#one day......one day he will become Bruce Wayne.

[pomegranatelifethis]

STAR IN THE SHADOWS

The massive walls of Wayne Manor were built to protect you, yet they could do nothing to ease the loneliness inside. This place felt less like a home and more like an endless void. Full, yet silent. Warm, yet unreachable. You saw your family every day, but it was as if none of them truly saw you.

As a child, you would often draw pictures for your father—Bruce Wayne—eager to show them to him. But he was always busy. He would take the paper, give it a quick glance, and mutter, "Looks nice," before returning to his work. And you… you would walk back to your room, crumpled drawing in hand, staring at the ceiling, asking yourself the same question:

“Does he really love me?”

As time passed, you stopped looking for an answer.

Jason... He was different.

Jason always noticed you. As a child, you followed him everywhere. Sometimes he was your big brother, sometimes your partner in crime, sometimes your hero. No matter how bad you felt, he would sit beside you, his laughter chasing away your dark thoughts.

But one day, he never came back.

When the news of Jason’s death arrived, your father said nothing. Dick stared into the distance. Tim averted his gaze. Damian didn’t care. But you… you shattered.

A world without Jason… was too quiet.

Seeing your father show no grief ignited something inside you. At night, you sneaked down to the Batcave, watching Bruce stare at the screens with cold, emotionless eyes. As if Jason had never existed. As if his memory wasn’t even worth mentioning. That night, whatever love you had left for your father turned into something else—something bitter.

Tim… Tim was the most logical. Always reading, always analyzing. But even when Jason died, he never showed his emotions. Maybe he buried them deep down, knowing how much it would hurt. He spent time with you, but he always kept his distance. The Tim who once held you in his arms and read you stories as a child had become someone who preferred to watch from afar.

And Dick…

Dick loved you, you knew that. But his love felt like freedom. Whenever he was near, whenever he smiled at you, it warmed your heart like the sun. But you could never hold on to him. He always had a mission, something more important to do. Whenever you tried to talk to him, he would say, "We’ll talk later, okay?" before leaving.

And Damian…

He treated you like a rival, always challenging you. Even as a child, he competed with you for Bruce’s attention. "You’re weak," he would say at every chance. "Useless. You don’t belong in this family." His only goal was to prove himself to Bruce, and the easiest way to do that was by pushing you down.

Years passed. You grew up. But Bruce never changed. Dick drifted away. Tim closed himself off. Damian kept looking at you with the same cold, condescending eyes.

One night, you walked into the Batcave and found them all gathered around the screen, focused on Gotham’s latest crime wave. They were preparing for their mission, too caught up in their work. You stood in the doorway, wanting to speak.

But no one turned to look at you.

You took a step forward, but no one noticed.

And that was when you realized.

You weren’t a hero to them. You weren’t a warrior.

To them, you were just a shadow.

And in the end, shadows always fade away.

[chaoticwriting]

FENTON CRIME FAMILY 4

-Wayne Manor, Gotham-

Damian straightens out his shirt a little as he stands in front of his siblings. He doesn't know why nor would he admit that he is a little nervous right now. They are currently at the theater room waiting for whatever Damian has prepared for them. Except for Dick and Jason, all of the siblings are here.

Tim: Would you explain to us already why you want us here?

Damian: Silence Drake. I am gathering my thoughts here.

Steph: Ugghhh, just tell us already. I am already close to cracking up Cass to confess who she is hanging out with.

Cass: No you aren't.

Steph: Yes, I am.

Duke: Umm, guys. I think Damian is ready.

Suddenly the lights turn off and the projector starts to show a slide show.

Damian: So, I thank each one of you for making time to come to this meeting today.

Tim:*Whispering* Oh wow, he must really need our help if he even thanks us for just being here.

Damian:*Glaring at Tim* As you all are aware, I am going out on an outing the day after tomorrow. Although I am sufficiently trained in proper dressing up, I would like to have a second or maybe third opinion.

Steph: You mean fifth opinion? Cause there are like 4 of us here.

Damian: It is a figure of speech, Brown. I'm sure you are not stupid enough to not know that.

Tim: I think he is trying to insult you but that sounds like a praise to me.

Duke: It's because you are a weirdo. How about we get back on track? So, what do you want our opinion on?

Damian turns the slide and a selection of clothes appears.

Damian: I need you to give me your opinion on which set of clothes are the most suitable for my outing.

Cass: What is the specific criteria for the selection?

Damian: I want the clothes to flesh out my features more.

Duke: As in making you look more handsome?

Damian: Yes.

Tim: Why do you need to look more handsome? I thought you are just going for some outing?

Steph: Shit! Don't you see it, Tim? He is going on a date. Look at those clothes. Those are the clothes that he only wears if there is a special occasion.

Duke: You are going on a date? With who? Does Bruce or Alfred know?

Damian: I already told Alfred about my outing. I am holding off on informing father of this event until there is any further progress. As for who, it is none of your concern.

Tim: Wait. Then why do you want our opinion on what you wear?

Damian: Because all of you have experience in relationships before. I would have invited Grayson if not for his fashion sense.

Duke: Fair warning, though. I am not good at these clothing things. It is usually Isabella that chooses my clothes.

Damian: Of course I know that. But given you are in a relationship with Ortiz for a long time already, I would assume her sense of fashion has already rubbed off a little on you.

Steph: Wait, so we are just gonna ignore that he is going on a date? Aren't any of you curious?

Tim: I already got her files. Name is Dani Fenton. 15. No school. Lives in the Bowery. Her sister is the therapist that Bruce is seeing. Has a brother. Her internet history is very clean. Like super duper clean. Almost tailored to make it seem like that.

Duke: Chances it is forged?

Tim: Likely. But I can't seem to find anything about her. Whether it is physical or online.

Cass: Are you sure she is safe?

Damian: Yes.

Steph: I'm not gonna stop you from romancing her but considering who you are the son of, we might need to prepare just in case.

Duke: Oh yeah. Hopefully she isn't anything like that. The last thing we need is another rogue in Gotham.

-Crime Alley-

Red Hood: So, why do you want to meet?

Spectre: I have information that you might want.

Spectre (Ellie) throws a file with a big red 'SECRET' on it onto the table. Red Hood picks it up and opens it.

As he flips through the pages, his breath becomes more ragged. His eyesight slowly turns more green and he could feel his blood pumping at a higher rate as his anger slowly builds up while reading the file.

Especially when he reads the part where they are part of the government. How dare the government do this? Not only are they killing people, they also label them as non living.

Red Hood: What do you want me to do with this information?

Spectre: It is up to you really. Since you are technically a hero, I decide to give this information to you first. However, do know that if you wish to take action, please do it quickly. A lot of "people" wish to have a piece of them.

After Spectre says that, she stands up from her chair and goes out of the room. Red Hood watches as the young gang leader leaves his office. Eyeing the file, he will call the Outlaw tomorrow. There is a government base to be blown up.

[fear-is-truth]

omg could u do a bruce x secretary fic pretty please 😭🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

suggestive; MDNI

bruce wayne is a patient man.

or at least, he pretends to be.

he keeps his composure through the long hours, the endless meetings, the city’s expectations pressing down on him like a weight he’s long since learned to bear. he signs contracts with a steady hand, entertains investors with bright, well-timed smiles, and listens to board members drone on about projections while his mind is elsewhere.

while you are elsewhere.

you, who’s spent the entire day at your desk, just outside his office, looking so damn put-together. perfect posture, blouse buttoned up to your throat, skirt smoothed neatly over your thighs. efficient, professional, untouchable.

but bruce knows better.

he sees the way your hands tremble slightly when you pass him his coffee. the way your shoulder tense up when he brushes your fingers when reaching for a file. the way your eyes flick to him when you think he’s not looking, heat pooling in your gaze before you quickly tear it away.

he sees all of it. and worse—he lets it fester.

which is why, when the last of the office staff files out for the night, when gotham’s skyline glows through the wide windows of his office, he finally—finally—allows himself the indulgence of taking you apart.

his broad frame presses you against his desk, hands bracketing your hips, mouth ghosting over the shell of your ear as you brace your palms against the polished wood.

“you’ve been distracted today,”

a choked moan escapes you as his hands slide lower, fingers teasing at the hem of your skirt before pushing it up, baring soft, sensitive skin to the cool air.

“do you know how difficult it was to focus,” he continues, “knowing you were sitting out there, looking like this?”

you shudder as his fingers find the damp lace between your thighs, barely brushing before retreating again—teasing, withholding. you make a whimper of protest, and his grip on you tightens.

“impatient?”

the amusement in his tone makes your cheeks burn, but you nod, arching slightly against him, desperate for more. bruce sighs, almost like he’s annoyed with himself for indulging this, for indulging you.

but then he’s turning you around, pressing you fully against the desk now, and his mouth finally finally claims yours—slow, consuming, a sharp contrast to the bruising grip on your hips as he hoists you up onto the desk and steps between your legs. your fingers tangle in his tie, pulling him closer, and you feel it—feel him—hot and hard against your thigh, restrained only by the tailored slacks that are about to become a casualty of his patience finally running out.

when he pulls back, his lips are slick, his eyes darker than the gotham night behind him.

“lock the door,” he murmurs hoarsely. you hesitate for half a second—but it’s just long enough for him to smirk, one hand curling beneath your thigh, hoisting it higher.

“or don’t.” his tone is careless. amused, almost.

“but if someone walks in…” his other hand slides back up, thumb pressing against your pulse point, feeling how it flutters beneath his touch.

“…you’ll be the one explaining.

[siddyyyyyyyy]

Desperation Bruce Wayne x fem!Reader

MDNI wc: 1.8K warnings: smut, softdom!bruce, p in v, light spanking (?), praise, was too lazy to write the aftercare, so just imagine it summary: Bruce gets frustrated at the charity event and eventually takes it out on you once you are home. a/n: divider (@saradika-graphics), i felt myself cringe while writing this, and that usually means that i did well. but still, im sorry if it's too cheesy or unrealistic, i did my best to give you my vision😖

You know that Bruce despises events like these, too many rich people who never had to work a single day in their life, who always try to brag to him about the most unimpressive stuff, or try to have intelligent conversations about economics or social studies. It‘s all the same stuff as well, it‘s always the same ‘intelligent‘ discoveries these people try to tell him about. Fortunately, you only had to hear about Bruce complains and never had to fave these people on your own. Unfortunately, you convinced your husband to tag along with him tonight.

You didn‘t expect for a lot of people to approach the both of you, but it still happened, as Bruce is used to. But when they did, they never really acknowledged you. The very least someone did acknowledge you, was to simply give you a side glance before continuing to ‘subtly‘ brag about about how many cars he has.

Bruce‘s hand stays at its familiar place, around your waist, giving you an occasional squeeze. The squeezes become more frequent as the people around the round table keep talking to him, not giving him a chance to even steal a sip of his drink. You notice his growing frustration, even when he hides it well. The guests around the ball room are chatting amongst themselves, creating a bubble of mixed conversations, together with the subtle scent of alcohol and different perfumes. No doubts, expensive.

Finally, Bruce has a brilliant idea, and excuses the two of you from the table, before standing up and walking to the middle of the dance area.

»All this talk about money and expensive models gets on my nerves… they don‘t even bother talking about the topic of today‘s event.« He murmurs lowly as he smoothly glides you along with him, one hand holding yours, the other propped up against the curve of your waist.

You chuckle softly in return, studying his tired features, »I know... they actually make me feel like an intelligent person for once.«

Bruce expression softens finally, keeping his eyes glued to you.

»You are intelligent… even if it‘s not hard to be smarter than them.« He can‘t help but tease lightly, a faint smile playing on his lips. You pinch his shoulder in return, crinkling his perfect suit slightly.

Your peaceful dance under the classical music from the romantic era gets interrupted as a rather old man approaches the both of you, wearing a rich smile on his face. Bruce‘s expression falls immediately, reluctantly stopping the dance, even though he selfishly wants to keep going and ignore everyone else. But that would be childish, too.

»I sincerely apologise for interrupting your wonderful dance, but I was wondering...«

Your husband restrains himself from letting out the most annoyed sigh ever, keeping himself composed in front of the unfamiliar man. Maybe another economics man, ready to ramble his ears off about nothing other than his spendings on money and begging for Bruce‘s opinion about his decisions.

You watch them interact with a faint smile, knowing very well about your husband‘s annoyance, noticing his jaw clench every now and then. Luckily, the older men steps away, leaving you alone.

»He could‘ve just… nevermind.« Bruce sighs out, not bothering to curse him out, considering you are both still at a public event. He shakes his head lightly and focuses his gaze back on you, expression growing less guarded. »Ready to leave? It‘s getting late.«

You can‘t deny his offer, getting sick of the sticky air inside the ballroom as well. Bruce feels more than reliefed once you step out of the large, barouque building, approaching the car, where Alfred‘s already sitting inside, waiting to drive you both home.

◖

Once inside, Bruce gets rid of his tie and hangs up his suit jacket, before he finally turns his full attention to you. You just got rid of your high heels and can‘t wait to slip into bed to give your feet a break, but once you glance at Bruce, you‘re sure this won‘t be happening anytime soon.

»I don‘t know ‘bout you, but this evening made me really worked up...«

He slurs out quietly while taking some steps closer to you, secretly hoping you feel the same way. He doesn‘t need to hope though, because you‘d be happy to provide him in anything. You nod in response, letting him come closer and almost close the gap between you both.

»Oh, definitely… but I kinda enjoyed seeing you frustrated for once.« You smirk up at him, a mischivous glint in your eyes. It makes him shakes his head lightly in return, although the corners of his lips curl up slightly.

»Cheeky,« he exhales softly before pulling you closer by your hip, gently connecting your lips into a sweet kiss. Your hand props up at his chest, curling around the cool fabric while Bruce deepens the kiss. He makes you tilt your head, his larger hand resting by the nape of your neck.

It takes a lot in him not to finish what he started in the hallway, but he eventually breaks the kiss and takes steadying breaths, his eyes trained on you like a prey.

Your back hits the door as soon as you reach your master bedroom, making you huff out softly. Bruce doesn‘t waste his time to attack your neck with open-mouthed kisses and light bites, working his way down to the column of your throat, and down to your collarbones. A quiet hiss escapes you as you feel his bites become harsher, probably enough to create faint marks the next day. Your hands desperately clinge to his shoulders, one at the back of his neck, keeping him close while keeping you steady on your feet. A soft growl escapes him, seeming impatient. His hands finally stop roaming over you curves, picking you up by the back of your thighs. He sets you up against the next furniture, his moves being rushed and needy. Due to his rushed demeanor, he placed you down on the surface of the dresser messily, making you shift to be more comfortable on it.

»Sorry, I… I didn‘t hurt you, right?« He catches his breath as he takes you in on top of the dresser, noticing your flushed demeanor.

»I‘m all good, just didn‘t expect this,« you answer, pulling him closer by the collar of his shirt. Bruce grows smug at your action, letting himself be pulled close again. His breath fans against you before he nuzzles to your neck. You feel a gentle tap at your thigh, his voice coming out low and commanding.

»C‘mon… spread,«

A light shiver goes through your spine, listening to his words without a single thought in your head. He settles in once your legs allow him to, pushing your evening dress a little more up.

You feel his cool hands trace your body until one of them travels down to your middle, gently rubbing and starting to work you up further. A breathy sigh leaves your lips before Bruce crashes his lips onto yours, swallowing all of your sounds. You weakly grip to his upper arm, supporting yourself as best as you can. His hand quickens its pace against your core through your lacy panties, making your brain melt. Your lips part further as your mind goes slack, allowing him to deepen the kiss and rub slow circles against your tongue with his.

A quiet whine leaves you as he suddenly stops, breaking the kiss too.

»Sorry, darl‘… patience.« He mumbles softly as he starts to undo his belt, keeping his hazy eyes trained on your face. You grow hotter under his eyes, trying to rub your thighs together again, but it‘s impossible with him between your legs. A faint smirk tugs at his lips, dragging his teeth against his bottom lip once his pants finally fall down.

Your eyes fall to his boxers, noticing the light patch on the front. Without further hesitation, Bruce‘s boxer briefs get pulled down, mixed with a quiet groan from his side.

He leans in again, his hot skin pressing against yours, feeling like you‘ll melt any second. You feel the way his lips trace along the side of your neck while he gently teases you, feeling his tip nudge against the outside of your panties. Your hand shoots out to hold onto him again, settling against his shirt as you grip tightly on him.

Having had finally enough of it, he pushes your panties to the side and dives in, being as gentle as he can, even in his desperate state. You tense up at the sensation, not used to his size, due to the busy lives of you both.

»Shh… it‘s okay. I‘ve got you,« Bruce gently shushes you and wrap his arms around your torso, keeping you close against him as he continues to gently drive in further.

You slowly relax again and regain your breath, keeping a tigh grip against his shirt. Once he bottoms out, you can‘t help but tremble slightly, being overwhelmed with the hotness and full feeling he provides. You nod against his shoulder, giving him the final sign for him to start out properly.

His rhythm starts out slow and sensual, but it quickly evolves into a quicker and rougher pace. He drives more urgently into you, trying to be gentle at the same time. The strokes are deep, knocking the breath out of your lungs. He adjusts his grip on you, changing the angle lightly as he continues to shove his hips against yours, not giving you a break.

The room fills with soft flaps from skin slapping against skin, your breathy moans mix with his deep groans, making the scene more erotic than it already is. The sensations finally start to kick in, making your breath hitch. He notices the slight shift in you, knowing it won‘t take long for you to come undone before him.

He leans back a bit to watch your face, his hands keeping a firm grip on your hips as he pushes himself into you even harder than before. Your eyes roll back, moans growing higher in pitch. He relieshes in the way you melt because of him, the way you look like you are losing your mind, all because of him.

He groans and a possesive feeling overcomes him, making his hips snap rougher against yours. Sure enough, your climax comes in after a few final thrusts, his jaw going slack as he feels how tightly you squeeze him.

His pace doesn‘t die down, if anything, he‘s trying to speed up a little further. It‘s not until he feels himself grow closer to the edge until he pulls out and continues to drive himself to pleasure with his fist. You hear him moan out softly and nestle his head against your shoulder once he finishes, white spurts of his cum painting your panties white. You run your hand along his back in a soothing motion, helping him calm down too. He comes down faster than you, meeting his eyes again after catching his breath.

»Let‘s clean ya‘ up… did so well for me.« He mutters as he rubs your upper thighs, eventually picking you back up into his arms and walking to the attached bathroom.

←MASTERLIST

[axetivev]

~ Warning! Batkids are Bruce and Reader's Biochild!

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids who would be the one who would and picked up Damian who got detention/suspended because Bruce was too busy.

"So you're telling me, you suspend my son, Damian Wayne because he protected his friend..?"

"W–well. Mr. Wayne... in this school, we don't—"

"Oh so you don't allow nor teach violence but allow harassment? Racism? You know what. Damian, call Bruce. You're changing schools."

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids who would force Tim to go to bed. No is not an option. And would never be. Then, Papa!Reader would lecture Tim about sleeping.

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids who would read them bedtime stories. And they'll have to agree with one, which led to fights (unfortunately).

"Pa! Can we get a bedtime story?"

"Of course, what do you guys want?"

"Oh! Oh! How about a story about..."

"Tim, you've requested yesterday!"

"Ca–Cass! At my defense—"

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, where papa!reader hugged and gave Dick lunch money who was becoming Robin for the first time. In the end, this became a routine as the Robin legacy continued.

"My love, Dick can do it... Y–you don't have to—"

Papa!Reader who gave Dick his money. "Shut it Bruce! My poor baby can't fight crime empty handed! Are you really gonna buy him something when he's hungry!?"

Year later...

"..."

"M/N—"

"Here, Damian. Here, 100 bucks! Spend it for something useful, m'kay?"

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, when Jason died, he drowns into depression. Struggle—unable to move on. He felt himself being a failure of a dad. To a level to skip meals.

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, after Jason was back alive. He was crying. Hugging Jason as tight as he could to his 6'0 son. He can't, he can't lose another child.

"Forgive me for everything, Jason."

"Pa... I'm here. Really, I'm fine now... I'll be extra careful next time."

"Please be... I don't want to lose you and others again..."

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, who would secretly bring the kids out if Bruce grounded them. But when he was the one who grounds them. No one. No one can save them.

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, who have boys and girls time. For boys, he'd basically spend his time with the boys (basically, Dick, Jason, Tim, Damian, Duke) and the girls (Stephanie, Cass).

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, who would work in Arkham Asylum while his kids were looking for him from afar to make sure he was safe. The kids would usually switch but of course they'll fight about it.

"Hey! It's my time to look over pa!"

"Cut it Richard. You've done that last week."

"C'mon! Why don't you guys let Duke and Damian!?"

"FUCK YOU CASSANDRA!"

"OH FUCK YOU!"

Meanwhile Papa!Reader who watched from afar while drinking his tea.

"Kids these days..."

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, when his birthday rolls around, the kids would give him something. It could be a father—son/daughter time, or them spending their money to buy him something—anything. They'll basically spoil you, because you deserve it!

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, who would be his literal bodyguard. Even after Papa!Reader told them he's alright. What can I say? Your kids are too loving. Even too clingy sometimes.

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, where the kids would argue to Bruce about who should have "Papa time" first. Being neither Dick or Damian who leads and Tim gathers information and key details others would light the fire even more. While Papa!Reader tried to calm the kids while Alfred just smirked to himself.

"Well, father. At our defense. Papa spends more time with you. He would prepare you for work; tidying your tie as you go to work, as Batman. Papa helped you with gathering some information with Barbs."

"If not. You two would cuddle on the couch from day and night!"

"Therefore?"

"Therefore, we deserve our own papa time!!!"

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, where if there's a parent brave enough to say something horrible to his kids, Papa!Reader won't hesitate to break them mentality. This also applies if some soul dares to speak to you horribly. The kids would casually show no mercy.

—Papa!Reader and his Bio!kids, when Bruce looked at every single child of his. He would look at Papa!Reader, eyes staring at your very soul as he towered you.

"I want more kids."

"Bruce, we literally have 7 kids, multiple dogs, a cat, a cow, and many others. We have—"

"That's not a question."

[dreamersworldduh]

Heyyy love your work so much!! It’s so hard to find male reader writers and I’m so glad I found you! :] I have a request for a Bruce Wayne fic maybe reader is like a nurse for the justice league and starts to connect with Batman or something where reader is a interviewer and Mets with Bruce Wayne and Bruce actually feel like they care or something. I honestly just would like any more works by you!!!!

HEALING TOUCH

• BRUCE WAYNE x MALE READER

SUMMARY — You never expected to end up here—working alongside the Justice League, stationed in the Watchtower, healing the world's greatest heroes. For most of your life, you had resisted the idea of becoming a healer, rejecting the weight of legacy and expectation. But fate had other plans.

What began as a reluctant acceptance of your gift soon turned into something more. The work was unlike anything you could have imagined—treating injuries that defied science, facing wounds no medical textbook could explain. And among all the heroes you encountered, none fascinated you more than Batman.

Bruce Wayne was not an easy patient. He was guarded, stubborn, and treated pain like an old companion. He never offered more than necessary, never shared more than a clipped response. Yet, over time, something shifted. Through late-night treatments, quiet moments, and unspoken understanding, a connection formed—one built not on words, but on trust.

This is the story of how you, against all odds, found your place in a world you never intended to join. How you became more than just the League's healer. And how, without meaning to, you found yourself at the center of something unexpected—something unbreakable.

WARNING! FLUFF. Suggestive Langauge. Violence.

WORDS! 4.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with a long awaited request! Thank you so much for the support🫶🏽 Sorry for the wait, hope you enjoy! ✨

For as long as you could remember, you had been absolutely certain of one thing—you did not want to be a doctor. This wasn't some fleeting notion, nor was it the rebellious whim of a child trying to carve out an identity separate from their family. No, this was something deeper, a conviction that had been rooted in your very core from the moment you were old enough to understand the expectations placed upon you. It was an unshakable truth, one that clung to you throughout childhood and well into your teenage years, as persistent as the heartbeat in your chest.

Perhaps it was because you had spent your entire life surrounded by medicine, watching as it consumed those around you. Your parents were revered figures in their respective fields, their names spoken with admiration and respect in hospitals and academic circles alike. Your siblings—each one older, seemingly more accomplished, and unwavering in their purpose—had followed suit, slipping into white coats as though they had been born wearing them. The family legacy stretched back generations; your grandparents had been pioneers, their contributions to medicine immortalized in textbooks and medical journals. It was, as far as the world was concerned, an unbroken chain, a lineage of healers whose purpose was clear from the moment they took their first breath.

And then there was you.

The youngest, the outlier, the one who had always felt like an anomaly within your own family. Everyone assumed your path had already been decided for you, that one day, you would take your rightful place among them. It was expected, as if it were written into the fabric of your very being. But no matter how many times you heard the words—"When you become a doctor..." or *"It's only a matter of time before you realize it's in your blood"—*you never once felt the pull they did. While your siblings devoured medical textbooks with a hunger for knowledge, you found yourself drawn elsewhere. Science never fascinated you the way it did them; anatomy and pathology felt like foreign languages that you had no desire to learn. Instead, you lost yourself in books that spoke of worlds beyond your own, of stories woven with magic, adventure, and possibilities unbound by logic. You longed for something different, something more.

Then, one day, everything changed.

You discovered you had the ability to heal.

It wasn't something you had asked for, nor was it something you had ever imagined could be real. It wasn't the practiced skill of a surgeon or the carefully calculated knowledge of a physician—it was something else entirely. It was a gift, an inexplicable force that pulsed beneath your skin, ancient and powerful. And though you had spent your entire life rejecting the path of a healer, the ability had found you anyway.

At first, you tried to deny it. You told yourself it was impossible, a trick of the mind, a coincidence. But deep down, you knew the truth. This wasn't some fluke. This was something that had always been inside you, waiting. Your grandparents had possessed it, this extraordinary ability that defied the rigid boundaries of science. But then, it had skipped a generation—bypassing your father, eluding your siblings—and somehow, impossibly, it had chosen you.

When your family learned the truth, their reactions were a storm of emotions. Your father, a man of unwavering logic and discipline, was furious. He had dedicated his life to medicine, to the pursuit of knowledge grounded in science, and now, his own child stood before him wielding a power that defied everything he believed in. Your siblings, who had spent years honing their skills through study and relentless practice, regarded you with a mixture of jealousy and resentment. To them, it was unfair—this gift had come to you, the one person who had never wanted to be a part of their world.

And yet, here you were, standing at the crossroads of fate, faced with a decision you had never expected to make.

Would you continue running from the destiny you had spent your entire life rejecting?

Or would you embrace the power within you and become the kind of healer no one had ever seen before?

It was never supposed to happen this way.

You had spent your entire life avoiding anything remotely connected to the medical field, distancing yourself from the legacy that loomed over you like an unshakable shadow. Your family had long since carved their names into history as healers, doctors, surgeons—people who dedicated their lives to saving others through science and skill. And yet, you had never once felt that calling, never once been drawn to the weight of responsibility that came with the profession.

But fate had a way of making choices for you.

It had started as an ordinary night, no different from countless others. The city stretched before you in its usual haze of neon lights and restless energy, the rhythmic hum of distant sirens blending into the background like an ever-present melody. The cool night air carried the scent of rain-soaked asphalt, and the streets were mostly empty, save for the occasional pedestrian or flickering streetlamp casting long shadows against the pavement.

You hadn't thought much of the darkened alley at first. Gotham was full of them—silent corridors of forgotten corners, places most people knew better than to wander into. But something caught your eye, something that sent a ripple of unease through your gut. A figure slumped against the brick wall, partially obscured by darkness, barely illuminated by the dim glow of a nearby lamp.

At first, you assumed it was just another casualty of the city's merciless grip—an unfortunate soul lost to the harsh realities of Gotham's streets. But as you stepped closer, your breath hitched in your throat.

It was him.

Batman.

The Dark Knight, the legend, the untouchable force of Gotham, reduced to a broken, bleeding man before your eyes. His armor was cracked in places, deep gashes running along his arms and torso. His cape, torn and soaked in blood, lay in ragged folds beneath him. Bruises had already begun to form along his jaw, painting his skin in shades of deep purple and black. And his breathing—God, his breathing was shallow, each ragged inhale a battle against the pain threatening to consume him.

If he didn't get help soon, he wouldn't survive the night.

Panic surged through you. You weren't a doctor. You had never studied medicine, had never once held a scalpel or stitched a wound. And yet—

Yet, you could help him.

Your hands trembled as you knelt beside him, the weight of the moment pressing down on you like an invisible force. This was Batman. The man who had survived the worst Gotham had to offer. The man who had always stood between the city and the monsters lurking in the dark. And now, he was dying.

Doubt clawed at you. What if it didn't work? What if, after all these years of trying to ignore it, trying to pretend you were just an ordinary person, your ability failed you now?

But there was no time for hesitation.

With a steadying breath, you reached out, pressing your hands against his battered torso. The warmth came almost instantly, blooming from within, spreading through your fingertips like liquid fire. It seeped into his wounds, into torn flesh and bruised bone, knitting them back together as if they had never been broken. The deep lacerations closed before your eyes, the jagged cuts smoothing into unblemished skin. The harsh, uneven rise and fall of his chest steadied, his breathing deepening as strength slowly returned to him.

And then—his eyes snapped open.

Even injured, even weakened, his gaze was sharp, piercing. A predator assessing a new, unexpected variable in the equation. For a moment, neither of you spoke, the silence stretching between you like a fragile thread.

Then, his voice, rough but steady.

"What did you do?"

You swallowed hard, your throat suddenly dry. "I... I healed you."

The words felt foreign, like an admission you had spent years refusing to say out loud. But there was no denying what had just happened. No more running.

That night changed everything.

Word of what you had done spread faster than you could have anticipated. Batman was not a man who let the impossible go unquestioned, and he wasn't about to let you disappear into the shadows. He found you, sought you out, his mind already working through the implications of what you could do. He wanted answers—how your ability worked, what its limitations were, whether it was something that could be controlled, replicated, weaponized.

And before you even had time to process it, you were standing in the heart of the Watchtower, surrounded by legends.

Superman, Wonder Woman, the Flash—names you had only ever seen in news reports and whispered about in awe—now stood before you, their eyes filled with curiosity, intrigue, and perhaps even a hint of wariness. They wanted to understand you. They wanted to know if your abilities could change the way they fought, the way they protected the world.

They wanted you on their team.

You—the person who had spent a lifetime running from the expectations of being a healer—were now one of the most valuable assets the Justice League had ever encountered. You weren't a doctor, not in the way your family had always envisioned, but your gift was something beyond science, beyond anything medicine could explain.

And for the first time, you weren't afraid of it.

For the first time, you understood.

You had never wanted to be a healer. But maybe—just maybe—you were meant to be one all along.

The job was nothing like a traditional nine-to-five. There were no scheduled shifts, no structured hours, no neat boundaries separating work from the rest of your life. The moment you agreed to join the Justice League Medical Team, you knew things would be different, but nothing could have prepared you for just how much your world would change.

The Watchtower—an advanced orbital station, the Justice League's headquarters in the vast emptiness of space—was now your home. You told yourself that the decision to live there was purely practical. Emergencies didn't wait for convenience, and every second counted when it came to saving lives. Being stationed on the Watchtower meant you could respond immediately, without the delay of transport from Earth. You understood the necessity of it. And yet, despite the logic, there were moments when you would stop in the middle of a corridor, staring out through reinforced glass at the planet far below, and feel the weight of it all settling in.

You lived in space.

More than that—you lived in the same place as the world's greatest heroes.

At first, it was overwhelming. Every hallway you walked down, every turn you made, you found yourself brushing shoulders with living legends. Superman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern—names that had once seemed larger than life, figures who had saved the world countless times over, now passed you in the halls as if this were any ordinary workplace. Except it wasn't. There was nothing ordinary about it.

In the beginning, you kept your head down, strictly professional. They were the Justice League, and you were just their healer. You addressed them by their codenames, adhered to protocol, maintained the careful distance expected of any League-affiliated personnel. You did your job, and you did it well, ensuring that no matter how powerful they were, they had someone looking out for them when even their abilities weren't enough to keep them unscathed.

But things changed, subtly at first, in ways you barely noticed until, one day, you realized how different everything had become.

It started with the little things. The Flash—Barry, though you hadn't started calling him that yet—lingered after check-ups, cracking jokes, making it his mission to coax a laugh out of you. Wonder Woman, impossibly kind yet formidable, took it upon herself to check in on you just as often as you checked in on her. She would stop by the medbay, not just for treatment but to ensure you were eating properly, resting, taking care of yourself as much as you took care of them.

Even Batman, the most elusive of them all, had a habit of appearing unannounced. At first, you thought he was simply observing, studying you with that ever-calculating mind of his, trying to understand your abilities. But eventually, you realized that, in his own way, he was keeping an eye on you—not as an asset to analyze, but as a person he had come to trust.

And then came the moments that shattered the invisible walls you had unknowingly kept around yourself.

The first time Superman addressed you by your first name instead of "Doctor" or "Healer," it caught you off guard. It was such a small thing, and yet, the warmth in his voice, the familiarity, made it clear that you were no longer just another recruit to him. You were one of them.

Green Lantern—John Stewart—had been the first to insist you call him by his actual name, brushing off formality with an easy camaraderie. Soon, the others followed.

"Wonder Woman" became "Diana."

"The Flash" was "Barry."

"Green Lantern" was "John."

"Superman" was "Clark."

Even the most guarded of them, Batman, eventually became "Bruce"—though that one had taken significantly longer. And even then, you still only used it when it was just the two of you.

You hadn't expected any of this. When you joined, you had assumed you would remain in the background, tending to wounds and then retreating into solitude, never truly stepping into their world. But they had never seen you that way.

To them, you weren't just their healer.

You were one of them.

And despite all the years you had spent resisting the idea of being a healer, of belonging in a role that had always felt like a burden—you couldn't deny that being here, with them, felt right.

Months into your new job, you had seen injuries that defied all logic, wounds that no medical textbook could have ever prepared you for. Burns not from fire, but from alien energy blasts that left strange, unidentifiable scars. Fractures that should have been fatal, caused by impact forces no ordinary human should have survived. You had learned to treat injuries inflicted by magic, reinforced skin, and even Kryptonian physiology. Each case came with a story, and while some heroes eagerly recounted their battles—often in absurd, almost comical detail—others remained tight-lipped, offering only the barest explanations.

But no stories captivated you quite like Bruce's.

Batman was a different kind of patient. He never wasted words, never offered unnecessary details unless they were vital to treatment. He arrived in the medbay with injuries that should have left him bedridden for weeks, yet he treated them as minor inconveniences. A cracked rib, a dislocated shoulder, deep gashes that would have incapacitated anyone else—he sat through it all in silence, barely flinching as you worked. If you asked how he got hurt, his responses were clipped, single-worded: "Joker." "Bane." "Scarecrow." No elaboration, no unnecessary details. Just cold, factual acknowledgment.

At first, you didn't push. You had worked with enough patients to know when someone wasn't ready to talk. But you were curious—perhaps more than you should have been. It wasn't just the injuries themselves that intrigued you; it was how he carried them. The weight of Gotham clung to him, wrapped around his shoulders like an unseen shroud. He didn't just fight crime in that city—he bore its darkness, absorbed it into his bones.

And Gotham was your hometown.

You knew the streets he patrolled, the alleys he disappeared into, the villains he faced. You had grown up hearing about the chaos, the crime, the myth of the Bat who prowled the city's rooftops. You knew the fear Gotham instilled in its people—the way sirens became a nightly lullaby, the way danger lurked just out of sight. So when Bruce finally started talking, when he finally let slip the stories behind his injuries, it felt as if you were reliving every nightmare Gotham had ever breathed into your bones.

Of course, Bruce didn't start sharing because he wanted to. It wasn't in his nature to open up so easily.

Somehow, you made it happen.

Maybe it was the way you never treated him like an untouchable legend. Maybe it was how you never hesitated, never looked at him with pity when he sat on your exam table, half-broken but unwilling to admit it. Maybe it was your patience, your ability to hold your own in the long silences he used as armor.

At first, it was just small things—offhand remarks, fragmented pieces of information he let slip without thinking. "The cut isn't deep. Killer Croc caught me off guard." Or, "I didn't expect Scarecrow to use a new formula."

Then, slowly, those remarks turned into something more.

One night, while resetting his shoulder, you had casually mentioned remembering the sirens wailing across Gotham the night the Joker flooded the city with gas. Bruce's gaze flicked to yours, sharp, assessing, and for a moment, you thought you had crossed a line. But then, in that same low, controlled voice, he started talking.

He told you how he had chased the Joker across the rooftops that night, how the fight had left him with a broken rib and a chemical burn that had taken weeks to heal. He spoke in his usual detached, analytical manner, but there was something in his voice that sent a chill down your spine. The way he recounted it—haunting, precise, methodical—made it feel like you were right there with him, watching the city descend into madness.

And once he started, the stories didn't stop.

Every now and then, after particularly grueling missions, when exhaustion cracked through the iron barriers he built around himself, he would speak. Never too much, never sentimental, but enough. Enough to paint a picture. Enough to make you see Gotham through his eyes—the way the Narrows pulsed with desperation, the way Crime Alley still held ghosts, the way the shadows stretched long beneath the neon lights, swallowing everything whole.

He never told you why he shared these things with you, and you never asked.

Somehow, against all odds, you had become someone he trusted enough to talk to.

And in return, you listened.

The dynamic between you and Bruce was something different—something undeclared yet undeniable. It didn't happen overnight, nor was it something either of you had planned for. Bruce Wayne wasn't the kind of man who let people in easily. He kept his distance, his trust locked behind an impenetrable wall of silence, sharp glares, and an ever-present scowl. It was his armor, just as much as the cowl he wore. To most, he was untouchable, unreachable.

But somehow, despite all of that, you had found a way in.

And against all odds, he didn't seem to mind.

If you paid close enough attention, you might even say he enjoyed your company.

He would never admit it outright—Bruce wasn't the type for grand gestures or sentimental confessions—but over time, the signs became impossible to ignore. He lingered in the medbay longer than necessary, always finding some excuse to stay behind. A question about his injury, an offhand remark about the latest mission—little things that didn't warrant the extra time, yet he remained. He had a habit of showing up when the medbay was empty, as if he preferred your presence without the distraction of others. And when you teased him, poked at his brooding nature with easy charm and wit, the heavy silence that usually clung to him began to crack.

The first time you caught him smirking, you almost thought you imagined it. It was quick, barely there—a flicker of amusement before his mask of indifference settled back into place. But it happened again. And again. Until eventually, you stopped pretending not to notice.

And the stories—he liked yours just as much as you liked his.

You rarely spoke about your past, your family's legacy, the weight of expectations you had spent so much of your life trying to escape. It wasn't an easy thing to share, nor was it something you ever felt the need to explain to others. But with Bruce, it was different. He listened—not out of politeness, not to fill the silence, but because he genuinely cared.

He understood.

Of course, he did.

No one knew better than Bruce what it was like to be weighed down by ghosts, to live under the constant pressure of a name, a reputation, a path carved out for you long before you ever had a say in it. He never said it outright, but you could see it in his eyes, in the way he regarded you—not with pity, but with understanding. With respect. For the choices you had made. For carving your own path despite the pressure to be something else.

But more than anything, what Bruce appreciated most—whether he would admit it or not—was your touch.

It wasn't just your presence, the way you fit into his life without demanding more than he was willing to give. It wasn't just your sharp mind or the way you always saw through his carefully constructed barriers.

It was your hands.

Your gift.

The thing that made you unlike anyone else he had ever known.

Hal Jordan, never one to miss an opportunity for a joke, had once dubbed it your "healing touch."

Bruce had scoffed at the term when he first heard it, muttering something about Lanterns talking too much. But that didn't change the truth of it. Your hands, your power, were something he had come to rely on—not just because they mended broken bones and sealed wounds, but because, for a man who had spent his entire life in pain, your touch was the closest thing to relief he had ever known.

You could feel it in the way his shoulders eased ever so slightly beneath your fingertips, in the way his breath steadied when your power coursed through him. He never flinched under your touch, never pulled away like he did with others. He trusted you, in a way he rarely trusted anyone.

He didn't have to say it.

He never would.

But in the way he let you work on him without protest, in the way his ever-tense frame relaxed, in the way his eyes lingered on your hands as they moved over his injuries—you knew.

And that was enough.

[bluejaysandblackbats]

Keepsafes

Fandom: Batman, DC Comics

Summary: AU where Martha and Thomas survive, and they adopt the batkids.

Chapters: 36/?

Characters: Bruce Wayne, Thomas Wayne, Martha Wayne, Alfred Pennyworth, Harvey Dent, Dick Grayson, Cassandra Cain, David Cain, Talia al Ghul, Damian Wayne, Jason Todd, Tim Drake

Relationships: Thomas Wayne/Martha Wayne/Alfred Pennyworth, BruHarvey, BruTalia

Additional Tags: Canon Divergent AU, Hurt/Comfort, Bruce Wayne is Not Batman, Angst, Alfred Pennyworth Knows All, Bruce Wayne Only Has One Child, Bruce Wayne is Not An Only Child, Bi Bruce Wayne

Chapter Thirty-Six: Pomegranates

Thomas wrote in his journal while he sat in on Dick’s class at the Academy. Dick yawned and stretched his legs as he fidgeted in his chair, tugging at his collar and struggling to kick off his oxfords without leaning forward to untie them. The teacher’s jaw tightened, and he cleared his throat before looking at Dick and Thomas. Thomas nodded and took Dick outside. The assistant teacher took over the class while the instructor stepped outside to speak with them. “I figured out the issue,” Thomas stated.

“You can’t be—. Dr. Wayne, you haven’t looked up from your notes all morning,” the teacher complained. 

“Let him stand in the very back. He’s got eyes like an eagle, and I’d suggest shooting him a rapid-fire question every now and then to keep him present. Dick, what did Mr. Taylor say before we left the classroom?” Thomas questioned. 

“Genre is the type of story and theme is the message behind the story,” Dick repeated. 

“He’s bored. He’s restless. Let him stand. Let him stretch or stand on his head. Throw him a few questions. Dick’s smart. He’s probably gifted, but we’ll revisit that another day. For now, I’d like to talk to my s—. I want to speak with Dick for a moment to ensure that he transitions back into class without any hiccups,” Thomas whispered. 

Mr. Taylor took a deep breath and nodded before returning to the classroom. “You were gonna call me your son. Why didn’t you?” Dick asked with his arms crossed.

“I love you, but I don’t want you to feel obligated to—.” 

Dick hugged him. “I hope you tell me what you’re writing in that journal later,” Dick replied. 

“Blurbs… Little ideas for books until one of them becomes a book,” Thomas answered. 

Dick let go and looked at Thomas. “You’re not pushy enough. You were the mayor. You stood up for me today and didn’t have to. You can do all that, but you can’t tell me you want to be my dad or write a book. I love you too, but you’ve gotta speak up for yourself,” Dick replied, “My dad would’ve said the same thing… And I think he would’ve liked you.” Before Thomas could process any of what Dick said, Dick slipped back into the classroom, and he had to follow. 

**

Gilda brought Harvey’s lunch to the office and sat with him, letting him gripe about paperwork and missed phone calls. “Is the salad okay?” Gilda asked. Harvey looked up and smiled for her. 

“Thank you, Gilda. I love a good apple salad. Sorry, I don’t mean to be so irritable. How was your day?” Harvey asked. 

“I got hired to design for the Drake House remodel. They’ve got a little boy, and they’re taking him overseas on an excavation trip. Isn’t that exciting? Too bad he won’t remember the whole thing,” Gilda answered. 

“And why won’t he?” Harvey asked. 

“He’s two,” Gilda replied as she held back a laugh. “Harvey, you know something? It’s almost May.” 

“But it’s not August yet… And I wanna hit you with a proposal—.”

“Not here,” Gilda replied, “Not like—.”

“Gilda, I was wondering if you’d like to go on a little vacation in May. Maybe we can talk about it without any distractions… What do you think?” Harvey replied. 

Gilda lit up. “You’re joking. Tell me you’re joking—.”

“Nuh-uh. I’ve had a lot on my mind lately, but I think a vacation would be great for us,” Harvey replied as he tossed his pasta in the microwave. 

Gilda cocked her head as she stared at his microwave. “When’d you get that? Don’t you have a microwave in the breakroom?” Gilda questioned. 

“I don’t wanna get caught up in conversation, and I run the risk of the lunch bandit taking—.” 

Someone knocked on the door. “Package!” one of the women from the mailroom announced.

“Come in,” Harvey stated. 

She set the package on Harvey’s desk, and Gilda stared at Harvey. “Who is Leda?” Gilda asked.

“Leda is Bruce’s cousin from Germany. She’s a cookbook author,” Harvey replied as he passed Gilda the boxcutter from inside his desk. She opened the box and pulled out two books. The first was a children’s chapter book called, Cousin Gregor’s Castle , and an illustrated cookbook called, Family Portrait Cookbook . “Oh, how nice. She gave us two copies of each. We can read in bed together again.”

“Wait, is Cousin Gregor’s Castle about Bruce?” Gilda questioned. 

“Gregor looks like Bruce did when we were kids. It could be about him. We could read that one first,” Harvey suggested. 

**

In the weeks to follow, Dick started sneaking into Bruce’s room and sleeping under his bed. Bruce pretended not to notice until he couldn’t sleep. “This monster under my bed routine is getting old. And it gets cold under there,” Bruce whispered as he stared at the ceiling. 

“How do you know it’s cold down here? It’s the middle of the summer,” Dick mumbled. 

“Because I used to hide down there,” Bruce replied. 

“From what?” Dick questioned in reply. He wriggled out and climbed under Bruce’s blankets, which startled Bruce a bit. He wasn’t used to being so close to Dick or anyone other than his parents or Harvey. 

“My thoughts… ‘Your memory is a monster; you forget—it doesn’t.’ Have you ever read that one?” Bruce asked. Dick shook his head. “It’s a good book. I’ll loan it to you some time.”

“What were you reading tonight?” Dick asked. 

“ A House of Pomegranates ,” Bruce answered, “It’s a good collection of stories, but they’re a bit dark.” Dick nestled close. “Why are you haunting me every night?” 

Dick sighed and looked at Bruce. They never completely met eyes, but Dick knew Bruce was watching him. 

“Do you think you’d kill the guy who shot your mom and dad if you found him?” Dick asked. 

Bruce laced his fingers together and placed them on his chest. “I used to think so… Maybe if they didn’t live. But, I’m not so mad anymore. They stopped traveling to be with me more because of it. In a way, I can’t be mad at how things turned out. I’m stronger for it, and I’ve got my parents—.”

“If you didn’t have them, though… If he took them from you, wouldn’t you want him to die? If he was capable of doing it again… would you kill him?” Dick interrupted. 

“Maybe. Maybe I’d see him tomorrow and think about what could’ve happened. Maybe I’d think about how careless he was. I might kill him if that were the case. I don’t know. That’s a hard question to answer, Dick. You never know what you’re capable of until it happens. 

“Have you spoken to Harvey? I know he’s just a paralegal, but he’ll—.”

“I’ll be fourteen by then. That’s three years. I can’t wait that long—.” 

“How would you kill him?” Bruce interrupted. 

“What?” Dick questioned in reply. 

“Tell me. I know you’ve thought about it. What does it look like in your mind? How do you do it? Really tell me what it feels like in your mind,” Bruce answered with building intensity. 

Dick shut his eyes and sighed as he thought about it. “I’d want to beat the shit out of him with a bat. Break his bones,” Dick replied. 

“He might live… And that’s so messy and loud. Chances are you’d only get a few hits in if and I mean if you caught him off guard somewhere. And the blood. He’ll probably spit up blood all over your shoes... And can you handle the squelching and crunching as the bat hits his flesh? How long can you hit him? How long can you keep up the stamina and the force required to break and kill a grown man? What if he screams and cries and begs? What if he doesn’t say anything at all?” Bruce replied. 

“Or maybe I’ll shoot him. It’s not hard to get a gun,” Dick replied. 

“What kind? I don’t doubt you could handle the kickback… But how’s your aim? How fast can you run away from the scene? What sort of bullets are you using?” Bruce questioned. 

“I’ll catch him off guard and strangle him with something,” Dick answered with a trembling voice. 

Bruce made a soft noise before sitting up. “Okay. Get behind me real quick. I wanna see—.” 

“I don’t wanna—.” 

“Just for pretend. Just to see how it’d work,” Bruce whispered, “Come on. And grab that scarf on my nightstand.” Dick swallowed hard and obeyed. He held the scarf underneath Bruce’s chin. “Already, you’re wrong. You have to be quick, and you’ve gotta get it either wrapped or twisted to where you won’t get rope burn from him pulling it out of your hand. The distance is okay, but how are you gonna get up there? How are you gonna handle him gurgling and wheezing and clawing?” Bruce mimicked the noises, and Dick started trembling. 

“Bruce, cut it out,” Dick whimpered. 

“I’m just showing you… And you’ll have to hold him even after he hits the ground to make sure he’s really dead. He might shit himself. People do that when they die. It’s awful,” Bruce stated in a clear and unemotional tone of voice before making another few gasping and wheezing sounds for dramatic effect. 

Dick started to cry as he dropped the scarf. “Stop it… I don’t want to hear anymore,” Dick sobbed. Bruce softened as Dick tried to leave, and he pulled him into a hug. 

“You’re not a killer. This guy isn’t the Bogeyman you think he is. He might’ve taken your parents, but he left behind a witness. He’s a chump. That guy is garbage. He’s scum… And I feel sorry for him because he’ll never be half the man that you are. It’s sad,” Bruce whispered, “You should cry for him because he’s empty. You’re too full of love to kill.” Dick sobbed into Bruce’s sweatshirt as Bruce held him tight. 

Once Dick calmed down, he looked up at Bruce. “Can I sleep in here?” Dick asked.

“Mhm… And I’m sorry for all of that, but I had to scare you a little bit,” Bruce apologized.

[batgeance]

god bruce fucking hates talking to wayne execs and financial advisors

[bet-on-me-13]

Uncle Vlad

So! Vlad Masters, Maddie Walker, and Jack Fenton were a group of friends that studied together at Gotham University. They all studied the Effects of Ectoplasm of the world around them, from how it affected Space-time to how it affected the Flora of the world.

But they had another friend, one who was interested on how Ectoplasm affected Human Beings before they died, rather than after. He was a Med Student, and he wanted to see if there were any Medicinal applications to Ectoplasm.

His name was Thomas Wayne.

Thomas was actually great friends with the Trio, and eventually they became a Quartet. He was just as crazy as them, although he hid it better, and he loved to get into stupid shenanigans with them.

Unfortunately that all came to an end when Vlad got was put in the Hospital by a Lab Accident. He refused to see any of them, but Thomas managed to convince him to let him study how the Ectoplasm was affecting his Body to hopefully find a Cure. He was the most skilled Ecto-Biologist they had after all.

Thomas never managed to find a Cure, but he did manage to maintain his friendship with Vlad, even after Jack and Maddie got married and moved away to Illinois. He felt bad that their friend group fell apart like that, but with all their lives changing it was inevitable. Thomas himself was planning on proposing to his girlfriend Martha soon.

When Vlad moved away to Wisconsin after recovering from his Accident, he stayed in contact with Thomas as thanks for all the help he gave in trying to find a Cure. Unlike Jack and Maddie who moved away without even trying to say goodbye, Thomas stuck around and stayed his friend.

He even became the Godfather to his son, Bruce. He later got a Letter from Jack and Maddie naming him the Godfather of their own son, Daniel, but he didn't really care as much. Bruce was an adorable little boy, and incredibly intelligent, he got that from his Father obviously.

Or course, then That Day happened. Thomas and his wife were Shot by a mugger and poor Bruce was left without his parents. Vlad tried to take him in, but was rejected on the grounds that he was still "Too frail to get out of his House".

He stayed in Contact with Bruce, but it became harder as time went on. From both the revelation that Daniel Fenton was a Halfa like him, and the fact that Bruce was traveling so much, he didn't have much of a chance to contact him. He needed to split his attention, and Daniel took a lot more than expected.

He hoped Bruce would stay a good kid, Daniel gave him too many headaches already.

...

A few years later, Bruce Wayne became the Batman.

[puppetmaster13u]

 Danny and his haunt are more than a little distressed to find out that Pariah Dark can’t be destroyed and can only be sealed away due to being the Ancient of Darkness. Danny is worried about someone trying to wake him up again, while his friends are more worried about the ghost going after the newborn Ancient of Space again. 

 They scour libraries, search high and low in both the Ghost Zone and the living world for a solution before finally just asking Clockwork. 

 And well, they feel like just a bit of idiots but also elated. 

 Because if Danny can become the new embodiment of space, then what’s to stop them from giving the power of darkness to someone else that’s not Pariah Dark? 

 They make a list of requirements, ask both ghosts and living friends. There’s nothing in their world, no one quite right, but what about other worlds? The realms are supposedly infinite right? So there had to be someone out there. 

 And while it takes a long, long time, they eventually find one when a small bloodied ghost of greens, golds, and reds comes forth shyly, eyes burning with determination. He speaks of heroes and villains- far more than their own world- of a city cloaked in shadow and of a single man trying to help despite it seeming impossible. 

 Who better to become the new Dark besides the dark knight himself after all? 

[violent138]

I love the idea that Bruce takes the Batfam on hikes outside of Gotham, and puts up with the arguing over who goes in what car, packs everyone's favourite snacks, will race with the other car if enough passengers in his egg him on. Bruce generally stays ridicuously quiet while the kids jabber enough to alert everything living in the woods near them but will weigh in once the kids debate who's strong enough to wrestle a bear, chime in on unsolved hiker cases, build fires, and carry anyone that gets tired, all while sneaking awful pictures of them.

[pomegranatelifethis]

Hello so i saw where your post about taking requests, I really entertained by your story which Star in the shadows(if I write the title right) that's just fantastic, so my request are can you make neglected reader where at beginning she's really had bubbly, happy and loud personality, like she really trying to bond with Batfam but then they just brush her off (y'know basic beginning in a lof of Neglected reader fanfic) but then there's at one time where reader get tired and then enter a point, a tragedy(this part is up to you) that turn her into emotionless being like a porcelain doll, she barely talk and expressed herself until it made some member of Batfam felt eerie around her(reader's gender is up to you, I used she because it's more easy to me to write since English isn't my native language)

Porcelain Doll

*I love the idea, you can think of it as a draft, will continue it*

(A Neglected!Reader x Batfam Story)

In the beginning, most of the laughter echoing through Wayne Manor belonged to her. She was once cheerful, lively, and full of love. Every morning at breakfast, she would greet everyone with the brightest smile, sneak sugar into Tim’s coffee, try to talk to Damian about kittens, joke around with Dick, and tease Jason about his book choices. She even tried to hug Bruce, though she usually had to settle for a light touch on his shoulder.

But what did she get in return?

Being ignored.

At first, she thought she just needed to try harder. Maybe, if she put in enough effort, she could make them laugh, become a part of them, feel like a "family."

But every "we'll talk later" turned into words that were never spoken.

Every "I'm busy right now" faded into endless silence.

Every turned back, every unheard word, every avoided glance… At some point, all of it stopped hurting.

Because she had stopped feeling.

And then, tragedy struck.

No one knew what she had been through. Where she had gone, what she had done. The last flicker of light in her eyes, like a candle flame, wavered and died the night she left. When she returned in the morning, she was still the same person—yet completely different.

From that day on, her words became scarce. Her smiles disappeared.

Sometimes, when Dick spoke to her, she would just stare blankly. When Jason made a joke, she wouldn’t react at all. When Tim watched her for hours, she felt nothing. Even when Damian snapped at her, she wouldn’t lift her head to look at him.

And Bruce… Even he realized something was wrong, but by then, it was too late.

No one could reach her anymore.

She had become like a fragile porcelain doll. Cold, silent, and emotionless.

** English is not my native language **

[littlefankingdom]

Dick: The Titans don't want me to be their leader. :(

Bruce *who already has put in the Justice League plans and systems that if anything happens to him, Dick becomes the leader, even tho Batman isn't the unique leader of the JL*: Making mistakes is an important part of growing up.

[junespriince]

Kyle: if I were a zombie, would you kill me? Wally: Nah, just keep you on a leash and treat you like a pet. As I take over the world and become its leader, you shall eat my enemies. Kyle: aw thanks dude Connor: ... scared to ask, but where am I at in this hypothetical? Wally: easy, the man to take my throne if I die or get killed, someone has to carry on my terror. Connor: Connor, eats his forkful of salad: Nice JL, looking at the new recruits: Bruce, putting Wally on the "Would turn into a villain for a cornchip" watchlist (made by tim): and, done.

[valengory1234]

While I love the storyline where Alfred was there from day one and helped raise Bruce, I think the original where he’s just some guy who shows up one day and Bruce and Dick just have to cope is extremely funny

[frogaroundandfindout]

Tolstoy would’ve written a banger Bruce Wayne fic