#fake dating bruce wayne

[toowildintheseventies]

Trade Mistakes

Chapter 4: Used To Be My Girl

A/N: oops 🫣

Pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

Word Count: 4.5k

Summary: You’re a woman with many vices. Smoking, drinking, spending time in shitty clubs, and your undying love and obsession with your ex-boyfriend, Bruce Wayne. You had spent your entire adolescence with each other until he had unexpectedly broken your heart and disappeared. For the last few years, you two had lived separate, mysterious lives. Until you are reintroduced under strange circumstances and fictitiously rekindle your relationship.

Warnings: none!��

Tag list: @midnightmystic @doetic @toowildintheseventies-fan @avengersgirllorianna @allgaslynobrakess @1lellykins @elliesbabygirl

You adjust quicker than expected. 

The first evening is too slow. You sleep for most of the afternoon, on an old, worn couch in a room near Bruce’s. When you wake up in the early evening, your belongings have already been brought into the East wing of Wayne Tower, which sat abandoned without guests or visitors for two decades. It’s a quick move, without many things belonging to you, and the large space seems even emptier once all of your things are thrown onto window stills and inside drawers. 

It’s painfully unfamiliar, even if your special wing of Wayne Tower is almost identical to the one you frequented years ago. The walls are darker, the floors colder. You find yourself getting lost looking for the bathroom in the bleak darkness. Without Bruce at your side, the Tower seems foreign. You hate it. 

You call Bella as the sun begins to set on your first evening back as Bruce Wayne’s girlfriend. She’s already seen the news articles online, and she’s pissed. Rightly so, you think. 

Bella tells you that you’re being “a fucking idiot”.  You don’t disagree. 

She eventually calms down, after a few, long minutes of scolding you on heartbreak and irrational decisions. You promise to visit her at least once a week, along with the promise that you’ll still be paying your half the rent. Even though she says she loves you before hanging up the phone, it takes her a few days to answer your texts in the days that follow. Her life continues, along with the hidden life of the Lounge and the dirty night that you once recognized. Now, it seems as if your life is at a total standstill. 

You don’t see Alfred on the first night of your stay. At first, he seems to be hiding away, same as Bruce, as if you’re a secret guest that cannot be disturbed. But the next morning, he’s at your door with a cup of tea and a warm smile. You sit together in the dining room, discussing simply just as you always had. He doesn’t mention Bruce, but you don’t expect him to. For years, the two of you met once a month and had a friendly conversation. Bruce’s name never once came up, an unspoken rule. Instead, the two of you pretended to be old friends. You discussed work and city life, and Alfred shared a few memories of his life before working for the Wayne’s. It was obvious that he cared deeply for you, and you returned the sentiment. You don’t think you would’ve survived without him. 

The mention of Bruce never seemed awkward during those visits. Now, though, his absence is obvious and painful. If it was just another day like before, Bruce would’ve been sitting next to you at the table, ignoring his breakfast and instead, talking to the two of you. 

You assume that Alfred had already talked to Bruce about this new arrangement, only because it seemed to be his idea in the first place. Alfred always was strict about keeping up appearances and Bruce stayed true to his family’s name. 

In the middle of breakfast, you see a quick shadow appear in the hallway, just to quickly disappear again. You know it’s him. Expertly escaping just before you see him, but just dumb enough to make it too obvious. You look at Alfred with your eyebrows raised, daring him to mention it. He doesn’t, and your simple conversation continues until the food is gone and you go back to your bedroom. 

The next morning, after breakfast with Alfred, you enroll in classes at Gotham University and take your first class that same afternoon. You take the bus to campus instead of the black SUV that’s parked in front of the building, waiting for your command. The campus is old and dark, but small enough that it’s not difficult for you to find the English building and your first class. Classes are boring, but it’s exciting to continue what you once started. It feels good to be productive again and to have a goal. It’s been a long time since you felt like you were working towards something. 

Later that night, the first agreed-upon fake date begins. While getting ready in your bathroom, there’s a loud knock at your bedroom door. You’re quick to finish getting ready, putting in your last earring and finding your shoes, and then standing in front of your door, waiting. 

Waiting for what, exactly? You aren’t sure. Another knock at the door, maybe. Or him opening the door himself, instead of leaving the hard work to you. You’re hoping he would just disappear. You’d wake up back at your apartment, and this whole situation would just be some sick, depressing nightmare. 

Your hand reaches for the doorknob, and before you can change your mind, you open the door wide to find Bruce standing before you, his hands clasped behind his back. You haven’t seen him since yesterday morning when he disappeared into his bedroom after breakfast. He had given you a meaningless, polite smile and a funny little ‘good night’ that seemed to be an attempt at a joke. You hadn’t responded. 

No though, there’s no smile. Just a quick nod at your presence and a step back, letting you step into the hallway. Once outside in the light, you let yourself get a good look at him. He’s wearing white button-down and brown pants, looking brand new, as if he bought them just for tonight. (More likely, Alfred bought them just for tonight.) His hair is styled, and all remnants of black paint are gone from under his eyes. Instead, he’s clean-shaven and surprisingly, looks well rested. Well, at least as well-rested as Bruce Wayne can be. He looks…handsome. It makes your heart ache. 

“You look nice,” you murmur, walking past him down the hall. When you back at Bruce, he’s still standing in the same spot in the hallway, eyes wide and hesitant. 

“We have reservations, Bruce,” you say, trying to keep your tone playful. 

He quickly snaps out of his daze and follows you down the hallway. Walking down to the car parked outside Wayne Tower, Bruce is careful to walk a few steps behind you, as if he’s afraid to get too close. Even with him far behind you, you can still feel his overwhelming presence and pressing gaze. 

Once inside the car, Bruce turns to you. 

“You look nice, too,” he says, “I remember that dress.” 

You look down at your outfit, confused. You don’t remember the dress. It was just the first one you pulled out of your closet this afternoon after classes. It was a simple black dress, probably bought after graduating high school. 

“You do?” you ask, looking over at Bruce. 

He nods his head briefly, “You bought it directly after we received our first invitation to a benefit gala. The night before.” 

You stared at him, stunned. What a meaningless thing to remember. You think about the first benefit gala the two of you went to, probably at Gotham City Hall. The two of you were still trying to figure out your place in Gotham, outside of your family’s shadows. Even within the uncertainty, things were simple. Galas were always the most fun, with places to hide away and plenty of Gotham’s luxurious residents to ridicule secretly. You don’t remember the dress, but you do remember that night. How the two of you had shown up late with a swarm of reporters still awaiting your arrival, the dozens of politicians and influential people lining up to shake Bruce’s hand, and how the two of you had ended the night finding your little, secret door. 

You had found it on accident that evening, in a desperate attempt to hide from the crowds of people wanting to talk to you. You had pulled Bruce away from the chaos and into a darkened hallway, laughing and pulling him closer as you walked backward down the hall. Eventually, the two of you stumbled into an abandoned coat closet, with a tiny overhead light that flickered off and on, and broken furniture that you happily made your own. You had spent the rest of the evening in your secret room. 

It had become a ritual after that night. At every gala and event held at Gotham City Hall, the two of you eventually snuck away to the little room and spent the rest of the evening in total, hazy bliss. After that night, the two of you had it all figured out, and stabilized yourselves in the world of Gotham. Friendly, obnoxious smiles walking in, firm handshakes, fake laughter. All must be done. A few romantic moments, giggles in the corner, and a slow song dance as the night begins to end. Play the game, and excite the masses. Then, finally, release. Disappear into the little secret door, and become yourselves again. 

The car stopping directly outside the restaurant forces you out of your memory and back into the present, where Bruce is looking at you anxiously, awaiting instructions. 

You’re more nervous than you expected. Though, anxiety isn’t exactly right. It’s more of a feeling of absolute dread, something you hadn’t expected. Everything felt wrong as if you were expected to perform in a play you hadn’t read the lines for. You felt completely unprepared. 

You try not to let Bruce see your breathing hitch as he grabs your hand to help you outside the car, or when his hand finds the familiar spot on your back as he leads you up the steps. He’s not paying much attention to you, though. Instead, he’s busy shielding himself from the blinding lights and crowds of people waiting in front of the restaurant. 

The restaurant is quiet inside, enough to make you nervous. Underneath the dim lights, though, you find the anxieties disappearing. Sitting across from Bruce calms you in a small way, the familiarity is comforting. 

Possibly too familiar, however. Enough that you find yourself settling into your seat too quickly, and smiling at the waiter with your friendly, kind smile you haven’t used in years. Typically, your smile is used only as armor, like baring your teeth. Now, though, it’s genuine. A gesture of sweetness from Gotham’s favorite lover. 

Bruce reclaims his usual position, too. Ordering drinks and food for both of you and making friendly, common conversation as your order is taken. It’s unintentional, but the Wayne charm shines through just as it always had. A gentle smile that looks like his mother’s, and a polite handshake that represents the training from his father. He’d rarely notice it, never mention it. But it’s there, his rich-boy persona, the brilliant son skills. 

Once the waiter disappears and it’s just the two of you – the performance dissipates. You find yourself looking around the room, avoiding eye contact and instead freakishly focusing on the vintage flooring and shiny glass lights. The two of you are silent for a long time, the conversation already stalled. 

You’re distracted as two men are ushered towards a booth a few feet away from you by an anxious and jumpy hostess, who scurries away from them suspiciously quickly after dropping their menus on the table. They’re both dressed in expensive, vintage suits, with thinning hair combed neatly and a gold tooth poking through one of the man’s polite smiles at his companion. You think you recognize them, and as you continue to stare the man across from you matches your gaze, his eyes go wide with something like recognition. 

You fully recognize them now, as two frequenters of Iceberg Lounge, one of them the man who was beaten to a bloodied pulp two nights ago, who had run off with a broken nose, brought upon him by the man sitting across from you. 

      Bruce calling your name pulls you away from the images from that night, of drunken haze and bloodied hands. You look away from the table and towards Bruce, who is looking at you with intent, wild concern. 

  “What’s wrong?” 

You shake your head, trying to pretend that the man isn’t there, that he isn’t staring at you like he knows you. 

“What’s wrong?” Bruce asks again, leaning towards you. 

He’s able to read you without fault, from your eyes alone. Even after all this time, and all your change, he knows you. It’s impossible to ignore, the way just a simple glance can allow him to know every thought going through your mind. 

“That man across from us,” you whisper, finally, “He’s the man from a few nights ago. He recognizes me.” 

You watch as Bruce tries to control an almost burst of laughter as if the thought is so absurd. He quickly contains himself, but still shakes his head in disbelief. 

“He doesn't recognize you. Is he staring?” 

“Staring, yes. Uncomfortably so.” 

“He’s probably just enraptured by the fact that he's sitting across from the most beautiful girl in Gotham,” 

Bruce says the last statement with such confidence, not an ounce of irony or sarcasm. There’s a sense of humor, though, from a small little smirk as he watches for your reaction. He says in the same way he once called you princess, a joke that eventually became something of total sincerity. His small smile and amused eyes show a confidence you hadn’t been accustomed to in the last few days, a confidence that only existed when he was seventeen years old and still hopeful. The familiar disposition comforts you for just a moment, but you’re quick to roll your eyes dramatically in response. 

“Be serious. He could recognize you, too. Like I did.” 

“You recognizing me was an unavoidable fluke,” Bruce says. 

He’s interrupted for a moment by the waiter coming up to the table with plates of food. Bruce leans away from the table with a polite, kind smile of thanks and when the waiter disappears – he leans back towards you, even closer. 

“You’re too smart, and you know me too well. You would have recognized me in any way during any circumstance. But you’re the only one who can.” 

“That’s a dangerous philosophy for the line of work you’re in.” 

Bruce shrugs with the same hidden, familiar smirk – then pauses for a moment to look over at the table away from you. You follow his gaze toward the men sitting there, noticing that they’re both talking and drinking, paying no mind to you. 

“Maybe,” Bruce says, looking back toward you, “But I’ve done this for three years now. I always knew you’d be the one I needed to look out for.” 

“Why?” you ask, taking a sip of your drink to calm your nerves. 

You hate this conversation. It feels as if you’re having a conversation with a part of your psyche, able to read your mind without you even speaking. His calm words ease you slightly, but make you feel like you’re going slightly insane. Not to mention the way he’s looking at you. It’s as if he’s trying to befriend a feral cat – like you’re something he has to be kind to or you’ll bite his hand. 

“Because I’d know you blind and deaf. I assumed it would be the same for you. And I was right, wasn’t I?” 

You copy his shrug, which makes him smile. 

“I was right,” he confirms, “You know me.” 

The rest of your meal is eaten quickly in comfortable silence until the check comes, when Bruce looks at you and begins again, already soothing the anxieties that hadn’t come. 

“They may recognize you if you throw on a pink wig and catch a certain look in your eye. But not now. Now, you’re completely unknown. It’s the same way with me, separate identities – only one of them real. I know you understand.” 

And you did understand. More than you felt comfortable with, honestly. You hate floating through different forms of beings, pretending to be a thousand different things. To Bruce, it seems to come as second nature. He’s able to become someone in the spotlight and become someone completely new in the shadows. It doesn’t seem to affect him, either. If anything, it makes him a better man. 

Bruce has the unique ability to close all the darkness within him into a crowded box and open it up only when there’s a funny little light in the sky and criminals in dark alleyways. The bloodied fists and anger hadn’t only come three years ago, at the beginning of his project. He had come home to you bruised and beaten a thousand times before. But when he looked at you, there was only kindness. That part of him had gone away. 

You aren’t sure you have that special capability. Instead, you bring little pieces of all your dead lives with you, nurturing them like ancient cracks on statues. Every part of you is muddied and connected, and you sit across from Bruce a mess of a person, unable to lock certain parts of yourself away. 

But maybe parts of yourself aren’t as obvious to others as they seem to be to yourself when you look in the mirror. Instead, now, you’re only one part of yourself to everyone. Bruce Wayne’s true love, Gotham’s special sweetheart. And no one is looking for anything else. 

The men from the restaurant stay in your mind for the rest of the night, even after Bruce’s comforting words. As you’re walking out of the restaurant, closer to Bruce than ever before underneath a dark umbrella, you can’t help but look over your shoulder one last time at the window where the two men are sitting, watching the commotion out on the rainy street. You’re quick to turn back to the cameras, though, smiling a brilliant smile and holding yourself close to Bruce, who has his familiar hand at the small of your back. 

Even in the car, away from Gotham noise and cameras, you’re still thinking of them. Specifically, thinking of all the terrible things that could happen in the evening, when Bruce disappears from the tower and onto Gotham streets. They could’ve recognized him, you think. It’s not completely impossible. And they’ll find him again, this time without the fear. There aren’t many criminals and underground vermin who are afraid of a billionaire son like Bruce Wayne, anyway. You try not to imagine the worst-case scenarios. 

You let the fear take over while he’s helping you out of the car and back into the entrance of Wayne Tower. You turn towards him frantically and resist the urge to grab both shoulders and shake. 

“Don’t go out tonight. Stay here.” 

Bruce’s face falls, and you realize you’ve just asked the question that he feared most. The question that probably convinced him to stop returning your phone calls and instead devote himself fully to a project that had nothing to do with you.  

“You can’t ask me to do that,” he says softly. 

“I know,” you say, shaking your head and taking a soft step back, “I just don’t want you getting hurt. You’re paying my rent now, you know. I need you around.” 

Your pathetic attempt at a joke is a failure. Instead, you just seem crazed and neurotic. Somehow failing as a fake girlfriend, being too needy and anxious in the face of some great design. If you ask him to stay, you know he’ll just disappear. 

“I’m going to bed,” you say at the stairs, “Just be safe tonight. That’s all I’m asking.” 

You leave him there, at the beginning of the stairs – watching you silently leave. You have to imagine he’s dreaming up a plan to get out of this game, cheat on the rules and kick you out of his home, and pretend nothing ever happened. At this point, you wouldn’t mind either. It would save you some embarrassment and sleepless nights. 

Hours later, you eventually find yourself falling asleep. You had closed the curtains tight in an attempt to ignore the glowing light that was beckoning Bruce toward danger. Your room feels more welcoming now, too. After a night out in Gotham and a halfway run-in with Iceberg Lounge pests, anywhere would feel like home. 

You try not to imagine what’s happening in the streets below you. Instead, you remember Bruce’s kind, faint smile – and distract yourself by eyeing the details etched on the wall near your bed, until you fall into a restless, disappointing sleep. 

—

“Are you asleep?” 

You look up at Bruce with heavy eyelids, watching as he towers over you on the bed. 

You shake your head sleepily, “Not now.” 

“Do you want to go for a ride?” 

“What?” 

Without answering, Bruce hands you a black riding jacket, which you take without further questioning. Sitting up in bed, you wrap the jacket around your shoulders and swing your feet off the bed. 

You follow him out of the room and down the stairs, where Bruce opens up a small closet near the entryway, rummaging through worn boxes in search of something. You take a moment to rub your eyes as they adjust to the dim light of the hallway and push your hand into the deep pockets of the riding jacket. 

You feel something inside the left side pocket, and when you pull it out towards the light, you see that it’s a magenta-colored pack of cigarettes, the same ones Bruce had given you the first morning, as a gentle peace offering. 

You extend them to Bruce with an eyebrow raised in silent questioning as he walks back over to you holding an oversized motorcycle helmet. 

He shrugs in response, taking them from you and putting them in his pocket. 

“Look around the place,” he says casually, “You’ll find a pack anywhere.” 

You’re too tired to analyze his response or to even really think about his reasonings behind keeping packs of cigarettes littered around his home. Instead, you take a moment to look at him as your eyes fully adjust. His hair is wild, and his eyes dark with smudged eye black. He has layers of clothing on, a dark hoodie underneath a heavy jacket, both dirty with late-night rain and oil stains. A completely different man than the one you left only a few hours earlier. Now, he’s a man visually stained with Gotham’s sins. 

He places the motorcycle helmet on your head, and you watch as he grins wildly at the sight, a small choke of laughter escaping him at the sight of the oversized helmet over your face. 

“I’ll take you around Gotham.” he says, “We still have time to see the sunrise.” 

“Sunrise? “Do you treat your other fake girlfriends this nice?” 

He’s still grinning at you, and as Bruce flips the visor down over your eyes with a quick swipe, he responds, “No. Just you.” 

There’s one thing that is still painfully true about Bruce Wayne – he knows his city. 

Once you are on the back of his old motorcycle, the same one he’s had since he was seventeen, Bruce takes you everywhere. Around the barely awake streets of Gotham, driving through late night traffic and broken construction sites, down old, secret alleyways, and through backstreets behind warehouses. It’s a different Gotham than you remember, one that you hadn’t seen in years. Though still dirty and damaged, the worn streets and skyscrapers are familiar. The only thing that’s ever resembled home. 

It’s nice, you realize, to spend time with him when the two of you aren’t expected to speak for a while. Instead, you’re expected to hold onto him tightly and listen to the sound of harsh wind against your face. The pressure is gone, without the cameras and onlookers watching every move. This is what you once wished for, though now it seems foreign and wrong. 

The two of you stop eventually on the outskirts of Gotham, as soon as the sun begins to rise over the city skyline. You’re in a forgotten spot, where trees still grow along boulevards and the paths are gravel and cobblestone. You can see the entire city from here, watch as it stretches awake from a long night, as cars begin to clog the streets, and lost church bells begin to chime. In this spot though, it’s quiet. 

It reminds you of the city that, for some reason, you love with your entirety. You’ve tried to run away a thousand times, ignore the city that raised you when no one else would. But it’s impossible. Especially with Bruce sitting beside you, who’s become Gotham’s prince, even within the shadows of his disappearance. 

Gotham isn’t a beautiful place. Maybe it’s only beautiful when you’re miles away from it. But you can’t ignore the way it makes you feel. 

“I’m going to sound insane,” you begin as you watch the sunlight hit the skyscrapers, “But I love this city. All of its chaos, its terrible faults – I know they’re terrible. But, there’s just something here, I think. Goodness that can’t be ignored.” 

Bruce steps off the motorcycle, keeping a firm hand on the seat to keep you steady as you swing your feet to one side and turn towards the skyline in its entirety. You watch as he grimaces against the sun for a moment, before turning back toward you. 

“Gotham’s killing itself. It’s hard to find the beauty in it.” 

You shrug, ignoring his common pessimism, “You’re Gotham’s hero. In more ways than one. You must notice something about it that keeps you going.” 

Bruce shakes his head, “Not exactly.” 

You lean forward, looking up at him with bright eyes, “Then why do it?” 

“That’s a great question. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.” 

“Is it worth it?” 

“Barely.” 

You sigh softly and lean away from him, looking back toward the skyline past Bruce standing in front of you. The both of you are silent for a long time, looking at identical skylines, but imagining two very different things. 

“I know you love this city,” Bruce finally says, breaking the silence, “For a little while, it made me love it too.” 

“I loved Gotham because it was yours.” 

It’s a confession you hadn’t known you’d be making. Yet, it falls out almost too naturally, as if it had been dying to be said. 

“I protect it because it’s yours.” 

He turns to look at you when he says it, but you don’t match his gaze. Instead, you stay focused on the skyline, watching as the sky changes from a harsh night to a softer morning. 

He says your name, quietly, after a while. You finally look back at him and watch as his tired eyes follow yours. 

“I’d like us to be friends,” he says softly, walking back toward the motorcycle and you, “When you’re ready, I’ll tell you everything you want to know. I’ll answer every question you’re afraid of asking now. Right now, I don’t want to make anything harder. So let’s try being friends.” 

You give him a faint, broken smile, “That would be nice,” you answer weakly, “I’d like to be your friend again.” 

Bruce smiles slightly as he mounts the motorcycle again, and as you hold onto him while he drives away from the little overlook, you can’t help but realize how genuine you’ve been – how much you meant every word you said.

[k1tk4ttt]

Yeah sex is good but have you ever found a 200k word fic of your favorite characters with your favorite trope?

[superbat-love]

Clark was covering a Wayne Enterprises press conference, blending seamlessly into the crowd of journalists, when his super-hearing caught the unmistakable whistle of a bullet cutting through the air. Instinct took over. In an instant, he surged forward, leaping onto the stage and wrapping Bruce in a protective embrace just as the bullet ricocheted harmlessly off his back.

It wasn’t until the chaos subsided that Clark registered the stunned silence of the crowd—and the calm words Bruce had spoken just before Clark had shielded him:

“...which is why Veronica and I have mutually decided to end our relationship. I am, however, seeing someone else.”

Clark froze, his brain struggling to process the situation as thousands of camera flashes exploded around them. The scene of Clark hugging Bruce Wayne on stage became an instant media sensation.

By the next morning, every headline screamed about Bruce Wayne “coming out” with his supposed new lover, complete with incriminating photos of the embrace. Tabloids speculated endlessly about the mysterious man who had swept Gotham’s most eligible billionaire off his feet.

Meanwhile, Bruce found himself forced to rethink his carefully constructed plan. The fake lover he had intended to reveal to the press was now irrelevant, thanks to Clark’s impromptu heroics. Adjusting his strategy, Bruce leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips as he read the morning news.

“Well,” he muttered to himself, “I suppose this will be... interesting.”

[novathevibe]

The secret identity thing is obviously a big problem for Bruce and Clark, so one night, while the two friends (TOTALLY just friends and not completely in love with each other... Totally) are hanging out on a random rooftop, Bruce says, "Let's get married."

Clark, in the middle of eating, actively chokes, eventually breathing again and going, "WHAT?!" A completely reasonable response to someone you've been crushing on asking for your hand.

"It would explain why Batman always seems to follow me to Metropolis and why Superman can always be seen when you're here doing your reporter job. I pay Superman to protect you from the dangers of Gotham since you'd feel more comfortable with a Metropolis hero protecting you, and you convinced Batman to shadow me while in Metropolis because I'm the only person actively trying to fix Gotham's infrastructure." Bruce says in an almost casual way.

Clark is obviously a little saddened that his crush doesn't want to actually be with him, but he smiles and nods. "Great idea! Should I make a public visit tomorrow, or-"

Pulling out a ring box, Bruce slides it on Clark's finger and takes his arm from his Batman costume, holding his hand and taking a picture of it. A moment later, Clark's personal phone lights up like a Christmas tree... Bruce tweeted the picture with the caption 'HE SAID YES 🥰😍💍🥹🫶🏻🤵🏻‍♂️🤵🏻‍♂️🥂💐🍾' and linked Clark's account.

"That works." Clark mumbles, ignoring how much he loves this, being publicly claimed by Bruce... Even if it's fake.

"You should come by Wayne Enterprises tomorrow so I can take you out on a very public date." Bruce says, ignoring how his own heart skips a beat at finally having a reason to take Clark out on a date... Even if it's fake.

Epilogue: "Good morning, Mrs. Kent, how-"

"Excuse me Bruce, I need to go yell at my son for making me find out through Smallville gossip. CLARK, YOU GET BACK HERE, YOUNG MAN!"

[batdadtruther]

Superbat Fic Recs pt. 1/?

tell all the truth (but tell it slant) by susiecarter | words: 33,007

It takes a while for Batman and Superman to work things out, once Clark comes back from the dead. Pretending to date each other in order to explain why Bruce Wayne and Clark Kent are in the same place so often? Doesn't help as much as you might think.

Embarrassing to Say by rajirani | words: 4,622

Clark figured out Batman's identity entirely by accident. It was fine - they'd been friends for this long - it was bound to happen sooner or later.

He probably should have given more thought as to how he found out, though.

Make an Ass of U and Me by Huntress79, Sevidri | words: 11,271

Bruce neglects to explain exactly who the attractive young man that seems to know him so well is, and what their relationship entails. Naturally, there are some misunderstandings.

or: Five times Clark makes an assumption, and one time he finally learns the truth.

Look Before You Leap by rotasha | words: 7,882

In a TV interview, Superman slips up and reveals that he thinks Batman is the most attractive member of the Justice League. Bruce’s kids find this hilarious. Bruce finds it intriguing.

fallin' for him was like fallin' from grace by Resacon1990 | words: 23,259

“But Bruce isn’t gay?” Clark points out, and there’s an awkward moment of everyone clearing their throats and avoiding Clark’s eyes until he turns to stare at Bruce. “Are you?”

Bruce blinks for a moment before offering a sheepish smile. “I’m not… not?” he offers, and Clark feels his brain just about short-circuit at the news.

Or, five times Clark finds himself falling for Bruce, and the one time he does something about it

[onnahu]

An idea:

Bruce doesn't know about the universe-hopping thing in the countdown to final crisis, and has no idea how Jason would get to know a Green Lantern.

Donna? He can understand, they met like, two times when Jason was Robin, and she's friends with Dick. Suspicious, but explainable. Kyle Rayner however?

That's a thing about Bruce: he's paranoid and obsessive, so he keeps tabs on who his children associate with. So, when he can't figure out what's with that weird Kyle+Donna+Jason thing is, he start's to do reaserch.

The thing about his kids? They have no mercy. They're not gonna help him. They'll do the opposite. They organise their friends/collegues/associates from hero community so they'll act all buddy-buddy with Jason, seemingly out of the blue.

Bruce is stressed. How does Jason suddenly have friends? And why are those people like Green Lanterns, Superfamily, and oh god, JOHN CONSTANTINE.

The last one organised Jason. Just to spite Bruce. It looked like that:

Jason: Yo, Constantine, right?

John: That's me. Who are you?

Jason: Just a guy who wants to give Bats some grey hair. You in?

John: whatever it is, i'm in.

Hal Jordan went pretty much the same way, just with Kyle's help.

In the end, it ends up being a full on all-heroes conspiracy. Bat's on your nerves? Go out with his son and do something unhinged.

[glassgasoline]

sat in delusion waiting for the superbat fake dating tag on ao3 to be flooded miraculously with biblical works

[homokommari]

this is gonna be so messy and ugly. i'll just post it as i get pages done <3

[how-very-superbat]

Hei just saw you recommend Batnesia by Qui on a post about amnesiac Bruce assuming he is hooking up with Clark,

I read it in a day and I loved it do you have more recommendations ?

Here's some Amnesia Superbat:

running backwards (the only way forward) by soetry (8k) Bruce gets hit in battle, forgets everything about being Batman, and adopts the entire personality and characteristics of his idiotic playboy persona. To get his memories back, someone has to get rather intimate with him.  And really, Clark is the only one for the task.

I Would I Might Forget That I Am I by susiecarter (24k) Clark Kent woke up, ate breakfast, went to work—the same way he did every day. Ordinary. Except for the part where Superman hadn't been seen in at least a week and nobody knew why, Lois was acting kind of weird, and Bruce Wayne was insisting that Clark was the only reporter he'd allow to run a feature on the crashed alien ship in the park, since Wayne Enterprises had been granted control of the site. And the way Clark felt every time Wayne looked at him a little too long definitely wasn't helping. But it was fine. Clark was normal, there was nothing wrong with him, and everything was fine.

A Week Of Rain by Mithen (18k) Clark Kent seeks out Bruce Wayne when he is resurrected, but he has no memory of his time as Superman and no powers. Bruce has to deal with an unexpected visitor to his lake house--and his own grief, guilt, and attraction.

And then I thought I'd throw in some Fake Dating fics too because they fit in with the vibe. I'll probably also make an extended list of these later.

A Common Misconception by rotasha (91k) When Bruce Wayne comes out, he accidentally becomes the poster child of bisexuality and realizes his lifestyle of sleeping around needs to come to an end. Clark, being the supportive friend that he is, volunteers to pretend to date him for a year. You know the rest.

over this threshold by orphean (59k) Bruce asks Clark to marry him for tax reasons. Clark, against his better judgment, agrees.

I hope these help, please let me know if there's anything else I can find for you or you want anything more specific x

[toowildintheseventies]

Trade Mistakes

Chapter Three: Fire and the Thud

A/N: Unsure how I feel about this chapter but desperately needed to write & publish something!!!!

Pairing: battinson!bruce wayne x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.6k

Summary: You’re a woman with many vices. smoking, drinking, spending time in shitty clubs, and your undying love and obsession with your ex-boyfriend, Bruce Wayne. You had spent your entire adolescence with each other, until he had unexpectedly broke your heart and disappeared. For the last few years, you two had lived separate, mysterious lives. Until you are reintroduced under strange circumstances and fictitiously rekindle your relationship.

Warnings: none (?) annoying yearning ?? minor family trauma maybe.

Tag list: @midnightmystic @doetic @toowildintheseventies-fan

— —

Waking up in Wayne Tower should’ve shocked you. Your placement in his bed, wrapped up in charcoal-colored sheets, should’ve terrified and confused you immensely. But, in the light of the diminished afternoon sun, your presence in Wayne Tower felt painfully familiar. 

 It only takes you a quick moment to determine where you are when you first wake up. The room hasn’t changed in seven years, with its antique gothic furniture and dark-painted walls still leaving you uneasy. In the center of the room, an ancient-looking fireplace burns weakly, illuminating the hidden corners of the dark, almost empty room. The curtains, which hide large, glass windows, are pulled closed loosely, letting in the last remaining evening sunlight. As you watch the sun filter through, you try to mentally calculate how long you’ve been asleep, knowing you must’ve been sleeping throughout the entire day. Your body’s weak attempt at detoxing whatever terrible sickness invaded your body.  

You stretch out weakly, noticing the cold, empty sheets around you in the large bed. Once upon a time, the sheets were warm from another body that spent the night pressed up against you, in the same sheets and the same room. Now, your body shudders with the memory and its contemporary absence. As you fold into yourself and close your eyes again, you note the way almost every muscle burns painfully from the smallest movements, and you slowly feel the beginning of a long, painful headache starting at your temples. 

After a few, short moments of secondary rest, you hear the wooden door creak open as someone steps inside. You open your eyes quickly and sit up against the pillows, watching as the figure steps out of the darkness of the doorway and into the sunlight near the foot of the bed. 

You will yourself to be angry as Bruce steps closer to you, handing you a glass of water. You take it hesitantly and move further away from him, and you watch as the corners of his mouth turn into a quick, slight frown. The two of you are silent for a moment, as you attempt to look anywhere but him. 

“You’re awake,” he finally murmurs, “Good.” 

You nod, unable to speak. You know that if you were to say anything, your words would come out cruel and evil – half a decade’s worth of hurt falling from your lips. Instead, you wait for him to say something else, watching the way he shuffles from foot to foot, more anxious and unsure than you had ever seen him before. He looks exhausted, with deep-set worry lines around his brow and the remnants of black eye paint left on his eyelids. 

He speaks again, this time handing you two, pink pills, “What they drugged you with has worn off by now, almost completely,” Bruce mutters, “You might feel groggy for the next few hours, though. Those are for the headache that’s obviously already begun. Overall, though, you’re fine besides a few bruises.” 

This time, you frown. You’re unsure how he knew about your headache, but you have an inkling it has something to do with the way you keep squinting your eyes and reaching for your temples absentmindedly. You’re disturbed for a multitude of reasons. Your initial fears from the night before had been true, and your drinks throughout the night had been laced with something that left you lightheaded and irresponsible. It’s the first time something like that has happened to you. Usually, you’re much smarter and refuse any drinks from strangers, even if you watch Bella make it right in front of you. Your unusual shitty day probably had something to do with your carelessness. After last night, though, you doubted you ever wanted to step foot inside of Iceberg Lounge again.  

You finally find your voice to speak, “What am I doing here, Bruce?” 

Your question comes out more wounded than you initially intended, with your voice laced with hurt and fragility. But by Bruce’s reaction, with his eyebrows raised in quick shock, your tone seemed to strike a hurtful cord. 

“I’m not sure exactly what you remember,” Bruce begins, suddenly sounding halfway annoyed, “But you did indeed pass out in my arms in the corner of some scummy, dark alleyway. I wasn’t going to leave you there.” 

“Why not?” you ask, “You could’ve just left me there and ignored the entire ordeal. Or dropped me off at the nearest Gotham hospital. You had many options other than bringing me back here. And by the way, I remember everything, batboy. So unless you have some sort of bat-memory-wiper machine, you’re out of luck.” 

“I knew you’d remember,” he responds softly, “And I know you’re not going to like this answer, but I do feel somewhat of a responsibility towards you.” 

“You left me before, Bruce. I could’ve handled it again.” 

He shakes his head and fumbles with something in his pocket without responding. You use this as an excuse to swing your legs off the bed in an attempt to get up. Sitting up on the bed, you notice that your initial bar outfit, a cheap, black skirt, and a cropped white tank top, has been covered up with an oversized Joy Division t-shirt. It takes everything in you not to roll your eyes. 

When you look back up at Bruce, his arm is outstretched, handing you a small, magenta-colored cardboard box. 

“Still smoke?” Bruce asks, his voice so quiet you have to strain your ears to hear his question. 

You let out a quiet sigh. “I’m trying to quit.” 

That’s a lie. You work in the goddamn restaurant industry and spend most of your evenings in a shitty bar drunk out of your mind. Quitting is essentially impossible if you’re going to continue with that lifestyle, and you’ve quietly come to terms with the fact that you’ll be dying of lung cancer at the age of fifty-two. You started smoking when you were sixteen, and specifically remember Bruce hating it. It was a nasty habit, in fairness. But like most of your bad habits, not one you were willing to give up. He never pushed you to quit any of your bad vices, knowing if you gave up one sin it would only lead you to another. He never once offered you cigarettes though, and you’re shocked that he remembers the exact type of cigarettes you used to smoke. Some sort of twisted, dirty peace offering, you guess. 

He shrugs, leaving his arm extended in the offering, “You had a tough night,” he says, seemingly seeing straight through your bullshit lie. 

You quickly grab the box out of his hands and slink back into the pillows, keeping your eyes on him as he shoves his hands back into his pockets. 

“I don’t plan on ruining your life, Bruce. Even though it would be fun,” you say, “I’m not going to tell anyone, if that’s why I’m still here.” 

He shakes his head, eyes blown out in shock as if the idea you presented is so absurd, “I already told you why you’re here. That has nothing to do with it.” 

“Alright, then,” you pull out one of the skinny, pink cigarettes and put it towards your lips, “You’ve defended my honor and nursed me back to health, which probably makes you feel a lot better about leaving me blindsided seven years ago. Are we done here?” 

Bruce makes a quick step towards you, pulling a metal lighter out of his shirt pocket and bringing it to the cigarette that now sits between your lips. You hesitantly lean towards him, watching the cigarette end as the flame catches. You don’t miss the way his wrist muscles flex and fingers shake as he pulls away from you. 

“I have an arrangement to offer you,” Bruce says, “If you’ll listen.” 

“An arrangement?” you repeat, “Ah, so that’s why I’m here.” 

“Stop it,” Bruce demands quickly, which makes you smile. Noticing your reaction, his voice softens as he continues, “This is something I thought of just now. Well, I thought about it before. It hadn’t been important then, but you’ve reminded me.” 

You nestle yourself deeper into the pillows and raise your eyebrows, motioning him to continue. 

“Gotham’s getting suspicious. They don’t like that I’ve just disappeared. Nothing has been connected yet, and I don’t expect anyone to find out the full truth – but I can’t risk it any longer. There are too many things at risk here, and I can’t take any chances. The new mayor is begging for some sort of philanthropy work, I get countless invites to stupid galas and faux-charity events, and Alfred has been begging me to at least make one public appearance for years. As much as I hate to admit it, something has to change–” 

Bruce is rambling, which is unusual for a man who usually sticks to quick, one-worded responses or almost zero verbal communication. He’s nervous, and you notice it. 

Halfway through his sentence, you interrupt him, “What’s your point?” 

He sighs, finally stops pacing, and sits on the corner of the bed, “The media, Gotham citizens, journalists, everyone — they loved you. And you were a genius at perfecting an image and playing their game. If I have to make a reappearance, I need you at my side.” 

You should laugh in his face and walk out. It’s a ridiculous, almost insulting request. And for some reason, it makes everything hurt more than ever. A reminder that what you once had is completely gone, yet no one will ever let you forget. You know that if you agree to whatever it is that he’s proposing, you will live in almost constant pain, every day of your life will be a constant, brutal reminder. 

“Are you seriously asking your ex-girlfriend to play pretend with you?” 

He winces, “Yes? That makes it sound awful.” 

You laugh bitterly, “It is awful.” 

“I’ll take care of you. Whatever you want. And we will do it completely on your terms, you’ll be in charge.” 

You hesitate for a moment, weighing your options. This may be an offer that could work for you. A chance to restart your life, and give up the parts of it that make your existence forgettable and dull. You may never have to step foot in the lounge again, work doubles, or live in a shitty apartment in the worst part of Gotham. As much as you hate to admit it, you may need this gimmick as badly as Bruce does. 

“We’ll need to set up some sort of standard. Have guidelines and rules,” you answer finally. 

He nods, “Of course.” 

“ I’ll have conditions. This arrangement will take up the majority of my life. I’ll need to be compensated.” 

He nods again. “Of course,” Bruce repeats. 

“And,” you begin, “I have a lot of questions. I want them answered, eventually.” 

“I’ll tell you everything.” 

You put out the cigarette on the nightstand, and swing your feet off the bed to stand up in front of him, “Okay,” you agree, “Fine.” 

You watch as the corners of his mouth flip up in a small, almost unnoticeable grin. You do your best to ignore it, attempting to walk past him toward the door. Before you get away from him, he stretches out his hand in front of you, waiting for your handshake. You let out a small laugh, noting how absurd this entire ordeal is. 

“Deal?” he asks. 

You take his hand in yours and feel your entire body tense up as he touches you. His hands are cold and familiar, his grip still strong and sure. Even after years of living away from the spotlight, Bruce remained the polished, skilled son of his politician father. 

“Deal,” you agree. 

Moments later, you’re sitting in the backseat of an SUV outside of Wayne Tower. Bruce stands in front of you, leaning against the door of the car, watching you with careful eyes. You’re sitting in the middle, still in your short skirt and his Joy Division t-shirt, clutching your broken heels to your chest, waiting for him to say something to you. The sun had almost completely set behind you, leaving only the glimmer of city lights and car headlights to brighten your vision of the man in front of you. 

Bruce seems nervous. He kept looking around anxiously as he helped you into the car and now stood before you anxiously swaying back and forth. It was as if he was impatiently awaiting something, or like you were a waste of his time. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.” Bruce finally says, gripping the SUV door and leaning in towards you. 

You nod sheepishly, fiddling with the broken strap of your heels.“Yeah, be prepared. It’s been a long time, Bruce.” 

You notice a small smile appear as he answers. “I know. We’ll be fine.” 

You hate his arrogance. For a man who is usually depicted as quiet and unbecoming, he’s always been slightly cocky with you, as if he knows you better than you like to believe. Which may be true. But after years away from him, you hate the way he has so simply fallen back into place with you, the way his original personality seems to peak through only in your presence. 

You reach for the door handle as Bruce steps back, “I’ll be fine. I don’t know about you.” 

You don’t allow him to respond, fearing his answer. Instead, the door shuts and the SUV drives off into the busy, nighttime traffic. You look behind you as the SUV turns away from the tower, and you can see him clearly through the dark-tinted windows, still standing where you left him, his hands at his sides. 

—

Bella is walking out the door of your apartment when you walk up the steps. She’s wearing her normal nightclub attire, a short, black dress, and her long, blonde hair tied up in a sleek ponytail. You’ve always envied the way she refused to hide by faux wigs and dark makeup, unafraid and uncontrolled by her past. She always appeared exactly the way she was. You could never afford that luxury, always attempting to hide from the media that still hounded you and important figures that recognized you from Wayne’s sponsored events. Now, though, it seems that your hidden persona is paying off. When you eventually rejoin the world as Bruce Wayne’s fake girlfriend, you won’t have to worry about the girl you’ve made up for the last seven years making an ugly appearance. 

Bella recognizes you almost instantly, dropping her purse and keys onto the hallway floor and running up to you, pulling you into a suffocating hug. 

“Oh my God,” Bella whispers into your hair, “I thought you were dead. If you didn’t show up tonight, I swear I was going to file a missing persons report. You scared the shit out of me.” 

“Sorry,” you squeak out, attempting to pull away from her to get some air, “I’m fine.” 

Finally, she pulls away from you, “Did you go home with that guy from the bar? You never leave with anyone.” 

You don’t answer. Instead, you follow her gaze as she looks you up and down, and you watch the way her face brightens as she notices the oversized t-shirt.

“Okay,” Bella says with a laugh, “There’s no way that bastard owns a band t-shirt. Where the fuck did you go last night?” 

You smile, reaching towards her to smooth out the wrinkles that form on the front of her dress. 

“You’ll find out soon enough. Check the news tomorrow morning.” 

You walk away from her towards your front door, and you wait to unlock the door until you hear the familiar clicking her high heels on the steps. You hadn’t meant to wave her off so arrogantly, but you didn’t have the energy to unpack everything that happened last night and into this morning. Honesty, you weren’t exactly sure how to feel about it yourself, and you knew Bella would have some of her own opinions that you couldn’t stand to hear. 

Your apartment is cluttered and dark, the overhead lighting rarely on in an attempt to save on the electricity bill. Your furniture is sparse and cheap, and every surface of the kitchen and living room is littered with discarded makeup, cheap clothes, and old takeout boxes. The two of you are rarely home, and when you are home,  you’re typically sleeping in between shifts and nights at the lounge. There isn’t much time to decorate the apartment or try to make it more like home. Instead, the walls are decorated with photos from the sparse trips you and Bella have taken as friends, antique paintings from your family home, and random items the two of you have picked up from street corners and thrift stores. Your room isn’t much different, mostly decor that you kept from your university dorm room, thrifted bedding, and the closest full of clothes you’ve kept since high school. 

You immediately get to work after changing into new clothes and climbing underneath your covers. First, you pull your old college laptop out of the bottom of your desk drawer and search through endless articles about Bruce and yourself, trying to remind yourself exactly how they once talked about your relationship. In the beginning, everyone was obsessed. Two young, glamorous lovers with tragic pasts, never straying too far from their home city. Gotham had always been obsessed with Bruce Wayne, considering him royalty since the day he was born. Both sides of his family had essentially founded Gotham, and his long list of ancestors had created all of the beloved parts of the city. His father was the most important man in Gotham and arguably one of the most important men in the country. Bruce was once his little shadow, following him to all of the important events and politician rallies around the city, with matching ties and mimicking smiles. Bruce was Gotham’s bright future. 

His parents’ murder only solidified Bruce’s position as Gotham’s perfect prince. The city fell into great mourning after their death, and everyone pitied their young son. The media followed him everywhere and reported on every single important life milestone, like high school graduation, his acceptance into college, and eventually, his romantic history with you. 

Your family was Gotham’s history, but not nearly as important as Wayne and Arkham’s checkered past. Your father was a fresh-faced State senator, and your mother came from an influential political family in New York City. Both sides of your family had a long, glamorous history, but were consistently overshadowed by the Wayne’s. Not that it mattered to the three of you, though. Your father was more than happy to focus on politics and only bother with the media during campaign trails, and your mother was satisfied staying home with you, essentially retiring from her once prominent social life. 

When your parents both died in a plane crash, coming home after an overseas trip to celebrate your birthday, the media talked about it for only two days. Less than a month later, your father’s position as Senator was replaced by someone that many people believed bought his votes. Your extended family stopped calling, and everyone refused to raise you. Instead, you jumped in between boarding schools for the rest of your life, where you eventually met Bruce Wayne, another Gotham native and orphan.

The two of you made perfect sense. Everyone loved you, and you were only fifteen when the media started talking about the prospect of marriage. At first, it was easy to ignore. The two of you stayed at school for the majority of the time, and you rarely followed Bruce home on the weekends. You were more eager to forget about Gotham and focus your time on anything outside of the city. The media coverage became obsessive when you first started visiting Gotham on weekends away from university, and that’s when you began developing the part you loved to play. At the time, it felt like you were doing something important, and that you were solidifying a promising future as a Wayne. 

At that time, you were only concerned with Bruce. You thought you were doing what was necessary to stay with him, and played the part that was particularly assigned to you. You wanted to be good for him, the same way he was so good for you. The hounding media and obsessed society hadn’t been everything, only a piece of the puzzle that made up your loving relationship. Bruce hated every second of it and refused to see the importance of it. Still, though, his actions as Gotham’s prince were natural and unforgettable. Now, though, Bruce seems to be finding the importance. He wouldn’t have asked you to return if he hadn’t. 

You don’t let yourself look at any articles after your breakup. You remember the lies and chaos that the media had spun to make meaning of the end of the relationship. The rumors were cruel and nonsensical, and at one time you couldn’t stop yourself from reading them. Now though, you knew better. And in a few short hours, you were going to prove all of the rumors wrong, even if the revival of your relationship was entirely fictitious. 

The next step of your plan was something you dreaded, and something you never had to do before. You pulled up a list of popular media sites and paparazzi phone numbers and called almost every single one. You were careful to disguise your voice and gave them the exact restaurant and time that you had decided on with Bruce that evening. At one time, they followed you and Bruce everywhere, and you would have to call and beg for them to leave you alone. Now though, they needed a little push. No one expected the prince of Gotham to make a sudden appearance, and everyone had silently decided that the only time he’d venture out of his home was if something damning happened to the city, as it had only a few months earlier. You were forced to tell him that their prince was back. 

Lastly, you searched in your closet for the outfit you’d wear the next morning. In the very back of your closet, you found a dark, floral dress that you had worn a few times during your first year of college. You particularly remember Bruce loving it, and you had worn it on his twentieth birthday. It was the only dress you kept from your dates with Bruce, after dramatically burning everything that reminded you of him a week after your breakup. 

There was one more thing that you kept, too. At the time, it had meant too much to you to give up, and it stayed a constant reminder at the bottom of your jewelry box for seven years. A gold necklace with a small charm, and a cursive letter B. It was a Christmas present, your first Christmas together, and notably, the first holiday you spent with someone in five years at the time. 

You had worn it for years, never leaving your neck even in the shower or to bed. It felt permanently connected to you, and it felt as if you were ripping the skin off when you first unconnected the clasp after the breakup. It felt like you had lost a part of yourself. 

Now, the dramatics were back. As you clasped the necklace back around your neck you swear you felt the metal burn your skin. It felt like playing this part was a sin against your old self, who was once destroyed and heartbroken over the man who gifted you a stupid fucking necklace. You hated the way he had such an effect on you, the way he could make ancient emotions come back with a violent force. 

You could see the hidden glimmer of the bat signal from your bed after throwing yourself back under the covers. It was something you rarely paid attention to before, something that was almost as constant as the moon overlooking Gotham. You hated the reminder that right now, Bruce was racing through the streets of Gotham, simply looking for danger. That was the only explanation you could come up with. Bruce was searching to get hurt, and he was hungry for faux justice. 

The thoughts of him down below in the worst parts of Gotham kept you up all night, staring at the signal in the sky, willing it to go dark. 

```

The next day, as you’re walking down the stairs to meet the driver parked in front of your building, you receive a phone call from Bruce Wayne, a number you had deleted for upwards of five years. Your number had been blocked since the first day of breakup when he first stopped answering your phone calls. It took you a few more years to gather the courage to forget his number and delete his contact – even after you gave up calling. 

You answer almost immediately. “When did you unblock my number?” 

You heard rustling on the other end of the line. “You’ve been unblocked for years,” Bruce says. 

It’s hard to conceal your initial surprise as you respond, “And when did you add your number to my phone?”  

“When you were sleeping,” 

“Creep,” you mutter, pulling on the ends of your dress and fixing your hair in the reflection of a window. 

He ignores your insult, “Are you coming? We’re going to be late.” 

You drop the phone away from your ear and hang up as you walk towards the car in front of you. Before you open the back door of the black SUV, a quick honk pulls you away. 

Parked behind the SUV is a black Corvette, with Bruce sitting in the driver’s seat, his phone still pressed against his ear after you hung up. 

“A little much, don’t you think?’ you ask, walking up to the passenger side door. 

 Before you can open the door, Bruce jumps out of the car and walks towards you, opening up the passenger door himself. As he walks away, you pull him back towards you and look at him. He’s wearing a charcoal-colored sweater with the sleeves pulled up on his forearms, with dark, black pants and shoes. His hair is cut and styled, a brown almost so dark it matches his clothes. He takes off his sunglasses, and out of instinct, you reach towards him to wipe away the remnants of black eye makeup from the corner of his eyes. 

“Jesus Christ,” you scold as you pull away from Bruce quickly, “Have you even slept?” 

He puts his sunglasses back on and returns to the driver’s side, “No. Have you?” 

You don’t respond, and Bruce turns onto the main street, the SUV parked in front of you quickly following after. The city is dark and gloomy, promising rain in the next few hours. The streets are busy and lively, many Gotham citizens venturing out in the early morning after the initial prospect of danger went away as the sun came up. 

The ride is quiet. You don’t mind, though. You’re content with silently watching as Bruce grasps the steering wheel, staring straight ahead at the morning traffic and cloudy sky. You spend the ride imagining how the conversation would go, silently listing all the things you wanted to say to him, and all the things you wished you’d confessed. You came up with a list in your head, of questions, rules, and ridiculous conditions that Bruce would rightfully refuse. You’re finally deciding on that list as the Corvette pulls up to the boulevard and is greeted with a swarm of cameras. 

Bruce is quick with his response, showing little signs of unease in front of paparazzi and cameras and instead, his worries are only visible in the small, almost unnoticeable ways. Like the way his eyes grow darker as he looks down at you when he opens the passenger side door, and the way he grips your hand as he helps you out of the car. Otherwise, Bruce is calm and quick. He leaves it to you, like always, to smile and greet. As you morph into the familiar role, Bruce pulls you along into the restaurant with a firm hand on your back, barely acknowledging the cameras like he’s been trained to do. 

You sit at a table near the front windows with Bruce across from you, with his sunglasses still on. You motion for him to take him off, but he ignores you – instead picking up a menu placed in front of him and flipping through it carelessly. 

Two white mugs of coffee are placed in front of you in a quick moment, and you watch as the dim light of the restaurant casts soft shadows on Bruce’s tired features as he orders two of the same entrees for the both of you. 

The air is thick with tension as you wait for Bruce to begin, your fingers tapping absentmindedly on the white ceramic coffee top that the waitress had just set down in front of you. 

After a few moments, you realize Bruce is refusing to begin the conversation, and you begin carefully, “Okay,” you say slowly, clutching the cup, “Questions or rules or first?” 

Bruce adjusts in his seat, his expression hidden behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses, “Questions.” 

Your mind races with the thousand of questions you have for him, trying to decide exactly where to begin. This situation is so much larger than the two of you, and it seems that Bruce is more than willing to let you navigate it on your own. It’ll be your first job to set up the pieces of this tricky, particular game. 

You decide to stick with the basics, “How’d you know I’d be at the Lounge last night?” 

“I didn’t,” he replies calmly, “I had no idea where you were. I was dealing with something that had nothing to do with you.” 

His response surprises you. You had come up with the decision that he had been following you all of this time, keeping silent tabs on you for the last seven years. It was the only explanation that made sense to you, narcissism and self-obsession aside. Initially, you always assumed he wanted nothing to do with you, and had essentially forgotten you existed. But as soon as you saw him in the alleyway, with his bright eyes scanning your face, you concluded that he followed you. You just had no idea why. 

Even if his response makes you uneasy, there was a quick sense of relief knowing that he hadn’t been watching you struggle all these years without him. 

“What was it?” you press further, unable to stop yourself. 

Bruce’s lips curl into a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Unimportant. Next question.” 

You couldn’t help but wonder how much he was willing to reveal about himself. Bruce was always hidden in dark mystery, especially during the end of your original relationship. Even though you knew about his darkest, most hidden secret, you sincerely doubted he’d share anything further with you. It didn’t hurt to try, though. 

“How long have you been doing this?” you inquired. 

“A long time,” he answered. 

You turn to look out the window to your left and are suddenly reminded of the crowds of reporters you had called the night before. They’re close enough to make you uneasy as if you’re in some hidden danger. They’re watching the two of you carefully, with smirks of gross accomplishment and their hands gripping their cameras tightly, waiting for the perfect shot of the prince of Gotham. The overbearing presence reminds you of something wicked, all of the terrible lies told about you and the ridiculous rumors that are still brought up years later. You’d never escape the hideous things said about you. All the things that would’ve disappeared by a simple word or appearance by Bruce. 

With that brutal reminder, you decided to become a little evil with your questions and push him further. “Seven years long time?” 

Bruce is unphased by your insinuation, “Give or take.” 

You’re already close to giving up or walking out the door. You begin to wonder if the gain is worth the loss of your fucking dignity. 

Okay,” you say with a hint of resignation, “Why?” 

Bruce leaned forward slightly, finally removing his sunglasses and placing them on the table carelessly. His eyes show terrible tiredness, with bloodshot pupils and deep lines. 

His eyes lock onto yours, “Complicated. Next question?”

Your mind is still frozen with the familiar reminder of hurt. You know he’s waiting for you to ask the ultimate question, the question every ex-girlfriend who was dumped and left alone wants to know. You refuse to ask, though. You’re not sure you ever want to know. Instead, you’re perfectly happy pretending it never happened. This is a new, false beginning. You don't need to be reminded any longer. 

“I’m not going to ask the obvious one.” 

His response is surprisingly straightforward. “The answer is simple. I’ll tell you.” 

The quickness and simplicity of his answer intrigue you. For a moment, you hesitate in an effort for him to continue. When Bruce stays silent with his eyes still locked on yours, you make up your mind and respond. 

“I’m not asking.” 

Bruce’s gaze softens, and he quietly admits under the noise of the cafe, “I hadn’t meant to hurt you.” 

The sincerity in his voice is unexpected, and you find yourself momentarily frozen, forgetting your next steps. 

“I didn’t ask. Rules now,” you declare finally, shifting the focus of the conversation, “Number one. I need to be paid. I’ll have to quit my job, and I have to pay rent. I need at least as much as I have been making.” 

Bruce nods in agreement, his expression reflecting hints of understanding. “Done. Just tell me how much.” 

With a sense of quickly escaping relief, you consider your next condition, one you assume he’ll refuse. “I want to go back to school, too. Finish my degree. I’ll need to do something, I’m not going to become a stay-at-home fake girlfriend.” 

“You haven’t graduated? What happened?” Bruce inquiries, genuine curiosity coating his words. 

You think back at the first few months after the breakup, how every other aspect of your life suddenly turned to shit, as if you experienced a great cosmic shift. The phone call late one evening when your bank account was completely drained, the phone call with Alfred that followed shortly after as you cried and panicked to his silent ear. The meeting a week later with the dean of students at your small university after you withdrew. Or, finally, when you moved into your small Gotham apartment, and everything began to make sense again.

“Long story” you began, a bit of vulnerability in your voice, “Short answer, I lost everything. I couldn’t afford to go back to school.” 

Bruce’s response was surprisingly supportive. “We’ll get your priority registration. I’ll make sure it’s paid for.” 

You feel an obvious surge of gratitude, but you attempt to stay forced and professional. “I need you to listen to me. If I think you should go to something, you go. If I want you to do something, you do it. You told me I was a genius at these things. I want you to remind yourself of that before ever saying no.” 

With a nod and a small smirk, Bruce acknowledges your terms. He takes a sip of coffee as he quickly glances out the window, just to immediately glance back over to you, watching as you continue. 

“The specifics, then. We go out twice a week,” you outline, “Once, like this. Breakfast or dinner. Something casual where people will see us. The other time, something disgustingly high society. A gala or fundraiser. We can do that for a few weeks, and then stop for a while. But for right now, we have to play the game well.” 

You understood the practicality of these conditions. The agenda alone is a copycat version of what the two of you once did causally, without the rigid rules. Bruce seems to be on the same page. 

“I only have two conditions, he explains after a beat, his tone growing more assertive as he continues, “First, I want you to stay in Wayne Tower. I don’t want you in that apartment anymore. I want you there with me. It’ll be easier to make sure you’re safe and ultimately will make more sense-” 

The thought of living with him was strangely terrifying, something you hadn’t even done when you were in a legitimate relationship. Ignoring how you had felt safer and more at ease waking up in Wayne Tower than you had in months, you couldn’t imagine staying with him at all times. It felt wildly inappropriate, and contilling. 

You were quick to voice your concerns, “I don’t think that’s entirely appropriate-” 

“Secondly,” Bruce continues, undeterred, “I’m not expecting you to do anything behind closed doors. Our game is only public, which means you don’t even need to speak to me if you don’t want to. You’ll have your room at home, you can have your floor. I don’t care. I just want to know you’re there.” 

“Those are your only conditions?” 

“That’s all. Everything else is entirely up to you. You already know my reasons for all of this.” 

“Alright,” you finally agree, “Fine.” 

Bruce takes the last sip of his coffee, and you look down at the two plates in front of you. Neither of you has eaten anything, and you barely touched your coffee, instead opting just to feel the warmth radiating from the mug. You don’t feel like eating, anyway. 

“Do you want to leave now?” you ask Bruce, “Go get some sleep?” 

He shrugs as he places the sunglasses back over his eyes, “You’re the boss.” 

You quickly place your napkin over your plate and grab your purse from the seat next to you. You look outside the window again at the group of reporters waiting outside for you. The crowd had dwindled, only leaving the few loyal reporters behind on the streets, still clutching their cameras against their chests. 

You sigh, “Let’s go.” 

In a quick moment, Bruce pays the bill and pulls you out of the restaurant in the same way he directed you inside, with his hand against your back and his cold hands helping you into the vintage car. The street is busy, and you watch as passersby stop in the tracks and watch as the two of you get into the car and the reporters’ cameras flash. The attention isn’t as fun as you remember. You begin to realize that the only attention that mattered was his. 

It isn’t until Bruce pulls the Corvette into the garage underneath Wayne Tower that you realize he isn’t going to take you back to your apartment across the city. Instead, he took you back home. You’re quick to panic, thinking about Bella when she finally wakes up in the afternoon, or all of your belongings that you left behind in your small bedroom. You make a mental note to retrieve your things later in the evening and call Bella as soon as she wakes up, but your panic quickly turns to peace when you’re brought back to the familiar living room in the heart of Wayne Tower, exactly as you had left it. 

Your home, until this game you’re playing ends without a winner.

[sorryiwasasleep]

Bruce Wayne is caught photographed with someone in a state of undress and headlines running the pictures are everywhere the next week.

Which would be par for the course for him, except this time he was photographed with a man and it wasn't even during a hook-up, despite what the pictures look like and the media speculations are all saying.

And not just any man, but Clark Kent.

They had been changing into their respective supersuits, though Bruce thanks every deity he can name that that isn’t clear in the pictures

But now, not only is Bruce getting forced out of the closet and Clark publicly along with him, both their secret identities are at risk.

[crsssie]

I think it would be fun to live in a DC comic. Like yeah Gotham is like overrun by crime and villains. But college is probably so cheap over there plus with all the super villains and stuff they probably cancel class every other week.

Also imagine posting the most unhinged theories online

Like superman is dating Bruce Wayne, and batman is dating Clark kent.

Or batman isn't real he's just a hologram that the police station uses.

BROO OH MY GOD COLLEGE TUITION... I would live in DC comic just for that actually. I would probably have scarecrow as a professor for shits n giggles it would be crazyy

[everwalldigan]

Hear me out: Robin Dick would be the biggest Bruceman supporter and shipper.

This boy hates any of Bruce’s love interest with a passion because then his dad guardian spends less time with him and that’s obviously UNACCEPTABLE, SCANDALOUS even, so when rumours start circulating that Bruce Wayne is in a relationship with the Batman, he jumps right on the wagon.

Reporter, thirsty for a story: Mr Grayson what do you think about the rumours that Bruce Wayne is dating the Batman?

Dick: What do I think about my dads you mean? My very married very taken dads? My very faithful to each other plural dads?

He would fuel the rumours both as Robin and as Dick Grayson, punching criminals for talking bad about Wayne enterprises as Robin (“THAT’S MY STEPDADS COMPANY YOURE TALKING ABOUT!”). He would be on online forums all day talking about how Bruceman is the only Batman ship that makes sense and Doxxing people who disagree.

Bruce is so exasperated because this is happening at a time where only Alfred and Dick know his real identity so he can’t even do anything with ANYONE without making either Bruce Wayne or Batman look unfaithful.

Throw Reporter Clark Kent into the mix who has been sent to scope out the Bruceman story, who Bruce makes the mistake of flirting with at a gala. Both Clark AND dick are scandalised.

Dick, making a scene: HOW COULD YOU! BATMAN IS WAITING FOR YOU AT HOME AND YOURE HERE FLIRTING WITH SOME… SOME REPORTER??

Bruce, sighing: Dick-

Dick, tugging on Bruce’s suit and looking up at him with fake tears in his eyes: Dad, are you and dad getting a divorce? :(

Clark, panicking: NO NO THEYRE NOT GETTING A DIVORCE PLEASE DONT CRY

Meanwhile:

Bruce, crying in the corner: he called me dad

He would even go as far as insisting that Robin is his step sibling

Principal: how do you explain that whenever Robin is injured, Dick fails to show up at school the next day?

Dick: Robin and I are twins :) so when he’s injured I’m injured too and we have to stay home together!!

Bruce, whispering: I’m sorry, they’re not really twins but neither I or Bats have the heart to tell hem

[northernbluetongue]

🐞🦇🐞

Daminette December: 15-(SUB) How to Thaw a Frozen Heart

PART 1

Word spread quickly about Damian and Marinette dating. Many people were shocked, even more so, when they found out that he was the one who asked her out.

When people looked into him, they learned he was called the 'Ice Prince of Gotham'. Lila was furious hearing the whispers. She looked into Marinette's boyfriend and learned his family was wealthier than the Agreste.

'How could he choose that nobody?'

Lila realized she could play off Marinette's "jealousy " any more. The others had commented how happy she looked with him and how she was smiling more. They would look out of the lunchroom and see the two sitting on the law, sketching. The new couple would even walk together after school.

Just when Lila thought, she could relax away from the school drama, pictures of them started to pop up in the news. Pictures of their dates: Damian and Marinette at a cafe, coming out of the movies, at the park with his dog, him leaving the bakery! She lost it when she read the headlines: Parisian Pastry Princess thaws out Ice Prince's heart.

'Why are they calling her a princess?'

Meanwhile, Marinette and Damian were panicking internally. They had never meant for this to get out of hand. It was suppose to be for school only and some how everyone thought they were really dating. Yeah, they enjoyed each others company. They were both afraid to admit it, but they more relaxed with each other than anyone else.

"Damian!" Dick cried out.

Damian sighed. He was expecting this and knew calling would make it go quicker.

"So," Jason smiled, "tell us about your princess."

"First off, she hates being called that." Damian declared, "I tried it once and she said "Don't" very...forcefully."

They laughed.

"So, what drew you to her, Little D?" Asked Dick.

"We're fake dating." He answered.

"What?" Cried Dick.

"Aw. Come on!" Whined Jason.

"Knew it." Tim declared.

"You can't ruin it, just like that." Sighed Jason.

"I did not expect you to agree to fake date someone, Damian." Bruce finally spoke.

"I asked her. " his son replied.

"You....asked her?" Dick questioned. "You....asked her to date you....without actually dating?"

"Yes." Damian answered, "Father did Grayson sustain a concussion?"

"Why?" Questioned Tim, "Why would you ask and more importantly, why did she say yes? How much money did you offer her?"

Damian glared at Tim, "She was being bullied and mistreated. I proposed the idea so they would leave her alone."

That was not the answer they had expected. They knew Damian was attractive enough to get a girlfriend, if he actually wanted one. They also knew he hated publicity so the girl he was with, had to be worth it. They just wanted to see how long it would take to make him crack. Dick just smiled.

"Are you treating her well?" Bruce asked.

"Yes, Father." His youngest son answered.

"What about...touching?" Jason pressed.

"She knows about my boundaries. " he replied.

"Hate to break it to you," Tim spoke, before sipping on his mug, "but if people don't see some action, they might assume figure out you are fake dating."

"Are you suggesting, I get physical with her? " Damian asked.

"At your age level!" Dick cried out, quickly.

They realized Damian was stumped.

'Oh, boy.'

"We'll get to that later, but since you're not serious about her, it doesn't matter." Jason stated.

"And she respects your boundaries." Dick pointed out, "so it's....unlikely she will try anything."

"Try anything?" Damian asked.

The boys looked at each other and Bruce sighed, "Your conception, Damian."

"Ah. No, I do not believe she will do anything like that." Damian declared, putting them all at ease.

"So, when can we meet her?" Tim smirked.

Damian glared and ended the call.

Lila, ever the opportunist, quickly spread the word that Damian and Marinette weren't really dating. She confided in others that Damian told her it was a publicity stunt to make him more likeable and Marinette was just that desperate. Too bad, for her, Damian heard her and quickly notified Marinette.

She sighed, "Thank you for trying, Damian."

"Are you saying the deal is off?" He questioned.

"Isn't it?" She asked, "Lila is actually telling the truth, this time and-"

"I can hold your hand." Damian announced, "I brought my motorcycle today. I can give you a ride home, if your parents allow it."

'That should be enough physical contact for the masses. Curse Drake for being correct.'

"Are you sure? The motorcycle, I don't have a problem with; Nona has a bike and I ride with her." Marinette stated, "You said you don't like being touched."

"You trust your Nona." Damian pushed back, avoiding the obvious.

"I trust you." Marinette declared, "You have been nothing but honest to me. You never hid your intentions and you didn't cross my boundaries either."

Damian gulped. He hadn't expected her to trust him. She had never told him her boundaries and yet, she had respected his.

Later, in the day, people started whispering about Daminette holding hands. Curiosity got the better of some people and they had to ask, 'Why the sudden urge to hold hands?'

"I am not particularly fond of physical touch." Damian admitted to his peers.

Marinette smiled, "We are going at his pace and I'm okay with that. If tomorrow he told me he didn't want to hold hands, I would wait until he asked if we could again."

Many were satisfied with their answers, but when word spread around, Lila decided to confront them head on.

"Is Marinette forcing you?" Lila pushed, reaching out to him.

Damian slapped her hand away. Lila quickly pulled her hand to her chest and sniffled.

"I-" she started to speak.

"It is known in Gotham that I am the byproduct of rape; my father speaks about it at movements." Damian stated, "I despise physical touch. If you looked deep enough, into my background, you would have seen that I have broken many girls' hand for not keeping them to themselves."

Lila took a step back.

"My father is aware of my hatred for touch. I told Marinette when I asked her out." He growled, "My Angel has never pushed for physical contact!"

"And it's okay if you're not ready, Damian. If holding my hand is too much, we don't have to." Marinette smiled, letting his hand go.

"Are you finished spreading falsified statements about myself and my girlfriend?" Damian questioned Lila.

"I'm not!" She quickly pushed back, "I-"

"Heard you claim Marinette was forcing herself on me." He shot back, "You are a disgrace and no better than paparazzi attempting to create a false story for popularity."

Lila shifted nervously, "But I-"

Damian took a step towards her, "One more false statement and I will personally go to your employer, buy out your contract, and permanently black list you from fashion."

For once in her life, Lila remained silent.

"You can't do that! " screamed Alya.

"Agreste is a low class millionaire because of his father, who was only influenced by Style Queen." Damian declared, "My father is a billionare. The Wayne family has been around for centuries and throwing away a million, all I have to do is list it under a 'charity service'."

Lila glanced at Marinette and was surprised to see she was shocked as well. She expected her to be looking smug.

'She didn't know! Why the fuck do they always choose her?'

Damian watched as Lila's face contorted with anger towards Marinette. Quickly he decided to end her charade. Damian leaned down and kissed Marinette. Marinette squeaked as he abruptly kissed her. When he pulled away, everyone saw her cheeks bright red. He grabbed her hand and led her away from the crowd.

At the end of the day, everyone witnessed Damian offer Marinette a ride on his motorcycle. They could see she looked more excited about the bike. In a way, it eased Damian. He was afraid that Marinette would pull away from him after he kissed her.

"Ready?" Damian asked, holding out a helmet.

Marinette nodded and took the helmet, smiling.

Mari got on the bike and wrapped her hands around him. She felt him tense. She started to pull away but Damian placed her hands back around his waist.

"I'm calm." His voice echoed in the helmet, "I apologize about kissing you, without asking your permission."

Mari cuddled into his back, "You have helped me more than you know. My first kiss seems like the best reward."

Damian wasn't about to admit that her touch made his body feel on fire. After hearing he was her first kiss, he didn't know what to think. He quickly slammed his visor down and drove away.

"I guess she really did thaw his heart."

"They look so cute togther."

"I'm glad Marinette is so understanding."

"She's so sweet."

"Always has been."

"Did you hear he kissed her and she was so surprised."

"Awww."

"Did you hear the shit that Rossi was spreading about her?"

"Took it like a grain of salt, like all the other shit she says."

Bustier's class kept silent as everyone praised Marinette on her patience with her boyfriend. How Marinette wasn't one to cross boundaries. Mari obviously wasn't jealous of Lila; she was happy with Damian. They didn't know what to say as people laughed about Lila and the lie she had spread about the couple. They wanted to ask, but Lila was nowhere in sight.

@maribat-calendar-events

TAG LIST- DAMINETTE: @meme991001 @umbreon-worshipper @stainedglassm @jasmine-the-fox @psychicdelusionwerewolf @vixen-uchiha @mysteriouschar @missmadwoman @kanamexzeroyaoifangirl @dissarraymania @tundra1029 @abrx2002 @mrsjacuinde @ledalasombra @animegirlweeb

UNSPECIFIED- @animeweebgirl @a-star-with-a-human-name @alysrose-starchild @fandom-trapped-03 @dood-space @moonlightstar64 @saltymiraculer @marveldcedits20 @09shell-sea09 @icerosecrystal @insane-fangirl-of-everything @blueblossombliss @nickristus-dreamer @megawhitleycalderonpaganus @tigresslily @legodetectivemalsblog

[prlssprfctn]

Every time another joke about Batman/Bruce Wayne passes by me, I can't help but imagine that the whole rumour about these two dating was originally (and probably accidentally) created by Bruce himself.

Just imagine, a teen Bruce, still only starting with his vigilante career, makes a crucial mistake - he pays with his own credit card in front of people, while being Batman. A stupid, absolutely instinctive mistake, but in his defence he wasn't sleeping normally for a week, and had an open wound in his stomach that day, so. Whoops.

And then someone asks Bruce Wayne about it, in front of a thousand cameras. And he blurts out the first thing that comes to his mind.

Reporter: So, mister Wayne, recently citizens had reported that they saw Batman paying for the damage in the city... with your credit card. Care to explain details behind this?

Bruce, smiling stupidly: Oh, he is my ex. I sometimes sponsor him.

The crowd: (goes wild)

Alfred, starting at the interview back in the Batcave: ...We are never going to get rid of this, are we?

And guess what? They don't!

Bruce thinks that with time passing, with his love interests switching and new rumours spawning in the world, they might forget about it. He was young, he was stupid - he fucked up, alright?

But decades pass. He has a whole football team of kids. Everyone still ship Bruce and Batman.

And when this stupid video accidentally gets resurfaced on the internet again, his family goes insane. They start creating even more stupid rumours on galas.

Reporter: Mister Wayne... For years now, the crowds are speculating... Who is exactly your mother, and where is she now?

Damian, sighing pitifully: My father and my mother don't enjoy contacting each other, sadly. My mom says that their relationship was just a rebound; father desperately tries to forget Batman... Still, to this day.

Bruce, gripping the glass of champagne: ...

Talia, watching this interview with Ra's: Now, that's my son right there.

Dick: Oh, why I was screaming at Batman in the middle of the street a few days ago? Oh, this bastard- I mean, this respectable vigilante, he dared to get in the argument with Bruce. He can't really leave him alone, really! They are so insane about each other... So toxic, but so, uh, captivating... But you know, Bruce! He has such a fragile heart...

Gotham: Aw-w, poor mister Wayne!

Bruce, sighing: Jesus Christ.

Tim, shaking his head to the camera: I hate Red Robin, really. Did you know that his existence is just a direct offence to my father? Yeah, actually, Batman took this kid under his wing with another man - I am not going to tell who - to make dad jealous. This is disgusting!

Jason, who returned from the death by pretending that all this time he was under the child protection system after becoming an accidental witness of the second Robin's death: Oh, yeah, it was tough... Poor kid exploded in front of my eyes! Reporter: But, mister Todd-Wayne, what were you doing in that warehouse?

Jason, wiping fake tears: They were like my divorced parents, you know... Batman and Bruce. Batman really tried to mend things with dad back then, and wanted me to like him... We just wanted to spend some time together with him, and that Robin kid... God, it was terrible... Batman refuses to contact me now. I miss my second dad...

Bruce, back in the Batcave, watching as Batman's reputation goes lower and lower: ........................... Alfred: Well, master Bruce... Bruce: Not a word. Al. Please.

[homokommari]

:3 grave digging continues!