sure you and Jason spent as much time together as possible without Bruce noticing. Which proceeded to blow up in his face when Jason, in the midst of a visit from Dick, inadvertently blew the whole secret sky high. 

You never told him of what happened that night. Never looked at him again with trust in your eyes. Never reached out to Jason, or Dick, or even Tim when he arrived. You locked yourself further away, kept to your room outside of meals and school. And Alfred, if he ever heard you crying to yourself, pulled back; never acknowledged the damage done. How could he? In supporting the others, he had failed you. 

You lived as a ghost, and when you started leaving the manor more and more, he hoped you would move on. That you would grow into a person all your own, without the shadow of your family. But you never completely broke away - how could you? When they started finally pulling you in, in a grotesque semblance of a relationship that was never really real. It made him sick to his stomach, seeing you on the cover of Teen Vogue , purporting an interview about how great your siblings were. Siblings you hadn’t spoken to in months, hadn’t seen in even longer. 

Then Stephanie Brown took an interest, and Alfred, remembering how badly things had gone before when Jason had taken an interest, kept it to himself. Passed on what he could recall of your likes and dislikes, of your habits and rituals. So it wasn’t necessarily surprising when she called to ask about you. He paid no mind to Stephanie pushing for him to call you, gave the excuse of wondering when you’d next be in town, and that she’d tried to text you but had gotten no response. So he did. No answer, straight to voicemail - your phone was apparently turned off. 

“Please leave a message after the beep - “ 

Generic, he was hoping you had changed it by now, but clearly, he’d have to remind you again. But before the beep could go off, his blood chilled. 

A laugh. 

Not a laugh, a cackle. 

Familiar, and cruel - on your voicemail message, on your private phone, and one all too recognizable. 

The Joker

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

taglist: @holybatflapexpert @electricgg @xoyumiqls @holderoflostmemories @sleeptimes @galaxypurplerose @sassam

(apologies if the tag didn't work, i'm new to this ;3; )

[neontiger]

snowglobe

♡ MDNI 18+

♡ jason todd x fem!reader

♡ Bruce may not be able to get revenge for Jason's death, but he can pay for a weekend at a snowy mountain resort for the two of you. Hot tub and a special appearance by Mr. Todd's bag of goodies.

•───────•°•❀•°•───────•

Cold air bites at your exposed cheeks. Bubbling heat engulfs the rest of your body, steam rising from the water's surface as you rest your head back on the pillowed edge of the hot tub. Below a village more deserving of a Christmas card sparkles in the setting sun, cupped in the embrace of snow-peaked mountains. There's not a thought, not a worry, running through your head as you soak in the water. If only this could be real life and not simply a weekend getaway.

None of the other cabins are visible from your perch in the mountains. All is quiet, the only sounds the bubbling of the hot tub and the occasional kiss of the wind. Even with the window to the cabin's master bedroom open, you can't hear Jason snoring - though you know for a fact he is, having passed out nearly as soon as you got here. But you can't really blame him. He needs the sleep.

Still, you'd like a little time with him. In your travel bag was an arsenal of lingerie and toys, and you'd be at least a little disappointed not breaking out some of them. Here, where the walls weren't paper thin and you could make some noise without the neighbors banging on your door. Where Jason couldn't disappear in the middle of the night.

Three whole days with him. You couldn't waste a breath.

New sounds enter your bubble: the creak of the bed, feet meeting the hardwood floor, as Jason finally seems to be stirring from his deserved nap. You keep your eyes closed but ears open as the sliding doors leading to the patio open.

His presence is felt, the weight of him thrusting in your gut before he even places his lips to your forehead. "How dare you start without me?"

You open one eye and squint at him. "You're the one who passed out. You're lucky I didn't leave you here entirely."

"Right. Sure." He's wearing too much, still in his jeans and a thick sweater, hair tousled from good sleep. All of it makes him look softer, more tender, than the man you know in Gotham. It's not a complaint, maybe. Only different.

You sit up enough to expose shoulders missing the telltale bikini straps, alerting him that you were at least topless. Jason's eyebrow cocks in a quick, blink and you'll miss it move, before he clears his throat and leans on the side of the hot tub. The foamy bubbles won't break to give him a peek at below.

"Are you coming in? It's really nice." You slip out of reach, turning to cross your arms on the edge of the tub. The village underneath appears to be falling into a quiet evening step, streetlamps clicking on as open signs are shuttered.

"Are you wearing anything?" Jason asks.

You give him a sideways glare. "Yes, Jason. I've got bottoms on."

"I didn't know. I thought people hung out naked in these things."

"That sounds gross."

He shrugs, gripping the hem of his sweater. It comes off over his head in one slick move. Your attention - half of it, anyway - returns to the village. It feels like a caricature, a fantasy place caught inside a snowglobe. Too perfect to be real.

Water splashes out of the tub as Jason steps in. The bubbles lick his waist as he moves to sit next to you, draping one arm over the edge to watch the scene below.

"What do you think it's like?" There's something unplaceable in his gaze as he drags it over the village. "Living here."

"Nothing like being on vacation here." You turn your head to look at him instead, resting your chin on your arm. His profile is sharp and soft, scarred and still smooth, gentle.

"It's not Gotham," he says.

You shake your head. In the movement, strands of hair wiggle themselves loose from the messy knot you piled them into. You sit up to fix it, dragging wet fingers through your damp hair.

Jason watches, quiet, at the simple way you fix your hair, the stretch of your arms. the concentration in your eyes. Mesmerized.

"It'd be nice, I think." You return to your spot, though a little closer to him now. "Boring."

"I could handle boring."

A tease sits on the tip of your tongue, but you bite it back at the last second. "Me too," you say. "We could...be sheep farmers."

He snorts. "They do that here?"

"Maybe. I don't know."

A smile spreads across his face, eyes crinkling under the pressure of it. He reaches his hand to your waist under water to tug you closer. "Sit in my lap. I want to hold you."

"Hold me, or fuck me?"

"One first. Then the other."

Soft and pliant in his arms, you float to his lap and nuzzle his neck, cheek finding home on his shoulder. Another new sound, the distant beat of his heart. Steady pump of blood. Alive, in the now, and safe.

A knot forms in your throat. You squeeze your eyes shut and swallow it down. You're not going to think about those things right now, not here, not in this place or moment. Instead you concentrate on the hum of the hot tub's jets, the firmness of his shoulder under your cheek, the circle of his fingertips on your hip bone.

His other hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing your lower lip. "Don't fall asleep."

You pick your head up. "You get to sleep, but I don't?"

"You had your chance." Jason moves his hand to cup the back of your head. Pupils blown out with want meet yours, the silent question trapped in them to obvious to ignore.

There's no option but to give in. He's impossible to say no to, not when those blue-green eyes are so brazen in their display of need. Lips meet in a soft kiss, part for tongues. Hands brush and slip, tangle and grip, hair, flesh, scars. The water temperature rises another twenty degrees, searing sensitive skin pink. You find your lips drawn to the curve of his neck and wrap them over a patch of skin near a scar faded white.

Red petal-shaped marks bloom everywhere you plant your lips to his skin. His hands grip your waist, pull you closer until you're flush against him. Cup your breasts, tease your nipples under the water with gentle circles and pinches. You let him, lean for him to repay the favors you've painted across his neck and collarbone.

Jason is rougher, always has been, teeth scraping the skin on your throat with the intention of leaving his mark. One hand at your back keeps you from floating away as you arch into his kiss. Thumb and forefinger work your nipple until firm, but it feeds a desperation in you. Need his mouth lower.

You shift higher onto your knees and lift out of the water, only enough to expose your breasts to the cold. Jason is quick to remedy the shiver that runs through your body, making a quick path down to a breast, closing his mouth around a nipple. He's more careful as he sucks, less teeth, but hard enough to twist your core. Your cunt clenches around nothing when he pulls off, a thread of spit connecting his lips to the bud. It breaks as he moves to your other breast to slather it in the same attention.

You cup the back of his head, wet fingers tangled in the dark strands, thigh muscles tensing with want to sink back down and impale yourself on him. But the ask remains caught in your throat, kept in place by his hands and his mouth, busy on your body and too good to quiet with your words.

He hums around your breast trapped in his mouth. The vibrations explode down your arms and back in the form of goosebumps. You tug his hair, not purposefully, but because control is slipping and you're searching for anything on which to ground yourself.

Jason pops free of your nipple and smiles up at you, already looking drunk. His hand disappears under the water and toys with the string of your bikini where it sits on your hip. "Regretting this now, huh?"

You forego an answer in place of kissing him again. His hand brushes up your thigh and under the fabric of your bikini to cup your ass. Possessive, how tight he squeezes. You return the favor with another tug of his hair, this time meaning it when his lips are wrenched from yours.

"Let's take this inside," you whisper.

Jason frowns. "I can't make it that far."

But he lets go when you lift off his lap, watching the jiggle of your ass as you climb out of the hot tub. The chill grabs you first, scrapes nails over now exposed skin. You grab a cold towel from the chair near the tub and rush to dry off as you hurry inside.

Jason is on your heels, as expected, grabbing you by the arm as soon as he's inside and pulling your body to his. Lips crash, teeth clatter, from the cold and the mess of the kiss, uncoordinated and raw as his moves are. Your breath shivers off your tongue, and he takes you into his lungs without pause. The walk to the master bedroom is a stumbled blur, but when you open your eyes you're in his arms above the bed.

You take his bottom lip between your teeth, let it snap back. "You made it. I believed in you, you know?"

He drops you unceremoniously onto the mattress. You don't bother crawling to the pillows before throwing off your bikini bottoms, but he walks away to the armchair under the window where your shared luggage still sits.

"What are you looking for?" You sit up on your elbows and watch him root through his bag. "Can you close the window?"

Jason pushes shut the glass and locks it. Funny, you think, considering you keep yours unlocked just for him. "I brought a couple things," he says, glancing over his shoulder.

It's not really surprising. Maybe you share a brain cell, or at least your vibes run on the same wavelength. You lie back, feet fluttering in the air with excitement as he approaches with a silky black bag in one hand, the other fidgeting with the waistband of his damp boxer briefs, tight enough to expose the entire shape of his cock. It's mouth-watering, literally, but you're quick to wipe away the drool from the corner of your lips before he notices.

The briefs are lost to the floor, and you don't feel an ounce of shame letting your gaze drop immediately to his cock, swollen and flushed with arousal. His hands are busy, but doing what you could care less. You sit up and wrap a hand around him, using your thumb to smear the pre-cum that beads at the tip. He makes a strangled noise and grabs your wrist.

"Calm down." He presses his lips to your ear. "I'll give you what you want, babe, but we're doing it my way."

So much arousal floods your body at the words - at the way they drip with lust like honey, the way they wrap your ear and brush your skin - you're surprised you haven't soaked through the bed. Slowly you release his cock, doe-eyed as you look up at him.

He holds up a vibrator, C-shaped, dual stimulation. Clicks the silicone ends together and smiles. "I want to hear you scream," he says. "Are you going to scream for me? Say yes."

You nod. What are words, anyway? You've forgotten.

"Babe, I said say yes. In fact - yes, sir."

You wet your lips. "Yes, sir. I'll scream all you want, Jay."

That wide grin cracks across his face, betraying the persona he's trying to play off. He clears his throat and reaches into the bag again, this pulling out strips of black satin. "Can I tie you up?" He asks.

You nod. God, your pussy would nod if it could, swollen as it is with fucking need. "Yes, sir."

His chest heaves with deep breaths. "Give me...a safe word. Pick something easy."

Your only thoughts at the moment are: Jason, cock, fuck. But those won't work, keen as you are to scream them out loud the moment he gets his hands on you, and so you scan the room for something, anything. There's a painting on the wall of a goat on a mountainside.

"Goat," you say.

Jason snorts. "No. Really? Okay."

You're not going to use it anyway, you figure. Jason, as tough as he is out on the streets, as dirty as his hands are from the things he's done, is unbelievably soft. Tender. You've known it forever, in the ways he shows his love because he doesn't know how to say it out loud - the way he remembers that you prefer the soft brownies in the center of the pan, or by putting on detective shows before he leaves at night because he knows they help you sleep, or by reading the books he sees on your shelf so he can ask you about them, talk with you about things you like. The love letters you find on your pillow.

When that satin wraps around your wrists, held at your back, it's loose. "Pull on this one," Jason whispers in your ear, brushing fabric in your right hand. "That'll get you out fast."

You purse your lips. He gives you a short kiss before knocking you back over gently.

"Let me see how wet you are." Jason slides a hand over your thigh, urging you to spread them for him. His cock twitches at the sight as you do, pussy glistening with want, his question easily answered with just a look. You jolt when his finger brushes over your clit before sinking into your heat.

He sighs. "Shit. Is this all for me, babe? You need me this bad?"

"Yes, sir." Your hips squirm on their own, trying to take his finger deeper. He pulls free and leaves you achingly empty, though it's not for long, as he presses the thick end of the vibrator against your pussy.

A concentrated look takes over his face as he fits the vibrator's suction end over your clit. "I control it," he says. His eyes flash up to meet yours, to read if there's hesitation in them.

You nod understanding.

He tugs you to the edge of the bed and helps you sit before retrieving the vibrator's remote from the bag. His fingers card through your hair and make to pull out your hair tie - the movement doesn't prove fluid, and he pauses to tug it out gently and fix your hair before pulling your head back. You can't bite back your smile.

"Open your mouth," he orders.

Lips part wide for him. He presses two fingers onto your tongue and pushes them into your mouth. Instinct - or the game - has you closing your lips around them and sucking, almost gagging as he thrusts to your throat.

A jolt slams through your body. You yelp around his fingers - it's not cute, not pretty, but a weird, little dog type yelp. There's no time to contemplate it as the vibrations pick up inside your cunt, right up against that rough patch of pleasure, and the suction on your clit increases.

Jason pulls his fingers from your mouth to hook a thumb at the corner. "I want to cum in your throat," he says through gritted teeth, almost a growl. "You're going to be a good girl, right, babe? Gonna let me cum in your throat?"

You nod, already messy, his thumb keeping you from moving your mouth for a proper yes, sir. It doesn't matter this time; the physical agreement is enough for him. He guides you off the bed and to your knees on the floor, then pauses.

Frowns. Walks around the bed and grabs a pillow for under your knees. "Comfy?"

Your cunt clenches around the vibrator. You're close, the suction infuriating on your clit, rhythmic and pulsing and sucking and fuckfuckfuck. "Yeah," you squeak. "Jay...gonna cum."

"Already? We just started." His fingers scrape through your hair to wrap it around his fist as he smears the head of his cock on your lips. You open for him, take the tip of his length into your mouth. Pre-cum coats your tongue but doesn't help as you struggle to take him deeper. The vibrations inside your cunt echo through your body and make it nearly impossible to concentrate on the task at hand.

You whine, the sound coming out gargled as Jason hooks his thumb into the corner of your mouth again. Spit drips down your chin as he thrusts into your mouth, each one deeper than the last, until you're where he wants you - gagging around him, throat tightening on his cock. A mess, tears already bubbling in the corners of your eyes, thighs clenching together to fight against the inevitable.

Your peak is felt shortly before it bursts, a bubble swelling in your core that explodes through your body in pulsing waves. Jason feels it in the way every muscle in you tenses, including your throat, clamping down on him with another muffled whine. His hand at the back of your head keeps you in place, keeps his cock buried in you, as you ride the pleasure.

Then all at once that pleasure is gone, replaced with the burn of overstimulation. The remote is pressed against your cheek in the hand that remains hooked in your mouth, but he makes no movement to lower the pressure. You lift on your knees, wiggle your hips, like you can run away from it, can stop the burning.

"One more," Jason grunts through gritted teeth. "Give me another, babe, come on."

It's hot, boiling, a painful knot in your core as you're dragged back up to your peak. You try to focus on his cock, tightening the suction around his thick length as he fucks into your mouth, fighting against the gag as he buries inside you. Hairs tickle your nose as he bottoms out and holds you down. You look up at him, tears streaking your cheeks, spit and precum coating your chin. You're on the verge of screaming, another orgasm reaching point, and by the look in his eyes - the haze, the blowout - he's close.

It racks through your body, the release, shudders and burns through every fiber. You choke on his cock and that's all it takes to bring him to a crashing end. His hips give weak, trembling thrusts, an instinctual attempt to be deeper in you as he pulses down your throat. Between the jolt of your own hips and him, it's too much to handle, and you gag on his cock, cum trickling from your lips down your chin, landing on your breasts.

The vibrations finally cease, and Jason pulls free of your mouth. Your chest heaves as you finally manage to catch your breath as he brushes your hair with his fingers.

"Fuck." Jason leans to kiss your forehead, cupping your tear-stained cheeks. "So good, babe. You okay?"

You nod weakly. He doesn't stop kissing you, showering you in them, forehead to cheek to ear.

"I'll get a towel. Ready to stand?" He holds your waist, steadying your balance as you lift back to your feet, and guides you to collapse back on the bed.

"Untie me?" You wiggle your shoulders.

Jason shakes his head. "Not yet."

You turn your head to watch him disappear into the bathroom, leaving you with your arms twisted behind your back and legs hanging off the bed, release dripping down the insides of your thighs. You could pull the knot free, sit up and end this, but there's a new swell in your gut that doesn't want to. He's back a moment later, hotel towel in hand.

"You're not done?" You ask, as he wipes your mouth and chin clean.

"Are you?" He sets the towel aside and leans over you. Two fingers slip into your swollen cunt, and you gasp, their intrusion jostling the vibrator inside. His nose scrunches in concentration as he scissors his fingers apart. "No," he says. "Not until you cum on my cock."

Eagerly, you nod. "Yes, sir."

Jason cups one of your breasts and squeezes roughly before capturing your nipple in his mouth. The blood's already begun rushing to his cock again, stiff as he grinds against your inner thigh while his fingers work to prepare you. Every thrust has the vibrator brushing your clit, but it's not enough to peak again, only to tease.

With a wet squelch, he pulls his fingers free and brings them your mouth. You already know what he wants. Your lips wrap them without hesitation, tasting the sweetness of your release as he watches. Mesmerized. How easy it is to get you to obey.

Jason straightens up, fingers leaving your mouth and breast to grip your hips possessively. His lips part and hang open for a moment, then close again without a word. You squirm lower and nudge him closer with a knock of your heel to his butt.

"Are you gonna fuck me, Mr. Todd?" You blink at him with those big eyes, pupils blown up with lust. "Gonna fuck me with that big cock?"

He grins. "I know what you want, babe. You've got no patience." He leans over you again, one fist holding him up, the other hand reaching for the vibrator remote. You tense at the sight of it.

The spread burns, only a little, as he notches the head of his cock against your entrance. You're wet enough, ready enough, to take him, but with the addition of the vibrator still nestled inside it's a tighter fit than you're used to. You choke on a moan as he bottoms out, his own face screwed up in concentrated pleasure.

Then that jolt, again. That fresh, hot, burning, sucking pressure on your clit, the vibrations against your core, his cock stuffing you full and slamming into your cervix with each long, desperate thrust. He grabs your hips to keep you still as he fucks into you without control; the vibrations are too much for him to handle, and he's not going to last as long as he wanted.

It's too much. Your release swells and pops, ricochets through your body and comes out in the shape of a scream - loud, raw, something that sounds a little like his name, or at least that's what he imagines - and then it burns.

Your legs shake uncontrollably. Jason's arms give out, can't hold him up, and his lips crash on yours in a fiery kiss that you can't reciprocate, too distracted at the burn of being overstimulated, nearly missing the throb of his cock inside you as he cums - you feel that at the very last second, when he slams into you, unable to move as the orgasm rocks his body.

He's quicker this time to shut the vibrator off, before losing all strength and collapsing atop you. Every breath from your lungs trembles, little shocks of pleasure still caught in your nerves. A tear rolls down from the corner of your eye.

"I got you." Jason whispers. He kisses your cheek. "I got you, babe. You did so good. I love you."

Your tongue is gone, replaced with a stretched-out cotton ball. You can only blink and stare at him. Nothing you're thinking comes out: Now? Here? Like this? This moment, when you're a fucked-out mess, is the one he picks to finally say it out loud.

You stare at him - though he avoids meeting said stare - as he straightens up and pulls himself free of your heat. He swallows, still doesn't look up, attention on the the vibrator as he tugs it free. You wince at the sensation, pussy sore from all the abuse.

"Jason," you say. He helps you sit, unties the satin from your wrists, but still refuses eye contact.

He kisses your cheek again instead, rests his forehead against your temple when he asks, "Do you want me to help you in the shower?"

Your shoulders are sore, thighs aching and loose like jelly. Standing sounds like a foreign concept. "Yeah," you say. "Can we talk first?"

He sighs. "I didn't mean it. I mean, I didn't mean to say it right now. I mean it, I just -"

"Kind of a weird time." You lean back on your palms. Your shoulders give a whine of pain, and you quickly readjust by sitting up. He rests his head on your shoulder, clearly still hiding.

"Pretend I didn't say it," he whispers. "And I promise I'll pick a better time."

"Hmm." You wrap your arms around him, prompting him to do the same, nuzzling against your neck. "Nope. You got to own it now, Jay. You really love me, or are you just drunk off me?"

Jason picks up his head. Your cheeks are flushed, lips swollen, heart racing, limbs numb. Hair tangled. Marks he's left cover your neck, shoulders, breasts. He's not in a much better state, neck equally reddened from your lips, sweat beaded on his forehead.

"I love you," he says. "And I mean it. I'm sorry I couldn't say it before when I first felt it, but I promise from now on I'll say it more often."

A wall has crumbled, given you access to him, even though the timing is a little off. You're not sure how to respond. "I love you too," you say, because that at least means something.

The corners of his lips twitch upward, but he looks down at your legs before you can really catch the smile. "Can you walk? I can carry you."

As if you could refuse that offer. You lift your arms into the air. "Carry me, Mr. Todd."

[frownyalfred]

"ok ok I'll shut up now" NOOOOO😭😭 you can't paint this image and then stop, please keep talking about Lois and Selina

"Looks like it's just me today," Selina said, giving Lois a wave as she descended the lobby steps. "Bruce got held up on some business. Sorry."

Lois raised an eyebrow. "Business, or business?"

"Business," Selina said, sounding amused. She was dressed down in a slip of a dress and large cat-eye sunglasses. Lois envied how easy she made it look; her own outfit was a hastily-tied oversized linen shirt and a pair of jeans she was already regretting.

"Funny," Lois said, "Clark also got called in a little while ago. More business."

"I figured," Selina said, eyeing her over her sunglasses. There was an awkward beat of silence. "So."

"So," Lois repeated.

"I don't usually like it when the men assume their girlfriends just magically get along," Selina said. She shrugged one thin shoulder. "But I have a feeling we will anyway."

Lois was secretly a little touched by that. And a little wary. There was still a part of her that couldn't believe Catwoman herself was grinning at her. And she regularly had drinks with Batman.

"So you're saying we should ditch the tour," Lois said, hoisting her tote bag up.

"I could be convinced," Selina replied, voice pitched a little lower. "You know, I heard this place has a nice spa."

"Oh," Lois said, "While I love leaning into the girlfriends-on-vacation stereotype, I don't think--"

"Don't think." Selina held up a slim black card to the light. "I snagged this from Bruce. It's on me. Or, more specifically, him."

Lois eyed the card in disbelief. "Really?"

"Really."

"Great," Lois said, making up her mind. "Let's go reinforce some stereotypes."

(line break)

Selina held out the champagne bottle, readjusting the napkin around the label. "Want some more?"

"If I have any more, I'm not getting off this chaise lounge," Lois said. When Selina's lips pursed, she held out her glass anyway. "Fine. It's not surprising, but -- you're a bit of a bad influence."

"Only with friends," Selina said, grinning. She topped off her own glass, sliding back onto the lounger next to Lois. "I'm guessing that means you don't want to go swimming?"

Lois glanced down at her swimsuit. They were dressed for it, after all. "I mean. Maybe after lunch?"

"Yeah," Selina said. She closed her eyes, stretching back on the lounger. Just like a -- "I'm a little sore. Maybe we'll give it a few hours."

Lois stared despite herself, noting the bruises across Selina's hips. "I like your bikini."

"Thanks," Selina said, eyes snapping open. "Bruce picked it out."

"Bruce's contributions are pretty obvious," Lois said, her tongue getting away from her. It was the three glasses of champagne.

"Heh," Selina said, catching her meaning immediately. Her fingers skimmed the strings of her bikini. "So that's not your thing?"

Lois flushed a little. "It's not. Not our thing."

"Is it your thing?" Selina asked, lips quirking.

"Clark is a gentleman," Lois defended, praying her husband was currently too busy with some galactic event to overhear. "And he's...very concerned about his strength."

"Mhm," Selina said, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. "I can see how that would be something you'd have to work around."

"What about you?" Lois deflected.

"What about what?" Selina asked, batting her eyelashes. Lois rolled her eyes, taking another sip from her glass.

"Is strength a concern?"

"Only in a good way," Selina purred. She downed her glass, waving at Lois as she swallowed. "But I get what you mean. Obviously scaled down a little. Bruce could snap me like a twig if he really wanted."

"Yeah," Lois said, trying not to imagine that in too much detail. "That's generally what Clark's worried about."

"But there's benefits," Selina said, clearly fishing. Lois flushed again, but held her gaze.

"Sure."

"Like...?"

Lois raised a brow. She could see how that expression would work on most people. Most, being the keyword. "I don't give up my sources that easily."

"What about a trade?" Selina asked.