#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.

[irregularjohnnywiggins]

You ever have those moments where an idea just... won't leave your head?

[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!"

[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.

[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

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

Fake It Till You Make It

Arthur Curry x plus size reader

Never pair two borderline insane superheroes together on a mission.

Warnings: black eyes, some injuries, fluff, fake marriage

WC: 716

Minors DNI

Picking up strange undercover missions was your specialty. You couldn’t even count the number of times you had to wear some crazy disguise and sneak into a drug running ring or a mobster dinner party. You have been in outfits ranging from heels taller than your will to live, covered in makeup and wearing jewels worth more than your life, to oil stained coveralls who had last been owned by Superman himself.

But this, this tops the lot. 

“Let me get this straight, you want me to pretend to be married to Aquaman so we can infiltrate a wildlife sanctuary which has been using great white sharks to smuggle drugs and guns over international borders.” Batman’s face remained stoic, as always.

“Yes.”

“And you actually expect this to work.”

“Yes.”

“Fuck, fine I guess. I’ll do it but I expect appropriate compensation.”

“You can’t drive the batmobile.”

“Five minutes.”

“No.”

“I sit in the passenger seat and you drive but I pick the music.”

“…..Fine.”

“Hell yeah! I guess the only thing left to do is to actually meet this fish man.” His eyes narrowed at you from behind his cowl.

“Don’t call him fish man.” You rolled your eyes and huffed.

“Jesus Christ, old man. Lighten up a bit.” His scowl deepened. But before he could reprimand you, there came a mighty yell from down the hall, causing both of you to turn and look at the source. A man, who could only be described as a giant, was barrelling down the corridor, long curly hair flowing behind him wildly as he ran. He was topless, which you greatly appreciated, considering the fact that he was built like a linebacker with tattoos covering every inch of his copper skin.

“Wifey!” And the next thing you knew, his broad shoulder was firmly planted in your soft stomach and you were moving backwards. Your back met the cold floor of the tower and a huge weight settled on top of you. It took you a second to realise what had happened.

“Did you just rugby tackle me?” His head tilted as if to say ‘duh’. He straddled your plump thighs, keeping you pinned to the ground, his hands were planted firmly by your head. Dark curls framed his face as he leaned forward, your noses almost brushing.

“Hi there wifey.” And he smiled brightly. Maybe this mission wouldn’t be too bad.

——————

You were soaked from head to toe, one eye swollen shut from a particularly good punch, your body completely sore from running and a chill that settled on your bones. Arthur wasn’t much better off than you; a few cuts along his arms and stomach, a dark bruise on his jaw.

But you were both smiling widely, still holding hands, your wedding bands glittering in the low light of the batplane.

Batman looked thoroughly exhausted. “What do you mean you’re married for real?”

Arthur shrugged. “We had to make it believable.” You nodded, backing up his point.

“He’s right, we would’ve been caught otherwise.”

“That’s what the forged documents are for!” You glanced at your counterpart, both of you trembled trying to contain your laughter.

“But those are fake, you could tell that from a mile away.”

“So your solution was to get legally married?!” 

“Yep.” “Pretty much.” You spoke at the same time. The older hero collapsed into one of the many seats on the plane, rubbing at his temples.

“I’ll have Alfred draw up the paperwork to get your marriage annulled.”

“No can do pal!” Bruce glanced at Aquaman, already dreading what was about to come out of his mouth next. “We’re married in Atlantean culture too and divorce is not an option.” 

Bruce sat there for a moment, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as his brain attempted to comprehend the sheer stupidity of the two people in front of him. And yet, he could only blame himself. Then, he said something he thought he would never have to say: “I should’ve listened to Superman.”

“Yeah you really should have.” You agreed, giving Arthur’s large hand a squeeze as you glanced up at him. “But hey! Now we’re permanent partners and we work really well together!”

“You blew up the wildlife sanctuary.”

“We got all of the animals out first!”

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I Hate You, Be My Girlfriend: The Finale (Damian Wayne x Reader)

Word Count: Way too long (jk it's about 7267)

Warnings: Minor cussing

Summary: After a fight with Damian, you realize you have to come to terms with the fact that he doesn't love you, until something comes along and makes you realize he might.

France was even more gorgeous than you had expected it to be. Google images regrettably did not do the country justice and neither did your phone, but that didn’t stop you from snapping as many pictures and videos as you could in order to preserve the memory. 

Yet, despite all of the wonderful scenery and the fantastic food and the exceptional people, the best part - hands down - had to be waking up in the arms of Damian fucking Wayne for the past few days. The first night - and subsequently the following morning - you were neatly tucked into his side at an arm’s reach away. It was a warm but hesitant touch, a subtle ask for something more. Days passed and suddenly instead of the tentative touch you woke up to, you found yourself sprawled out on Damian’s bare chest with his arms tightly wrapped around you. 

As if he was as desperately in love with you, the small cavernous side of your mind echoed. The thought was quickly shaken away. Despite Damian becoming more affectionate, his attitude remained like a stubborn piece of gum glued to a shoe. No matter how many times he held the warmth of your hand or gave you a gentle smile, it never seemed anything more than to save face and - at most - simple kindness. That did not ease the drumming ache of your heart, and you could only beg to the most benevolent Gods that he couldn’t hear it while he held you. 

The morning beams leaked out of the windows of the hotel room, spraying you both with warmth. A husked groan escaped Damian’s lips, his head tilting to escape the blinding light. Most of his raven morning hair fell flat without the immense gel he used with some strands sticking up. His glazed-over gaze caught yours, the hazy emerald color melting into your own, making you feel naked in a snowstorm. 

“How do you always end up sprawled out all over me by the morning?” He mumbled, tugging at the silk sheets to cover more of his body. 

“You’re the one cuddling me, Dami.” You quickly pointed out, loving the way he casually rolled his eyes but didn’t let go. 

“How dare you, I refuse to call this cuddling.” 

“Then what would you like to call this?” You pouted. 

Damian began to draw soft circles and other miscellaneous shapes into your skin, his hands slightly calloused for inexplicable reasons. Being this close to him, you could make out the constellations of scars scattered along his body, the feathered birthmark near his collarbone that almost resembled a bird, the slight tint of crimson darkening his cheeks. It was weird being this close to your crush and part of you was close to pinching yourself to wake up from this fantasy. 

“Why does this need a name? I feel like that would ruin the rapport of it, don’t you think?” He questioned gently. His hardened eyes studied you, analyzing your reaction. Damian could probably see the way your eyes widened - could feel the quickening of your heart as it pumps blood to your face as it nodded in agreement. But if he did hear or notice any of those things, he didn’t mention it. He simply stared down at you. 

“I um…” You gulped. “Are you excited for the bachelor party? You’ll get a break from me for once.” You let out a yawn, rolling off Damian’s chest and taking the blankets with you. Despite it being Summer time in France, the early mornings were not kind. 

“Meh, not really.” Damian groaned and got up along with you to presumably get his clothes for the day. “I think I’m beginning to enjoy your company and I really don’t feel like being at a bar for five hours listening to my brothers act like Neanderthals.”

You failed to hold back your laughter listening to Damian continue to complain about his family. Even when it came to minor things like this, Damian always argued with immense zeal. It had to be a double edged sword, both one of his greatest strengths and one of his greatest faults. 

Your heart fluttered at this idea - well, not of the idea itself - but because of the meaning behind it. You were getting closer to Damian, he wanted your company. Compared to a few weeks ago, he would have scoffed at the idea of even being close to your vicinity but now everything has changed. 

But as soon as that glimpse of hope burst in, it popped instantly. This was all just a game to Damian, a façade he has put on to not show any weaknesses to his family. What was going on between you - the cuddling, hand holding, and soft kisses - was not anything special like how you dreamed. It was merely an act, the same one he would use at galas or any other public events. None of this meant anything to him because he didn’t love you. 

The thoughts continued to get worse and worse, the idea of Damian being affectionate because it meant nothing killed your mood. Suddenly, a bachelorette party didn’t seem as fun anymore even if it was in Bordeaux. Looking back at the bed, it seemed way more comfortable than it did prior, but then you remembered the way Damian held you and another rush of regret seeped its way into your pores. 

You scolded yourself for letting this get to you. Afterall, you knew from the very beginning that there was a high probability of you getting hurt. You were so swept up by the projected romance that you forgot that this was real life; Damian wouldn’t fall in love with you and after the wedding is over, he will most likely go back to avidly hating you. 

“Are you okay?” You turned behind you, catching the sight of Damian who had pulled on a tight forest green sweater and dark gray slacks all complimented with a black coat. He had worn these kinds of clothes before, so you wonder why your heart is beating faster than ever. 

You clutched your clothes tighter in your grasp. “I-I’m fine…” 

Damian squinted his eyes. It was obvious he didn’t believe what you told him. “Are you sure? You seem so…finicky this morning.”

You swiftly tried to escape the conversation, trying to hurry your way to the bathroom to change. “I guess I’m just a little nervous for the wedding. There’s going to be a lot of people so…”

Damian’s hand cut you off from entering the bathroom. “Tell me what’s actually going on.”

Fine. If he was being stubborn you may as well be too. “Why do you care all of a sudden? I thought you didn’t like me much.”

You tried to play off the comment as a half joke, thinking that he would laugh along with you. You weren’t expecting the borderline horrified look he gave you instead. His eyebrows knit in confusion and his jaw tightened, giving you enough time to slightly move his hand and enter the bathroom and change. 

“Why do you keep thinking I hate you?” Damian’s voice was outside the doorway. His voice sounded like he accidentally stepped on his dog’s foot or his cat’s tail. Again, you weren’t expecting this reaction. Was he not the one who said he hated you? Did he not relentlessly tease you whenever you talked?

“What, are you saying that you don’t?” 

“Yes. That is exactly what I am saying. Don’t be a fucking idiot.” This time, his voice seemed more agitated as if it was a ridiculous thought to have. A cloud of confusion permeated through your mind, refusing to leave and causing you to go silent. What were you supposed to say to that? Was this not a contradiction to how he acted 98 percent of the time you knew him? 

Damian was standing a few feet away when you walked out. “Of course, you’re just going to act like an immature baby about things.” He stepped closer to you with an all too familiar glare. “What is the problem? We were fine a few minutes ago.”

“I don’t understand you, Damian! One minute you are charming and nice, and then the next you sling insults at me!” You snapped. “And then you act surprised when I assume you hate me?”

The intense glare you received made your skin crawl. His mouth opened once, twice, only to quickly shut. For the first time since you knew him, he was speechless.

 “It’s not like you actually love me.” You continued, voice quieter and abnormally cold. 

You attempted another laugh but it came off sounding like a sad sob. It was a last resort to cover up the pain you felt, a nervous tick, a bad habit. Laughing was easier than admitting how much rejection hurt. It felt like being shoved into an operating chair and having a knife rip you apart until there was nothing left. Not even hope for a miracle.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Damian could not believe his ears; he wasn’t sure if he wanted to break down into tears or scream in a furious rage. The latter seemed more tempting. You looked like a wounded puppy, like he had kicked you and left you out on the street during a cold winter to starve.

“I…what?” He stuttered. 

It’s not like you actually love me…

The words sounded so disdainful…so frigid, the exact opposite of your optimistic personality. It startled him, left him scrambling for a reason - a reason for why it hurt, a reason for why you were hurt, a reason why this was happening in the first place. 

It was ridiculous, really. Damian had fought against hundreds of villains with only his sword and his brain. If it weren’t for his wits and natural skill, he would have been long dead and buried six feet under. So why, why was it that he failed to properly articulate what he wanted to say to you? 

Never in his life did Damian regret his actions more than he did now. The way your eyes sparkled with tears, how your hands crossed your chest and your legs shaked - he wanted nothing more than to be the one who comforted you, to make up for the way he treated you. Alas, he failed to actually say what was on his mind. 

“You don’t actually love me.” You repeated, once again trying to laugh, but he can tell it wasn’t sincere. “That is the whole joke of this situation.”

“Shut up, Y/n. You don’t even know what you are talking about.” He said, although he wasn’t really sure why. For most of the time he knew you, he assuredly did not love you at all. He would swear by it. Other than his love for animals and the cursed blood that pumped through him, you were one of the few constants he had in his life. Every single time he saw you he got lightheaded and felt like he was under some watered down version of Joker’s laughing gas, but now that he was forced to be near you, he had grown to enjoy the feeling you gave him. It became something he would willingly flight for. 

Whilst he wasn’t sure why, Damian wanted you more than anything; more than his father’s cowl, more than a pet turtle named Michelangelo, more than a cookie from Alfred. 

“I mean, it’s true. You would never love someone like me, not in a hundred years.” 

And there it was. The same stomach churning feeling he got whenever he did something overtly terrible to you. It made him want to take a dagger and plunge it into his heart, maybe that would stop the terrible ache it gave. 

“But what if I did?” Damian blurted. “What if I really, truly did and I was just a dumbass and didn’t realize it before. Is it really impossible for you to believe that I might?” 

“Well…” You took a step back, and then another, eyes twitching and breath heavy. “T-that…that wouldn’t…it wouldn’t…”

Damian noticed how you were on the verge of crying, with your lip trembling and fingers fraying the sides of your sweater. It irritated him; all of this was because of his behavior, because he was not enough, because he couldn't unravel the strange feelings that lingered in his gut. 

“Why are you crying?” He immediately bit his lip, realizing how harsh that sounded. What he meant to say was Why aren’t you smiling at me? What can I do to make you smile? 

You grabbed the key card for the shared room off the table, wiping away the few tears that slid across your cheeks. “Doesn’t matter…” You replied. “Let’s just ignore that this conversation happened and get breakfast.”

Despite wanting to say so much more - to argue about how it was unfeasible for him to hate you - all Damian could do was exhale and follow you to the breakfast area.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Breakfast was an absolute disaster. Considering that this was the first argument you and Damian had, it managed to ruin the mood for a majority of the afternoon. The rest of his family could tell that there was some sort of miscommunication between the two of you as well. The frequent jokes and remarks you two made were replaced with depressing silence and forlorn glances. 

Damian still could not grasp the idea of you thinking he hated you. He was determined to make it up to you since he now considered your opinion of him of the utmost importance, but no matter how many times he attempted to apologize you would shoot him down. He couldn’t even tell if you were angry with him since you just stared at him with those sad abused puppy dog eyes that always seemed to be a blink away from shedding tears. 

It boggled him, absolutely infuriated him to the point where he accidentally snapped at his older siblings and Alfred (who he later apologized to). The idea of him loving you raced through his mind numerous times; the proposal of it felt like greeting an old friend. It was surprising how he was not opposed to the idea in the slightest. 

All Damian could think of were the times you were kind to him and saw through him like he was a transparent ghost and how he retaliated with rudeness. He allowed himself to wonder if the whole situation would have been different if he had been kinder to you, only to realize that the likelihood of you being present with him now would be near improbable if he had been. 

He cursed under his breath in his mother’s tongue as he often did when he was this upset. It was one of the only few comforts he had at the moment. There were no animals he could hold and pet, no canvases to illustrate his emotions, no criminals to punch into a reddened smoothie. He only had you but he was not sure how he could approach you again. Preferably it would have been tonight but you were both dragged respectively to a bachelor/bachelorette party.  

The loud music and excited chatter of his family at the circus themed bar only proved to worsen Damian’s mood. The beating lights that bounced to the music and the steady flow of acrobatic men and women who somersaulted sent Damian’s mind into a dizzying blur. The whoops and cheers next to him did not make his situation any better. He couldn't care less. As important as this night was for Dick, he would have preferred to not be there at all.

“What’s got you scowling like that, lil D?” Dick yelled across the huge bar table, his face flushed and eyes dilated to the point where the ocean in them expanded into a black sea. 

“He’s having girl issues, Dick!” Tim remarked. “He probably said something really shitty to Y/n and has no idea how to say sorry.”

“Hey, I-” 

“No fighting at my bachelor party!” Dick slurred. He turned back to him. “What happened, buckaroo?”

Damian cringed at the pet name. It seemed like alcohol reverted Dick back into the ancient youth he was while being Robin. “Don’t you dare call me that again, Grayson.” 

“Come on, lil D! Let us help you, I am amazing with women!” 

“That’s probably not the best thing to say, Dick.” Jason rolled his eyes. “Regardless, I do think the embarrassed look on Damian is amusing, so please continue.”

Everyone looked to Damian expectantly, all of them raising the iconic eyebrow learned from Alfred. It was a similar stare to the one you gave him, and the sudden thought of you sent another wave of goosebumps along his body, making him feel possessed. 

Damian chose his words carefully. He could not just blatantly confess to forcing you into a fake relationship, nor could he ask for help when he didn’t know what to ask help with. 

“I don’t think that I am showing enough…affection to Y/n and I…I think she is really hurt about it.” He managed to mumble. “I don’t know how to appease her.” 

The stupefied look on his brothers face made his cheeks burn, his eyes furrowing in further annoyance. “Have you tried to flirt with her? Like, walking up to her and giving her a wink. Maybe saying a good pick up line or two with a devilishly sexy smirk?” 

“I-” before Damian could argue, he realized that this was Dick he was talking to, and if anyone knew what they were talking about, it would be him. “Out of pure curiosity, what lines do you suggest? Flirting wise.”

The table groaned in unison. “God no, I’m not drunk enough for this.” Jason rolled his eyes. He gestured to one of the laced up women for another drink.

“Well, when Babs and I were still young I used a multitude of different ones.” Dick hiccupped, leaning against the wooden table with a wide grin. “Once I told her that I loved the new adjustments she made on the batgirl costume, but I said that it would look better on my floor. Oh! And there was this other time that I said she was so hot that my zipper was falling for her.” 

Dick paused, looking up fondly to the tented color ceiling as if it were replaying those memories like a TV show rerun. It was at this time that Damian realized he should probably be taking notes; although he was confident in his memory, when it came to you, you always found a way to snatch away his words. 

“The dirtier the pick up lines, the better!” Dick finished after snapping back into reality. “Oh, and you have to deliver it confidently. Confidence is super sexy! Eventually she’ll see how much you love her and want her if you do it enough.”

He hummed in affirmation, taking a few notes on his phone. Damian realized that the few pick up lines Dick used were so…dirty. Of course, Damian was not a prudish snob when it came to being dirty but the thought of being remotely dirty with you sent his mind once again spiraling like a rollercoaster. Imagining you…with your clothes on the floor…all for him…Holding you underneath the bed and finally kissing your honeyed lips…

The sound of Jason’s low, deep chuckle brought him back to focus. “What’s so funny, Todd?” 

“Nothing, nothing. I just think Dick’s advice is absolutely terrible and he will probably realize that once he’s sober.” He turned to his younger brother with a look only the Devil could muster. “Plus, you are terrible at disguising your thoughts.”

“I don’t see you coming up with better advice.” He retaliated. 

Jason shrugged and reclined back in his chair as he took another sip of his beer. “I think I’m having more fun laughing at how embarrassed you are. Oh, and don’t take that in a bad way - although I’m sure you will.”

“You are absolutely useless, Todd. I’m sure even Tim could offer better advice than that.”

The said brother tilted his head back with a tired indifference. “I’m lucky that Conner even loves me so I’m not sure I should be one to help. Have you tried to, I don’t know, show your appreciation by paying attention to every single detail of her life and memorizing it so that when asked, you know everything about her?” 

There was a deathly pause, everyone at the table looking toward Tim. “That sounds utterly ridiculous…” Still, Damian hastily wrote it down in his notes anyway, just in case it proved to be useful. He doubted it though, since he knew almost everything about you like the back of his hand.

“It worked for me.” Tim said with yet another shrug. “Just make sure she doesn’t notice you doing it or else she will get really really weirded out.”

Damian wrote Watch her every move in his notes the same time a dark shadow stalked towards him. Looking up, Damian saw the tired yet content face of his father next to him, glancing at his phone. 

“Sorry I’m late. I had to deal with another Killer Croc rampage.” His father’s voice was coarse and gruff with age, his chin clear of any stubble and his eyes an icy blue. 

Dick stood up, his feet wobbly, to embrace Bruce. Although this was not a common occurrence, the two men embraced each other similar to how one would grasp a lifesaver. “I almost thought you wouldn’t come. I’m so glad you could make it, Dad.” 

The two broke away almost as soon as it happened. “Good timing too. We’re all trying to help Damian with the girl he’s with.”

Damian’s face burned a bright crimson, matching the colors of the circus uniforms as they swayed by, giving him the appearance of drunkenness. He forced his cheeks to remain neutral despite the need to break out into a goofy smile at the mere mention of your existence. 

Sitting down next to him, his father gave a thoughtful hum. “I’m not the best with women but-“

“Father, you have nothing to add to this conversation.” Bruce almost looked offended, frowning as he closed his mouth. 

“That’s…fair.” He said eventually. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was really late at night when all the girls returned to Des Quinconces after the bachelorette party. Busy chatter filled the empty air with melodic excitement as the party filed into Barbara’s room. Everyone had decided to have a huge sleep over the night before the wedding, spurred on by Stephanie and a few of the newer arrivals. It was a sigh of relief to you, since you weren’t sure you could handle a meeting with Damian at the moment. 

You were still visibly upset with the argument you had with Damian, and since you had spent this whole trip with him exclusively (and with very few meetings with his family since he was still paranoid they will catch on to the act), it was even worse being without him for this long. You already began to miss his witty comments and the friendly debates, but most of all, you missed the brief smile he gave you. Witnessing it was like finding a double rainbow after heavy rain or pinpointing a shooting star in the night sky. Without him, there were no double rainbows or shooting stars - just a gloomy night sky saturated in monochrome. 

As the cluster of girls made their way up the stairs, you dragged behind like a fish poop, wondering how to salvage things with Damian before the trip was over. When expressing the problem to the rest of the group (albeit carefully so it doesn’t seem suspicious) they suggested a plethora of things ranging from making him jealous, giving him the silent treatment, and or seducing him. Despite being told by one of the girls, Kor’i, that she could probably find another guy for the scheme, it felt impossible to make Damian jealous when there was a multitude of prettier girls at the wedding.

Now that you’re thinking about it, it would be the perfect escape for him. If the two of you broke up during the trip he wouldn’t be questioned about you afterward. You were just a ragdoll after all, a puppet he could use for the sake of not being embarrassed by his family. 

The image of Damian’s disappointed and heart-broken face reappeared in your mind. He looked so upset that you assumed he hated you, as if this whole trip was not a huge, perfectly photo-shopped picture. Was it because you were assuming the absolute worst of him? 

Another idea crossed your mind: What if he loved you? What if you magically made him succumb to the same feelings he gave you? 

Perhaps the reason why he was so hurt was because the tenderness he showed you was out of something close to love and your rejection of it angered him. Or perhaps this was you once again wishing for a miracle, hoping for something that would prevent you from the massive heartbreak you would undoubtedly endure. 

Despite the earlier conversation pointing to the former, you just could not push aside the year or so of bickering that led to this moment. As you laid your head down for the night, you concluded that the best course of action was to stick with the original plan: Pretend to be Damian’s girlfriend until the trip is over. Once it is over, you may as well get over him as well. There was no use wishing for a miracle. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day of the wedding arrived with the breaking of an egg yolk, the sun peering over the horizon as if it too was not ready. Gathering whatever was left of your excited energy, you did your best to help Barbara and everyone else get ready. The whole room was a technicolor war zone with different colored dresses and materials scattered carelessly. 

Stephanie and Cassandra took care of Barbara for the most part, assuring her that Dick wouldn’t walk out, giving you time to look for the dress you stored away for the event. Originally, Damian wanted to be there with you to pick out the dress so that it matched his, but you thankfully were able to keep it a surprise until now. Looking at it, a wave of bittersweetness washed over you, like the taste of dark chocolate melting on your tongue. You wondered if the dress was too bold, or if it would even fit you correctly without it making you look like an unfinished sketch.

Whatever it did, it was too late to turn back now. 

You caught a glimpse of yourself in the bathroom mirror, trying to picture how Damian would react. You wanted a reason to look pretty, to try and attract and beguile him. Now it seemed like any other piece of clothing you owned, just with a bit more frills and lace. The magic was gone. 

“Wow, you look beautiful!” Stephanie walked in with a grin, her perfect blonde hair curling like a lion’s mane. “I told Damian to wait for you downstairs, he looks pretty decent. We’ll meet you there.” 

She winked, dragging you out of the bathroom and pulling you out of the door. “Stepha-” 

Your fate was already sealed when the door slammed closed. You sighed, turning back around. Worry and hesitance consumed your body, eating away like moths to old fabric. Alfred was at the bottom of the stairs, seemingly talking to the youngest Wayne. At least he hadn’t noticed you yet; it made the 1,000 mile journey down more doable. 

Taking one last gasp of air, you painted a happy expression on your countenance and trudged onward. It didn’t take long for Damian to notice you, he always did, the glimmer in his eyes drawing you in further. 

He was smiling 

No, wait…He was smirking at you.

“Ah, it is good to see you Miss L/n, right on time.” Alfred nodded at you then turned to Damian once more. “I trust you will keep our conversation in mind?”

“Of course.” When you were within reach, he extended his hand and palmed yours. Warmth flooded your senses. It only worsened when he brought your hand to his lips and planted a kiss that was as gentle as a bird’s wings. 

His forest eyes connected with yours, and it was then that you noticed how amazing he was dressed. It was a normal black suit with a dark green undershirt, the cuffs of the suit embellished with a golden W. His hair was slicked back as usual, no bedhead in sight. There was no trace of sadness or anger in his face from the argument yesterday. 

“Beloved, you look…absolutely stunning, ravishing even.” 

“I-I…” You stuttered. “Thank you, Dami.”

You walked to the sleek black rental car, his hand in yours the whole way through. The noisy, busy street dissipated as you were enveloped in the quietness of the vehicle. 

Damian shifted in his seat, buckling in and smiling back at you. “Are you ready to go, my love?” 

Not trusting your ability to speak, you simply nodded. The already tight dress now seemed constricting. Silence filled the car with only the grinding of tires against the ground serving as music. You squirmed around, doing your best to make yourself comfortable. 

Damian cleared his throat. “Beloved…I…I wanted to apologize for how I have treated you, not just for yesterday, but for every other time too.”

“Oh, I…” Your mind grasps for a response. “Don’t um, don’t worry about it.”

His mouth twists in a thin line, pushing on the break at the red light. He reaches for your hands again, eyes heavy with an unfamiliar emotion. “I mean it, Y/n…I should have been kinder to you.”

When he was not met with an answer, he continued hastily. “I noticed yesterday that your eyes did not have the same fiery glint in them as they usually did when we were together. You also only smiled twice that day compared to the minimum of 32 every other day. I-It made me realize how much your happiness means to me.” 

The kaleidoscope of butterflies returned with gusto, a genuine smile fighting its way on your face.  “That’s...oddly specific.”

Nevertheless, you couldn’t help but giggle; whether the numbers he used were accurate or not, it showed how he actually cared. This reaction seemed to vex Damian. 

“If you aren’t going to take me seriously, I’ll have to pin you against a wall until you start to listen.” He grumbled. 

“Wh-what?!” 

His smirk reappeared, this time evidently victorious as if he took a gamble and won. “You heard me.”

"I'm not sure if I did...the Damian I know wouldn't blatantly flirt with me like that." "But how could I not flirt with you when you look so pretty all flustered for me?" He teased.

The wedding venue broadened along the horizon, revealing a gorgeous sectioned off garden or…was it a park? You weren’t able to tell. Cars were parked all along the perimeter, an ocean of people filling into the area. 

“That’s a lot of people…” You exclaimed. “I thought you said this was going to be a small event?”

“Trust me, my family knows way more people than those who are at the wedding.” Damian pulled into the allotted parking area, flashing his ID to one of the valet members. 

“`That doesn’t really help, Dami.” You looked into the mirror and played with your appearance. “I’m not sure how well my acting will be around so many people.”

He turned off the engine of the car, clicking his seatbelt and grabbing the keys. “The solution is simple then. Just don’t pretend anymore.”

It was almost as if Cupid himself pierced your heart with one of his infamous arrows, making you fall deeper into the pit you created for yourself.  You were 100 percent certain that Damian knew the effect he had on you if his smug grin were anything to go by, serving to only worsen your sheepishness. He was flirting with you as if it were second nature, as if he wanted to draw out this side of you. 

All worries of him loving you or not vanished as smooth as a sunset. When he opened the door for you, there was no hesitance; you swiftly took your place beside him. Two perfect puzzles placed next to each other, both their own picture but when put together, make an even more beautiful picture. Damian threw the keys to the valet attendant. 

The summer sun felt delicious on your exposed skin. Living in Gotham, days like these were as rare as gold and twice as valuable. Fresh grass and the exuberant amount of irises and lilacs intoxicated your senses. Most of the people seemed to be seated in the white pews. 

“May I ask why you are acting all flirty and endearing all of a sudden? Not that I’m complaining or anything, I just want to know what kind of trouble you are planning on getting me into.” Damian’s grip tightened. 

“Who’s to say I want to get you in trouble? What if I was just being honest with you for once?” He questioned. 

He leaned in closer, breath fanning against your ear, his hair tickling your skin. “Maybe after tonight I want to call you mine.”

You blinked. “Uh…”

“Is…did that not work?” Damian glanced at his phone then back at you, tilting his head and squinting. “Dick told me that would work. Why is- Are you not falling madly in love with me right now?”

“Damian, what are you talking about?” You said, just as bewildered as him. 

Damian’s face contorted, green eyes tearing away from yours. “I wanted to make up for hurting you all those times. I thought that if I did that then…”

A pale visage, eyes darting everywhere but to yours - his facade was breaking right in front of you. A sigh emanated from his lips, broken and cracked. “My family…they made me realize-”

“Damian?!” A booming voice followed with a sudden gust of wind cut him off. “I haven’t seen you in so long!”

A similarly aged boy rushed in to give the Wayne a tight hug; he had swirly black hair and pale skin, his eyes a baby blue. He was a few inches taller than Damian as well.

“You have terrible timing, Jon.” Damian complained. 

The man, Jon, pulled away from him but kept his arm slung around his shoulders. 

“Ah, sorry. Sometimes I get carried away.” He beamed. “My name’s Jon! And you are?”

You attempted to speak but Damian cut you off before you could. “She’s my girlfriend, Y/n.”

Jon’s eyes widened, turning to the other with a gasp. “You got a girlfriend and didn’t tell me?!”

“We’re pretty new, Jon. I didn’t want to make her feel overwhelmed.”

You raised an eyebrow to Damian, who did not seem to have a problem changing the agreed upon story. 

“I-I..er…it’s nice to meet you, Jon!” You finally said. The smile you gave felt like a cheap knock-off in the presence of Jon, who resembled more of a golden retriever. 

“We should go, beloved. I’m afraid my brothers are probably waiting for us.” Damian tried to tug on the sleeve of your dress while you were in mid conversation with Jon. He gave you a needy whine. 

“Oh, alright then.” Jon said. “See you later?”

“Yeah, maybe.” Damian replied, hand now in yours. 

The two of you weaved your way towards the saved seats near the front of a flower woven arch. Familiar people greeted you and Damian, ranging from Rachel and Kara (who you met yesterday) to newer people named Conner and Wally. They all seemed nice enough, but your mind couldn’t maintain the same level of focus it usually did. How could it be when Damian was acting like a clingy, jealous boyfriend? 

Not only that, but the conversation beforehand seemed to be leading to a teary eyed confession. Whether it be a confession of love or of just remorse, you weren’t sure. You desperately wanted to believe that it was the former of course. It felt natural being beside him. Acting as a couple didn’t feel as fake as it did prior, causing a flurry of bubbling adulation. 

You imagined taking your place in the pews during the wedding for weeks now, imagined what it would be like to watch two people vow their love for eternity and beyond. Music began and the remaining people who were ambling about quickly found their seats. 

Dick was in the front with a charming navy suit, his face twisted in a nervous smile. The pastor was a woman with flowing black hair that towered over the bridegroom. 

The traditional marriage song began and suddenly Cassandra emerged, twirling and leaping with a basket of purple petals, tossing them in the air like glitter. Her dress was a little longer than a ballerina’s and her hair was accented with white flowers. The laws of physics seemed defied as Cass made her way across the aisle as if wings sprouted from her back. 

Barbara made her way across the aisle with her father, her mermaid dress trailing behind her. She was absolutely stunning and she knew it. Dick’s face broke out into a goofy smile, fidgeting with the collar of his suit. Babs took her place next to Dick and the ceremony began. 

You couldn’t help imagining yourself in Bab’s place, exchanging words of affection with the love of your life. Your eyes dragged to the person next to you. You were met with his eyes staring into yours, a blush dusting his face as if he could read your mind. 

“Richard Grayson, do you take Barbara Gordon  to be your wedded wife, to live together in marriage?  Do you promise to love her, comfort her, honor and keep her for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health, and forsaking all others, be faithful only to her, for as long as you both shall live?”

“I do.” Dick said, his voice straining. 

“Barbara Gordon, do you take Richard Grayson to be your wedded husband to live together in marriage? Do you promise to love him, comfort him, honor and keep him for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and health and forsaking all others, be faithful only to him so long as you both shall live?” The woman asked. 

“I do.” She answered quickly. 

“Well then, I happily pronounce you husband and wife! You may now kiss the bride!” Applause erupted from the crowd as Dick pulled Barbara into his arms for a sentimental kiss. 

Your applause was cut short by Damian, who attempted to drag you to the far side of the venue. You laughed as you tried to run in the heels you wore. 

“Damian, I swear you are trying to kill me. What was that for?” You asked out of breath, fighting a giggle fit. 

“I’ve been trying to talk to you for the past hour and a half and I am not in the mood for anyone else to interrupt it.” He softly grabbed your wrist, creating a mere few inches of distance. 

“My family made me realize that I…” He took a deep breath. “They made me realize how much I care for you. The time we have spent together it’s been…it’s been one of the most enjoyable weeks of my life.”

“That’s really sweet, Damian. I’m glad we have grown to be friends.” You nuzzled into his chest. 

“I, no. That’s not…” Damian huffed out of exasperation. “I don’t want to just be friends with you, Y/n. I want to be more than that. I want what we have in the late nights and early mornings when it’s just us. Not because I am afraid of what my family will say, but because you make me a better person and I long to be the one who makes you smile.”

The bomb that had been slowly ticking down to its demise finally went off, a glorious bombardment of color and sparks that hazed your mind like a Fourth of July Night. 

“You…want me?”

“More than anything, Y/n. That’s why I got so upset yesterday…I was upset at myself for making you think I hated you when I didn’t.” The confession felt as soft as an everlasting Spring breeze, a promise to love during the blazing heat and decaying cold. His finger tilted your head up so you could look up at him.  There was no mask hiding away his feelings, it was plain to see that he meant every word. 

“I’ve had a crush on you for a long while, Dami. I- God, I’ve fantasized about you saying that to me for months. I’m sorry for assuming you hated me..it was more of a defense mechanism than anything.”

“Oh really?” He leaned in closer with his iconic smug smile. “What else did you fantasize, beloved?” 

You gulped. “Kissing…maybe?”

You gave him your best version of a puppy eyed stare.

“Do you want me to let you in on a secret, Y/n?” When you nodded, he said “I don’t think I could ever deny you when you look at me like that.”

In a blink of an eye, Damian’s lips pressed to yours and it only took you a moment of processing for you to kiss back. There were no fireworks, sparkles or any other bombardments as usually described in the romance books you read. Just the simple warmth you shared. 

Breaking away, you became aware of where you were and part of you felt bad for missing the immediate celebration. Barbara had her back to an array of women and some men, about to throw her bouquet of lilies. In front of it all was Tim’s boyfriend, Conner, who looked like he would shoot down anyone if he did not get the flowers. As she threw the bouquet, she managed to throw it towards the pews where Jason was sitting idly on his phone, effectively hitting him in the face and landing in his lap. 

Jason stared at his lap for a few seconds, confused. He looked to the crowd and spotted Conner, throwing them in his direction. 

“Mine!” He yelled, catching the bouquet with almost inhumane speed. “Hey, Timmy! Wanna head to Vegas and get married?”

Tim stared at his boyfriend, shaking his head with a flustered smile. 

“I’m sad that we’ll have to leave in a day…It would have been nice to go to Champs Elysée and Place de l’etoile.”

Damian briefly spun you around so you were facing him again. “Who’s to say we can’t do that still?” 

“You’re Dad and Alfred? They said we’d be going back to Gotham the day after the wedding?” 

He hummed. “Too bad I’ll have to tell them we’ll be staying for another week so I can take you everywhere else you want to go to in France.”

“You what?” 

“Is that a yes?” He asked. “I was hoping to take you to Paris for a date.” 

“I- Yes! Of course it’s a yes, Damian!” 

“Oh that’s good, because I already booked everything and I’d hate for it to go to waste.” He smiled at you like a complete dork. 

“Hell yeah! Time for crab stuffed mushrooms and a huge ciambellone!” Dick hollered, Barbara in his arms. 

The huge crowd seemed to be making their way to their cars, petals still drifting in the air.

Your stomach growled.

“I am starving, come on! Let’s go so we don’t have to deal with a ridiculous line for food!” You exclaimed, this time dragging Damian to his car. Your giddy laughter filled the air like a melody. 

Damian couldn’t help but smile broadly. “Alright, beloved."

HOLY MOTHER OF GOD I AM DONE WITH THIS. Don't get me wrong, I had a blast with this series, but I had no idea that this final part would take this long to write. I had thought that I would have enough time to finish it on Wednesday, not realizing I would write another 5k words.

The writing towards the end is probably not as good as the beginning because I had a little bit of a hard time. Still, I hope you guys liked the ending. There was so much more I wanted to add to it too, but my writing juices were thoroughly squeezed and I didn't want to push it back further.

TAGLIST: @greenkiki, @lorosette, @noah-uhhh-what, @vanessa-boo, @herascave, @celestair, @trashmouthsahra, @littlemiss-nightshade and @itzstaticrainbow

[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.

[pintobordeaux]

I made this for "The cost of being a good dad" by Mawiiish (@superbattrash) It's ADORABLE and filled with the batfam boys setting up their dad with down to earth Clark Kent and I am obsessed

[maybesomemilo]

angsty superbat to the tune of midnight rain

[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.

[idyllcy]

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

[derpiest-unicorn]

All bruce and clark hear is a chance to get away from their kids and immediately agree.

j’onn, who’s been watching one too many sitcoms with m’gann, seeing bruce and clark exhibit mannerisms similar to that of on screen couples: ah yes, they are married.

[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

[homokommari]

:3 grave digging continues!