#bruce does all the heavy lifting

[martyrbat]

detective comics #509

[ID: Bruce Wayne sleeping in his penthouse, his eyes squeezed shut as the narration reads, ‘Gordon's strained laugh sounds hollow, but it echos in the Batman's mind... and haunts his dreams...” Bruce awakens to a hand on his shoulder and before he can think, he's twisting it and holding it down. The panel expands, revealing the hand belongs to Alfred as he's almost toppling over! He cries out, “M-master Bruce—my arm!” as Bruce groggily realizes who it is. He lets go at once as Alfred moves to the end of the bed and holds his arm while stammering an apology, “S-sorry, s-sir... Sorry if I startled you.” Bruce looks at him with aghast as he cries out, “My god, Alfred—I almost broke your arm!” Alfred reasons, “You must have been having a nightmare, sir.” as Bruce sits up and puts his face in his hands. He weepily dismisses, “A nightmare—what kind of an excuse is that? Old friend... forgive me...” Alfred reassures, “Nothing to forgive, sir. Just bad nerves, sir.” END ID]

#THIS ONE !!!! #bruce and his neverending guilt complex #just immediately regretful and so apologetic as alfred is quick to reassure and dismiss it #holding his arm because of fucking course it still hurts but when bruce lifts his head he stops .... #always thinking of how he was a caretaker for bruce since he was a small child/infant and how many little things bruce does now will remind #alfred of those days #he likes his grilled cheese q certain way. he cries if he thinks he hurt someone. he blames himself for a lot. he gets bad nightmares #like so much has stayed the same as so much continues to change but the love and care thry have for each other is always there #(<- guy who is always number one in bruce is disabled and needs a caretaker but also in how the people around him know bruce loves and cares #about them. its not about not being loved its about how heavy his love is and how bruce will subconsciously use his love to harm himself #(from blaming himself to his parents murders and jason's future death to something as simple as this and how he'll beat himself up #for hurting alfred and not able to protect him as well from himself) #(like his mental illness is forever using his stupid bleeding heart against himself as a reason for why hes awful) #this is all fully sidetracked im just fucking wired today sorry lol #but while im talking and something more related to the panel itself:: #after this line bruce looks up and says ‘the batman suffering from bad nerves? lets hope not. gordon can worry about the election but i #cannot afford to. still its not just the campaign. lately so many other things are pressuring me—mostly as bruce wayne’ #and like !!!! #it wasn't about batman! it wasnt about his burdens and responsibilities!! alfred was telling HIM. BRUCE. that its okay #and bruce automatically ‘its not because batman cant behave like this’ like !!!! #batman is the priority in the sense of he thinks he needs it to protect people. even his family even alfred and every single stranger #he won't ever allow himself any grace even while sleeping because batman cannot afford those ‘slips’ #just GOD 70s/80s batman makes me insane for forever and ever amen #c: detective comics | i: 509 #crypt's panels #bruce wayne #alfred pennyworth #alfred & bruce #‘awake or asleep—it scarcely matters anymore. the nightmare never seems to end.’ #<- nightmare bruce tag <333

[amourlyns]

❛ HEY VENGEANCE. ❜ ➜ ⁽ masterlist ⁾

𐙚 𝒄𝒐𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒏𝒕: in which batman visits crime alley, and the reader indulges the bat with sweet notes and baked goods.

✧ 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔: none

𐙚 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆𝒔: inspired by this post. thought it was the cutest thing ever and i wanted to write it out, something short n sweet !! dedicated to @armin-ocean-eyes

⟡ ⠀ | 𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞, 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐬 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞’𝐬 𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐢𝐭𝐲. Of course, The Bat doesn’t want to jinx his nightly patrol but (…) it’s been nice.

In all honestly, it finally felt like a break. A time to hunker down and take time to focus on his parents. A stroll through Crime Alley would do. Bruce never forgets about his parents, nor does he forget that night. He comes back to remind himself of what happened. How he couldn’t stop it. How he failed to protect them. It’s a constant reminder, a punishment.

Tension never leaves Bruce’s body. He’s always so high strung, constantly prepared for fight or flight. Shoulders are tense, brows are furries and teeth are gritted. This was his very being now.

Late nights, cold and oh, so lonely. The heavy bass of boots sloshing through rain water across the concrete street. Vengeance has filled the role of Gotham’s protector for long enough to know everything about the city he tirelessly protects. He knows this city better than anyone else.

But he still can’t stomach the alleyway.

Today, Bruce doesn’t bring flowers, but he brings himself. And hopefully, that’s enough for them.

From above the street, unbeknownst to the Bat. He has an angel, a watcher if you will. The city has swallowed him whole and spat him right back at out tonight. Senses are diminished, hazy from the beatings of tonight. Usually, he’s more attentive than this.

Funnily enough, you just moved into the city of Gotham three weeks ago. It’s a dreary, dull city. But at least it’s away from home. Right? Sure, the apartment you were currently living in definitely seemed haunted and it literally oversaw the alleyway the Waynes died in. Why did no one tell you they got mugged? (…) But what could you do? It’s shitty but the only thing you could afford in this damned economy.

And dude, it was definitely haunted.

You actually thought you were hallucinating the first time you laid your eyes on it. The fucking Bat, Vengeance. Gotham Cities actuals protector? It was odd and horrifying. You expected to see him raging through the alley in his moody glory. Big, defiant, and spooky!

But he actually seemed defeated? In a way? His strides were slow. Then, he knelt down onto the pavement and stayed there. It’s weird, this habitual routine of the Bat coming by and kneeling happened constantly. Well, to be fair he did patrol your building after that. Scouring the rooftops for any signs of peril within the area.

When he was done, he would come back to your building and linger on the fire escape. Sometimes you could hear his heavy footsteps on the rooftops or the iron steps.

Now, no one ever said you were the brightest in the bunch. You moved to Gotham for goodness sake. Anyways, you decided to actually make contact with the Bat. Which in theory, sounds like a good idea because who wouldn’t want a hero in their pocket? Well, a vigilante. But you digress (…) If coming near the alley brings him down, maybe he needs a lift?

The general idea was, leave a note or a gift for Vengeance and leave him be. So, that’s how it begun.

It was the third time Bruce visited the crime alley. This time, he had the intention to make his trip revolve only around his parents.

But then he saw you.

Granted, you were definitely not expecting to see anyone or someone like the Batman at this time of night. So you scrambled off of your balcony and dropped some sort of post-it note on the way out. There were three things on Bruce’s mind. How many times have you seen him and did you know his habits or who he was? Paranoia gnaws away at his guts and creates a nasty hole in his stomach.

He was a master of overthinking.

The Bat was quick to snatch up the post-it note you dropped, taking the time to read and analyze your penmanship. Was it lined with some sort of poison? Was it a tracking device? He waits for a moment. Grunting at the words etched into the paper.

〞I don't know what you're going through but I know you'll get through it. Xoxo. 〞

Huh.

Alfred would tease him for this.

An admirer? He was stumped.

It’s been about a week since you’ve seen Vengeance, your gifts of food and ever abundant notes never stopped though. You were starting to think he changed his route ever since that night he caught you on the railing.

First off, he was terrifying up close (the man was ten feet away) and second off, how was he able to catch you. Some part of you expected the man to interrogate you or something.

He didn’t, thank goodness. But you kind of missed seeing the cryptic Bat.

On the other hand, Bruce decided to do some research on you. A through background check would never hurt and who knows if you wanted to kill him? It could all be a facade. Each baked good and beverage you left out for the Bat was analyzed and tested. It could’ve been poisoned, laced, or worst, set to detonate. He was taking precautions. But Alfred insisted it was a good gesture.

Whatever it was, you never stopped. Bruce changed his route of course, there was no reason to let his guard down. But, he did appreciate the notes. To an extent. He just couldn’t help but think of the uncertainty.

The latest one he was holding onto was nothing short of thoughtful.

〞I hope you're having a good day :) (Btw, I haven’t seen you around!〞

So for the most part you were attentive. So he could commend you for that.

Despite all of the alarms in his brain telling him to stick to the new route, he returns to the old route for your sake. The very least he could do was thank you for the messages and treats. At least, that’s what Alfred said. For once, he didn’t feel like being stubborn and listened. The first thing he saw was your silhouette against the glass of your sliding door. Then, your emergence.

Bruce is frozen in place. But you’re waving frantically and running down the steps to greet him. Should he turn away? Just leave and never show up again? What if ⸻

❛ OHMYGOSH, OH MY GOSH. YOU’RE REAL! YOU’RE HERE! I WAS STARTING TO THINK I WAS BEING DELUSIONAL AND SEEING THINGS. WHOA, YOU’RE TALLER IN PERSON. AND LIKE SCARY. SORRY, SORRY I DIDN’T MEAN THAT. WOW. ❜

You’re realizing how that sounded; Bruce notices how you cower in fear. Despite his own anxiety driving him up a wall. The least he could do was say thank you, or show his appreciation. It takes him a few moments to say anything. He can hardly hold eye contact, but it eventually comes out.

❛ I (…) I APPRECIATE IT. ❜

Well. You definitely didn’t expect him to sound like that. His response was so soft you couldn’t even tell if he was directing that towards you. It was so quiet he might as well been talking to himself⸻ and before you could even ask him another question, he’s gone by the time you look up.

Introvert much?

#𝐼 . ⁽ 𝐕 ⁾ 𝚎𝚗𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎’𝚜 : writings. #spirithub #the batman 2022 #batman x gender neutral reader #batman x gn!reader #batman x you #batman x reader #dc batman #dc #dceu #dcu #dc comics #dc universe #bruce wayne x you #bruce wayne fluff #autistic bruce wayne #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne fic #bruce wayne one shot #bruce wayne #angst

[everykindofnerd13]

Trolls Human AU but it’s college student snack pack raising Tiny diamond as all of their kid when Guy Diamond finds himself with a child at the rope young age of 19.

The crew having a schedule of who watches Tiny at any given time on any given day. (It is extensive and color coded and Branch had a great time making it.)

Everyone explanding tiny diamonds repertoire of skills before he can even comprehend his own existence. Like.

Suki who holds a one year old Tiny on her lap while she works on mixes.

Cooper and D who switch off holding Tiny in one of those chest carrier things while they play DDR.

Poppy who will give Tiny a bag of scrap paper and tell him to make a picture inside it. (She doesn’t want to let him actually touch the paper, lest he ingest it.)

Branch who puts on science kids shows like Wild Kratts and Sid the Science Kid on the background while he and Poppy have Tiny so that he kid can start learning fun science stuff early.

Sati and Chenille who started by dressing up Tiny in their studio, but ended up just letting him use his creative guidance on them. (They hold him above a pile of fabric and whichever two he picks they have to make work as a garment.)

Biggie who has “tea parties” with Tiny and Dinkles (his cat) and is always trying to teach the baby proper table manners, it’s futile, for Tiny is a menace.

Smidge who teaches the baby to “work out”. (She actually owns a bunch of grip training baby toys that she hands him while she lifts weights.)

Barb who insists she doesn’t like babies but will happily take Tiny in for a night when needed, making little purée dinners for him and spoiling him rotten for the evening.

Legsly, who encourages Tiny to dance with her in her living room, gripping his hands and holding him up so they can “dance”.

Fuzzbert who is canonically mute and uses sign language to communicate in this universe, who loves to bring Tiny out to the park to experience nature with him, always mesmerized by the baby’s wonder at the clouds and the leaves. (Listen, I just like to imagine that Fuzzbert as someone who often finds themself unable to make themselves heard, quite enjoys the satisfaction of such a small child finding joy in the same things he does.)

Tiny who is very monkey-see monkey-do, and actually is a very well rounded kid after being raised by so many well rounded people who care about a love him.

When they’re together as a group, usually at game nights, they’ll make Tiny little “mocktails” aka, like, mango juice, so that he doesn’t feel left out while they all drink their drinks of choice.

Tiny is the most spoiled kid on earth because he has so many aunts and uncles willing to pitch in and get him whatever he wants.

Brozone and Viva also loving Tiny when they meet him one day while Branch and Poppy are in charge of him. Poppy has a little stroller with a sunshade, and Branch is happily carrying the baby bag so the stroller isn’t too heavy to push. At first, everyone’s mortified cause they thing that their baby siblings have gone off and had a whole baby without telling them, but they quickly notice the “Tiny Diamond” printed across the baby bag and realize it’s in fact their siblings’ close friend’s baby that they’ve heard so much about.

Viva making the kid candy necklaces only to be quickly shut down by Clay who explains that they’re a choking hazard, and they should not be given to a baby.

Bruce who has kids of his own and will invite Guy Diamond to drop Tiny off at his place when he and the rest of the snack pack want a night out.

JD who is terrified of children after how much he feels like he screwed up with Branch, but is still infatuated by the little boy and basically gives him anything he wants.

Floyd who mostly stays out of the way while the baby’s around but is the first to volunteer to put him down for a nap so that he can sing him a lullaby and rock him to sleep.

Branch and Poppy being very blush when old women tell them they have a “beautiful family” when they’re out and about, because while they do consider Tiny and all of their friends family, they know the older women mean something different.

Listen this AU is living rent free in my head. I have a timeline. I have a whole thing. I have backstories and modern world adaptations of trauma. It’s pretty fun.

#trolls band together #broppy #brozone #trolls #trolls world tour #queen poppy #trolls branch #guy diamond #tiny diamond #snackpack #trolls snack pack #trolls au #trolls human au

[spectr3inl0ve]

please more age gap Bruce Wayne PLEASEOLEASEPLASEPLEASEPLEASE

YES OFC ML!!! HERES CRADLE ROBBER!BRUCE WAYNE TELLING READER HES BATMAN (expanding on this post)

you and alfred are the only people in the manor, it's almost midnight. you know this because alfred let you in, telling you everyone's absent after you ask where they are. making your way up to bruces room, you take note of the stillness, the absence of noise, chaos. you silently open the double doors into the masterbedroom, and sit on the edge of the bed.

bruces presence has becoming more and more scarce in the past two months, and in a couple weeks you would be celebrating six months together. he's been more fatigued as well, and there's been countless unexplainable injuries - and some of them weren't of the smaller kind either. it's gotten to the point where bruce would sometimes wince when you touch him, brushing it off with 'muscle pain' until you lift his shirt to reveal a swelling bruise or a cut or graze. "you know how clumsy I am, baby." he smiles, and he's right, you do know. he's not clumsy. he's hardly ever available at night, and the 'date night' plans turn into a brunch on Saturday instead.

all of this makes you start questioning and overthinking your entire relationship, was he seeing someone on the side? are you not good enough? did you do something wrong? no. you didnt. couldn't have. you're as good as it gets and you know it, he knows it. even the tabloids are noticing how unhappy you're looking, always slightly pouting, perhaps a bit more clingy; always tailing bruce like a lost puppy.

tears form, and you do nothing to stop them. it's been a while since you've had a good cry. and as Steph says, "even a girlboss needs to cry!". and you completely agree. you let out all of your bottled up emotions out, sniffles turning into heavy sobs, but quiet enough to keep alfred from worrying.

through your overthinking and sobbing, you don't hear bruces heavy footsteps, and you don't hear him when he opens the double doors to his room. you do however, hear him when he gently calls your name. blood rushing to you cheeks, you stop your sobbing, wiping your nose. but you don't face him. bruce moves toward you swiftly, sitting down next to you and scooping you up into his arms, placing you onto his lap so you face him. he sees you actively avoiding his eyes, so he places a gentle, but firm hand on you jaw and guides your face to look at him. "what's got you crying, huh, pretty?" the nerve of him..."you." you hiss, furrowing your eyebrows. his face grows solemn, the colour draining. you see this as a sign to rant to him about whay he's done. and you do. you go off on him, yelling, hitting his chest and ugly crying. he just listens, nodding every now and then in acknowledgement. his calmness irks you, "do you have anything to say for yourself, bruce?" you cry into his chest, soaking his black tshirt with tears and mascara. you resurface, resembling a panda with the way your mascara smudged around your eyes. bruce, reading the room, bites back his smile and instead let's out a long sigh.

with his arms around her still, he stands, keeping her steady. "gotta show you something. you might not like it though..." the vagueness of it worries you even more. he retracts his arms from you, taking your hand and leading you to his office. while you stare off into the distance, bruce does fiddles around (I forgot how he enters the batcave thru the office 😭) and then the bookshelf reveals a secret elevator. your jaw drops as he leads you into it, pressing the button to go down. a few moments later, the elevator stops and opens, revealing a high tech...basement? cave? he steps out, you do the same. you notice how cold it is, wrapping your arms around yourself, "...what is this...? I don't understand.". the tears start up again, and this time youre unsure why. bruce comfortingly rubs your back, shushing you gently. "I...I'm...batman." he says quietly.

it takes a moment for you to process what you heard. "so you're not cheating on me...?" you sniff, looking around you. bruce goes red, oh. that's what you thought? he shakes his head, "no, sweetheart. never." he guides you toward the batcomputer, letting you play around a bit as he watches. if bruce is batman...does that mean.. "so...damian is robin? and the others are...?" you look at him with a quizzical look, sniffling. he gives me a small smile, "yeah, baby." "that explains a lot." you hit his chest and chuckle.

hope this was alr, please send asks abt cradle robber!bruce wayne or dick or jason!!!

#°○☆spectr3inl0ve #cradle robber!bruce wayne #monty loves dc #bruce wayne imagine #bruce wayne headcanon #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne smut #bruce wayne x y/n #bruce wayne #batman x reader #batman x reader imagine #ignore these tags im just trying to get more reach #jason todd x reader #jason todd x reader smut #dick grayson headcanon #dick grayson x you #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson imagine #red hood headcanon

[suzukiblu]

WIP excerpt for yesdangerpls; the last son of Krypton meets Hypertime Kon. ( + non-chrono link for mobile users )

“A version of you was conquering alternate realities,” Bruce says, still neutral. 

“Uh,” Kon says, looking embarrassed. “Kinda, yeah? Kinda definitely, actually. I mean–dude had some issues. His home reality wasn’t really all that clone-friendly, and shit kinda went to shit there, and then he just decided ‘actually killing inconvenient people is ethically okay if I just make clones out of their dead bodies and give those clones their memories after’, so, uh . . . issues, like I said. Serious ones.” 

“And you don’t think that’s ethical?” Bruce says, which is an obvious test. Kon glowers at him as Clark resists the urge to sigh at Bruce. The man’s as paranoid as ever, no surprise. It’s . . . understandable, admittedly, but not exactly fair in this situation. 

“Clones are their own people,” Kon says, setting his jaw stubbornly. “No matter whose memories you stick in our heads.” 

“That’s a school of thought,” Bruce says neutrally. Kon scowls, then pointedly lifts his lassoed wrist. 

“You’re an asshole,” he says emphatically. Clark has to muffle a snort of laughter behind his hand; Diana does the same. Bruce looks sour. Clark knows he doesn’t think they’re taking this seriously enough, but he just can’t look at this kid and see a threat. 

Of course, that’s part of why Bruce doesn’t think they’re taking this seriously enough. 

“And you’re asking for a lot of trust, for someone who’s reportedly an interdimensional conqueror in at least one reality,” Bruce says. “Why should we believe this version of you is any different from Black Zero?” 

“For the record, it was a version of me that stopped him, too,” Kon says, still scowling at him. “Like, a whole bunch of versions of me. And we didn’t all survive the experience. So I dunno, democratically speaking I think I’m mostly not a shithead.” 

“And you don’t know how to return to your home reality?” Diana asks. Kon grimaces, then shakes his head. 

“No idea,” he says. “I only got out into Hypertime to begin with because another Superboy showed up in our Watchtower with a hyperjacket keyed to his DNA and, uh . . . crash-landed and died right in the middle of a JLA meeting, actually. He was–injured, when he made the jump. Didn’t survive it. He was with the resistance. Was trying to warn our reality that Black Zero was coming, but . . .” 

Clark feels immediately nauseous at that thought; wonders how traumatic and horrible it was for his alternate version to watch that happen and not be able to save that version of Kon. Wonders if that Kon’s version of him even knows what happened to him. If . . . 

He tries not to think about it. It’s not something he can do anything about. 

It’s definitely motivating him to get this Kon home all the quicker, though. His other self must be losing his mind right now. 

“Satisfied?” he asks Bruce, raising an eyebrow at him again. He’d be amused, a little, if he weren’t still thinking about what had happened to that other version of Kon: about a kid that young dying far from home trying to do the right thing, surrounded by a roomful of heroes who couldn’t save him. 

“No,” Bruce says. 

“Batman, there are multiple realities in which all of us are supervillains,” Diana says wryly, unlooping her lasso from Kon’s wrist and winding it up again. “We can hardly blame Kon-El for the crimes of a single version of himself.” 

Bruce has a look on his face that makes it very clear that he does, in fact, think they can do that. Bruce also thinks that about them, though, himself included, so Clark isn’t going to give that concern particularly heavy weight right now.

#yesdangerpls #wip: the last son of krypton meets hypertime kon #long post

[misscinnamonroll16]

Brozone headcanons

In reference to my last post, Floyd has piercings in his ears, eyebrow, lip, and tongue. They have a lot of real estate in their ears so why not decorate them. So a lot of his piercings are in his ears. Floyd somehow lost the piercings he had so when he gets back, he goes to Volcano Rock City to get more bc they have lots more piercings than Pop trolls

All of the boys are biters. Affectionately and defensively. They're part rock and rock trolls often bite. So their partners often have bite marks on them from when they were intimate

Clay is not allowed to drive. He was the kid who drove the toy car around like a maniac so John never wants to see him behind the wheel of a vehicle.

Clay and John hate having their hair in their face. It bothers them. That's why John wears the goggles (upon other things) and Clay often wears a headband.

Bruce has server hand. He can balance things one handed from years of serving. He's also really good at just doing things one handed

The other bros book John a spa day, mainly the massage part he can fuckin relax. The masseuse has to bring out the big guns to get John's muscles to relax. By the end of it, John Dory feels like he's floating on a cloud. He doesn't remember ever feeling this relaxed

JD has incredibly fast reflexes. Branch goes to tap him on the shoulder and suddenly John has his arm pinned behind his back until he realizes it just Branch. It takes him time to get used to being touched suddenly bc he's so used to being on his own.

I've said it once but JD is strong, he just can't lift heavy things over his head. Clay and Bruce don't believe it until he pins them down (they startled him and he reacted defensively)

JD likes spicy food, he has an iron stomach

Clay is squeamish about vomit

JD barges into the others bedrooms without knocking. Hes done that since they were kids and has caught all of them mid change

Floyd has an insatiable sweet tooth.

Clay likes salty snacks

John Dory does that thing of telling his brothers not to do something without even looking at them. *Is about to touch obviously hot object* "Don't you dare touch that." *Immediately pulls hand away*

JD is definitely the fun uncle for his brothers kids

John Dory isn't the smartest in the means of book smarts but he is not dumb. He's learned a lot on his travels about other cultures and people. He recites facts in a way that makes him seem dumb. The brothers learn that he is in fact very smart, just seems dumb

John likes falling asleep to the sounds of rain. It's soothing and reminds him of nature.

Clay often falls asleep with a book on his face or lap.

John Dory has an incredibly good poker face. He can keep a straight face through lots of stuff. That's why it is harder for the other bros to read him, except for Bruce

Floyd sneezes multiple times in a row so when he sneezes it's best to just wait till he's done to say bless you or you may be saying it like five times or more

#trolls #brozone #trolls john dory #trolls floyd #trolls clay #trolls bruce #branch trolls #trolls headcanons #trolls hcs #trolls headcanon #brozone hcs #brozone headcanons #brozone hc

[ametrictonofaudacity]

Hello! I’m new to your blog and I love your work. I was wondering if requests are open? If so I’ve had this brainrot for days after seeing the new Spider-Man movie. What about a yandere platonic batfam with a batsib who’s a lot like Spider-Man but keeps it a secret. (Being able to lift 20-40 tons, fast healing, spider sense, fast reactions, agility and webs?) Who finds out about it first?? How do they find out? What if batsib has to lift building ruble off Either Jason or Dick? Who would be impressed about it? Idk it’s been stuck in my head for a while now.

Hello!! Requests are open, although it sometimes may take me a while to get to them, simply thanks to the fact I’m doing summer semester for college and it’s a workload 😅. But this is such a neat ask, thank you!

The first to find out is Bruce, who informs the others.

I don’t think they would be aware of the full extent of your abilities, but I don’t think they would have suspicions, at the very least!

They notice when you lift things that are a bit too heavy for you, notice how you always seem to react just before even Bruce is able to, notice how your oddly flexible.

Dick starts to teach you gymnastics, which you take to easily. Everyone is shocked at just how quickly you are able to do complex moves, before realizing your powers gave you increased agility and flexibility.

Speaking of Dick, he is delighted at that realization. He loves teaching you new tricks, loves having competitions between the two of you.

Despite your powers, he wins more often than not.

They don’t confront batsib about their powers.

With the fact that there’s the no metas in Gotham rule, as well as the fact that it is a deliberately kept secret, they don’t want to drive batsib away by asking about too much too fast.

They’ll hint, and imply they’re all aware of the powers, but beyond that, nothing.

Bruce does his best to figure out the extent of batsib’s powers. He is having a time of it, unfortunately.

As for the building rubble situation.

Oh boy

The entire Batfam is going to be in a state of panic. With Dick buried under rubble, in what was supposed to be a safe outing, no one is having a good time, least of all reader.

When they finally lift the rubble of them and Dick, the entire Batfam descends on them and just frets, like the bunch of mother hens they are.

Bruce is checking the both of you for injuries, Damian and Jason are pretending they aren’t nearly as concerned as they are, and the entire family is in a state of emergency.

They’re horrified that batsib was in that situation, but grateful no one was hurt and that they were able to free themselves and Dick.

Don’t expect this too mean that the Batfam would ease up anytime soon. If anything it makes them worse.

They get just as overprotective, and even more determined to keep batsib at the Manor and safe. Bruce updates security measures, even going to far as to ask Clark to strength test the materials used.

So in some ways, they stay the same. In others, they get worse.

Also I imagine Tim thought that batsib crawling on the walls was a sleep-deprived hallucination.

#yandere dc #yandere platonic x reader #yandere platonic batfam

[shayyprasad]

worry | peter parker

tw: none

it's pure fluff

summary: you can never seem to stop worrying.

bro i never know what to write with fluff so sorry in advance if its short

pls send in requests on my request pageeee i'm running out of inspo and i've only started thissss

candles were dimly lit, with the fairy lights on the lowest setting. the aroma of lavender and sage was swirling around the room, making you sigh contently. it was a peaceful night, and you were home alone with not much to do. soft music played in the background while you hummed along.

you sat on the floor, with piles of books surronding you as you re-did your bookshelf. here, right now, by yourself, you felt at peace. it was almost like a santuary for you.

the last couple of days hadn't been easy, with school, exams, and really just worrying.

worrying for, your dad, tony.

worrying for peter.

for nat.

and wanda.

and steve.

and bruce.

and clint.

and vision.

and everyone else.

for everyone you loved that risked their lives everyday, not knowing if they'd come back home. and while you weren't the one fighting, it took a toll on you anyways. you'd sit alone some nights, when the team was out on a mission, hoping they'd return to you.

because in the end, all you could do was hope. hope was your intelligent kind of bravery, the will to seek what was good, to keep walking for the chance of better things to come.

and then when they came home, back to you, it was a burden lifted off your shoulders, and the heavy aching that stranded itself in the back of your throat disappeared.

that was all it took for you to realize that everything was worth it, all the hoping and the wishing. in one single moment everything made sense.

you jumped a little when you heard tapping on the window. getting up and moving toward it, you slid the glass up.

"hey, angel," he whispered.

"hi, pete," you rolled his mask up until the bottom of his nose, kissing him softly on the lips. it was comforting to know that kisses with peter would always be the same. they'd always be from a place of love. he'd taste like happiness and cinnamon and joy all wrapped into one. it was a feeling too overwhelming to explain, because there weren't words that were beautiful enough to describe it.

you let him in, and he pulled his mask off.

"done patrolling for the night?" you asked, sitting back down.

"oh, yeah. but i wanted to see my favorite girl first."

"is there more than one girl?"

"well," he sighed jokingly, "you might have some competition."

you rolled your eyes, "as if nat would ever even bat an eye towards your way."

he laughed, making you join in as well. peter took a seat on your bed, gazing blissfully towards you.

"'otn' comes before 'oyw'..." you murmured, trailing off.

"organizing the shelf again?"

"yeah."

"how this time?"

"well, i did it by height the first time, and that took forever because i used a ruler to measure all of them, and then i did color, so now i'm doing it by last name," you said, sliding another book into place.

he got up and sat behind you, wrapping his arms around your torso and kissing the side of your head. "you're on 'p' now?"

you simply nodded, easing into his grip. "that'll take you forever," he remarked, burying his nose into the crook of your neck.

"it is. i've been here for a couple hours. i think i'll do it by my favorites next."

"why do you do this?"

"huh?"

"organize, i mean. i can't even keep my room decent, and here you are, re-doing your shelf everyday."

"it's comforting, i guess," you replied after a moment.

"yeah?"

"yeah. this is like... it's like the one thing i can control. whether i want my books in color order, or height, or whatever, i get to pick. i don't get to decide what happens to to the people i love when they're out risking their lives, because i'm not there, there's just... just nothing i can do? does that make sense? i sound crazy, don't i?" you chuckled.

"no, you don't. i think it's nice. calms you down, no? that's good. this is- this is good."

you hummed in reply, fully content. it was just you and peter, just you and your love. everthing didn't matter, not now, not in this moment.

having this boy right here by yout side was more than enough to you. yes, you would worry about him non-stop, but it was worth it. he was worth it.

"i like these," he said, holding you tighter.

"what?"

"you know, these quiet nights. when it's just us."

"i was thinking just the same thing."

"i wanna marry you," he said suddenly, and your turned slightly to try and see him, to see if he was kidding or not. he must have read your mind because he said; "i'm not joking. i'm gonna marry you someday, i swear."

"getting ahead of yourself?"

"no, it's just... i guess it's because i know my future. i know what it's gonna be, and that's you. and when you already know... you just wanna get to it. when i think of what's set out for me, i think of you."

you were blushing so hard, so didn't know what to say, so you settled for; "i can't wait to marry you, then."

"how many kids?"

you laughed, "what?"

"kids! how many?"

"hmmm," you pretended to think. "three."

"oh, yeah! spider-kid one, spider-kid two, and spider-kid three!"

"peter benjamin parker! we are not naming our kids that!"

"well, then, what would you suggest?" he asked smugly.

"easy. ben, uh, tony, and... mary, right?"

he was quiet, and you were afraid you said the wrong thing.

"that's perfect," he said so softly, if it was any quieter, you wouldn't have heard anything.

"don't tell daddy i said that, though, he has a big enough ego."

"that's for sure. so two boys and girl? i like that."

"uh-huh. but we'll have a dog. obviously. named tessa."

"okay, i like that, too. with, um, fish! yeah. fish."

"fish?" you giggled.

"i've always wanted a fish," he defended.

"okay, okay, sure. so three kids, ben, mary, and tony, a dog and a fish."

"two fish." he nodded, "so they won't be lonely," peter added.

"then should we get another dog, too?"

"yes!"

the two of you went back and forth like that, naming the things you wanted to be in your life.

yes, peter would make your hair fall out in clumps, give you wrinkles early, and probably kill you by giving you a heart attack, but it didn't matter. you'd worry about him the rest of your life, and that was okay.

you were okay with your hair falling out in clumps, getting wrinkles early, and dying from a heart attack, because being with peter made all the worrying worth it.

#spiderman #tom holland x reader #tom holland #peter parker #fluff #happiness #no death yay

[yeahimcal]

Mmm. Jason needing to use mobility aids sometimes is something that just imagining makes me feel so many ways…. Bc like. Augh. Bruce getting him a cane and taking him to physical therapy to try and make him walk with the cane right. Jason who refuses to walk with it the right way just because ‘it’s easier this way’. He so has fucked up knees. Chronic pain. He goes to physical therapy but he is every physical therapist’s worst nightmare. Because like yeah on a low symptom day he can lift a car or something equally ridiculous but on a high symptom day getting him to move from the couch is one of the twelve labors of Hercules.

He puts stickers on his cane. He has hit people with it. He uses it to trip his siblings all the time and then acts all innocent about it. He lets them put stickers on it, too, even when he tells them he’s going to take them off. He would never take the stickers off. That’s just his everyday cane, he doesn’t let them put stuff of his patrol cane.

Tim keeps telling him to use the cane right and he just tells him to fuck off (in a sibling way). Cass tells him to use the cane right one time and oh all the sudden he’s making an effort. Dick teaches him how to fight with a staff similar to a cane so now Jason can beat people up with his cane. Duke makes him a custom cane for patrol (it’s metal, kind of heavy but it’s shiny and red and won’t break easily) and Jason cries. Alfred makes him a system where he can get help from the family if it’s a high symptom day or his depression is flaring up again or if he just needs someone. Stephanie annotates books and give them to him. Damian is there to conveniently forget to train until Jason comes home so they can spar. (Damian also makes so many drawings for Jason and they’re all hung up in Jason’s apartment). Bruce, again, takes him to pt and does the exercises with him so he doesn’t feel alone.

(I’m not disabled so if any of this is inaccurate or stereotypical please let me know!!!)

#jason todd #red hood #batfamily #disability headcanon #Jason Todd with chronic pain #everyone drop everything #dc comics #batman comics #jason todd headcanon #I love him so much #Jason Todd save me Jason Todd…. #he’s my favorite #I adore him

[morgansunflower]

What I Did

Bruce Wayne X Wife! Reader

Warnings: suggestive content, explicit language, blood, injuries, and angst

Words:1355

Arthur's notes! Third P. O. V. Loosely based off the comic in which Grayson fakes his death instead this time Bruce does.

Bruce did it to save her. To save his family though now he must mend the hearts that he broke.

The bed was empty but only with the widow alone with only a picture and a memory of his tender face that brought her so much joy.. But now only brought heartbreak. Y/N's hands shake as she clings to her spouses pillow. Her heart felt as though it would stop beating has it heavies so much deeper. She could barley breathe as her chest was tightened. She began to stutter as her emotions raise to her throat, up to her eyes. She tightly closes her eyes as tears seep through. She began to cry as she wishes he would wrap his arms around her and shush her tears. Was she going to never going to feel his heart beating against her own? Would she never feel his heart melting bare skin against her own.

She began to sob "Y-you can't be gone.."

.......

Bruce stood in his black short sleeve shirt, and pants. His bare-feet touching the wooden floor of the temporary safe house. He had faked his death and went undercover at the Spyral agency. After Y/N's identity had been nearly compromised. He couldn't risk her getting killed. So many sleepless nights consumed with remorse that he hurt her. That he hurt his family. He missed the feel of her skin. Her beautiful voice. Her lips. Her kindness that melted his away anxiety and stress. He missed his wife.

Just hours after erasing all evidence of his wife's identity and she was now safe. He was ready to come back home until he found Death-stroke had taken his wife and son.. He rescued them but they were greatly injured.

He softly smiled with a heavy heart, seeing little Robin crouched up, and asleep, with Bruce's Batman cape laid on him. His fever mild though still lingering, his arm's bandaged and a bandaid on his little forehead. He looks to his wife whom was laying on the bed. Her fever less severe than Damian's. Her arms, legs bandaged, a bandaid among her cheek and her shoulders bruised. He feels responsible. He left to protect them but instead it only caused them pain. He wanted to fully break and beg them for forgiveness. He heard soft groaning from Damian. He slowly walked to him. He bends his back to get a better look at his son. He placed his palm on his forehead, his temperature is rising.

"dammit" he muttered under his breath

He stepped to the sink and grabbed a cloth. He turned the sink on and put the cloth in the flowing water. He turned the water off and dampen the cold cloth. He returned to Damian as he coughs. He grabbed the glass that was placed by his chair. He kneeled down, his coughing subsided. He put the glass to his lips. Bruce lift the glass to his baby boy's lips as he drinks the water. Damian opens his tired eyes seeing him, his father. Bruce's heart sinks believing the first reaction he'll likely have, will be anger. His lips shake, his eyes swell and he begins to heavily cry. He reaches and hugs Bruce's neck. His breath hitches, his body still and his heart beat swift. He should be angry, but he's not. Bruce wraps his arms around his little baby boy.

"shh" he whispered though he would not listen

He began to cry more vigorously due to being ill. Bruce lifted him into his strong arms. He buries his head within the crook of his father's neck

"d-dad.. I-I-I thought--" he stutters with a drop of sweat mixed with tears falling from his cheek "you were d-dead"

As if on instinct he gently placed the cloth on his forehead. His crying calmer though still there as he shakes through his throat. His throat will be sore! He grabs the glass of water and put it to his lips again. He takes the glass and drinks the water. As Damian finished, he takes it from him placing it back. Bruce at times forgot how truly small Damian was until he held him. He rest his little cheek on his shoulder. His eyes half closed and cheeks stained by the tears and sweat. Bruce looked shamefully away from his son's pained face. As Damian fell into deep sleep Bruce laid Damian back on the couch. He lays the blanket on him and kisses his face.

Y/N began to stir slowly waking up. Bruce walked to her as her captivating e/c eyes begin opening. She was, taken aback by his presence. Deep down she knew he was not dead but to really see him right in front of her. She looked seeing Damian safely under a blanket on the chair. Bruce gave her a glass of water. She drinks the water and puts the glass down. He leans over to feel her forehead.

"your temperature has subsided" he muttered as his hand lingered

She gripped his wrist a glare in her glassy eyes that breaks his weak heart. How could he?

"where the hell have you been?" her voice hoarse and cracking from her fever. "H-how could you?!" she cried "dammit Bruce how could you hurt me like this? Hurt our family?" her voice pained just as her heart is

"Y/N" he slowly leans to her lips kissing her deeply. He expects her to slap him as he deserves but she didn't "please forgive me" he begged his voice broken

She leans away from his touch "why?.." was all she could say or else she knew she would surely cry.

"I wasn't going to let you die. What I did hurt you, hurt our family but trust me when I say that hurting you like that. Leaving you and our family destroyed me"

As the couple kisses their pained, suffering hearts pour into each others lips... He hears him.

"poor chap" Alfred mummers to his grandson

"how did he--" Bruce stammered wondering how Alfred tripped the servers. Though didn't matter right now.

Bruce steps to the only person left in the world, he could call father. Alfred had never been more angered by his son's actions. Bloody hell he should have told him, he wanted to shout at him and yet all he could do.. Was hug him. Inside Wayne Manor Bruce was approached by the rest of his sons. Grayson looked at Bruce in anger mixed with relief. Jason was angered with a deep feeling of relief. Tim was trying to understand his logic, he did but it still hurt that he lied. Duke was in tears frozen in place from shock he was truly alive, but with his relief he was angered that Bruce hurt him so deeply.

Most times he could say a lot about how he felt but right now.. "how could you do that?" Grayson brokenly said

"it was the only way" he insisted

"shut up!" Jason cried as he let all his buried grief and his festering anger into one punch, to Bruce's jaw. "I went to your damn funeral!! You don't do that to your so--" Jason shouted to his Dad "you don't.. " Jason stammered to overwhelmed with anger.

"we all die. We're all going to die. We have to. But you didn't die. You lied!" Tim said angered with his arms folded.

"I can't believe you did that" Duke stuttered

"you have every right to be angry with me. I did what I believed would spare your mother. If her identity was compromised than so we're all of ours.."

Cassandra came in to see her Dad in the flesh the young girl gasps. She approaches him and to his surprise hugs him.

"YOU'RE ALIVE!! I KNEW IT!! I KNEW YOU WERE ALIVE!!" Stephanie shouted tearfully as she runs to Bruce and hits his arm "I'm still so mad at you for faking your death!"

"I'll second that" Jason snarled

"I didn't want to hurt any of you. I did it for you, for all of you" Bruce said his heart breaking by their faces. He was going to have make amends with all of them, so that he doesn't lose them.

Requested taglist @too-strong-to-lose @asrainterstellar

#batfamily #Fake death #Angst #batfamilyxreader #batman x you #bruce wayne #Bruce Wayne X Wife! Reader #Bruce Wayne X Reader #heavy hurt

[superbattrash]

Imagine Superman calling Batman baby girl

Just…just imagine his reaction 💀

“Relax, baby girl, I got it.”

Instant regret. World harrowing regret. Throw-myself-into-the-sun regret. Where’s-the-nearest-kryptonite regret. Why-in-the-world-did-I-just-call-Bruce-I’m-Vengeance-Wayne-baby-girl regret.

Clark swallows before turning around, suddenly very aware of every molecule in the car part he’s lifting. The tiny bubbles in the paint, not visible to the naked eye but very much feeling like tiny knives cutting into his hands at the moment.

Every single emotion is wiped off Clark’s face the moment the words leave his lips. He does have enough self control to school his features into a neutral expression as he waits for Bruce’s reaction.

Bruce is… standing very still.

Clark is afraid he might have broken him.

“I’m s-” Clark starts to say as he sets the heavy metal down gently on the ground.

Bruce holds up a hand to silence him. Clark obliges. There’s a moment. Then two. Then three. Clark wants to fly himself into the sun.

Bruce’s mouth is pressed into a thin line and he’s at a level 7.5 frown. Not good. Not the worst Clark has ever made him frown, but still not good. They don’t talk about the Disaster of The Level 9.8 frown. Dick told him it was the highest score any of the kids had ever seen. It didn’t make Clark feel any better.

“Bruce, I-” he tries again but this time he’s interrupted by the frown morphing into… disgust? Confusion? Clark’s so stressed out he can’t really tell.

“‘Baby girl’?” Bruce says, his lip curling. Ah. Very close to disgust. Distaste, at the very least. “Out of all the pet names, you go with ‘baby girl’?”

“That’s- that’s your only issue with-”

“Of course, it’s not my only issue,” Bruce is quick to say. He starts pacing. Oh no, pacing means a lecture. “I am perfectly capable of moving my own equipment, I told you to sit down and wait for me if you wanted to stay.”

“I just wanted to help,” Clark says and he has no idea what’s happening at this point. Is he forgiven? Is he allowed to call Bruce pet names? Does Bruce like pet names?

“I know,” Bruce huffs. “I know.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Why baby girl?”

“Kon’s been over a lot lately.”

“Ah.”

Another moment.

“Wait, who the hell does Kon call baby girl?!”

Aka the “if Clark didn’t do it on purpose” scenario. Stay tuned for the “on purpose” scenario :)

I’m of course kidding. I’m so sorry, anon, I’m typing this on my phone because the idea of Clark panicking had me chuckle into my soda. Excuse the messy response, my writing is rusty and this was just funsies 🙇🏻💕

#misha answers #misha writes #sort of anyways. it has words #superbat #I am so sorry

[moonlitdesertdreams]

Alive

A/N: Did I spend two weeks wallowing in comics just to come out swinging with some Jason Todd fluff? ....yeah, i did. Also, this kind of combines the endings of the comic and animated versions of Under the Red hood. All that angst is the perfect excuse for me to give Jason Todd just a wee bit of love <3

Tags: Jason Todd x f!reader, Jason Todd x you, Jason Todd x Reader, Under the Red Hood, Jason Todd, Red Hood, Bruce Wayne, Batman, Bruce Wayne is Batman, Batfam, Batfamily, DC Imagines, Red Hood x f!reader, Red Hood x you, Red Hood x Reader, The Joker, Death in the Family, Lazarus Pits

WARNINGS: Blood, swearing, panic attacks

Summary: After the events of Under the Red Hood, an injured and sullen Jason Todd appears at your door.

Word count: 2.8k+

*gif does not belong to me*

Growing up in Gotham City has taught you a few important lessons. 

The most important of which is that someone knocking on your door at two thirty in the morning is probably bad news. 

You toss the covers away with a sigh, snatching your phone and taser from the nightstand. Not that you were sleeping great anyway; insomnia is a ruthless bitch, especially in a crime-ridden city where simply existing at night was enough to get you killed. 

Sirens blare somewhere down the block, and red lights flash against your shitty blackout curtains. Speeding emergency vehicles are a nightly occurrence in Gotham, so you ignore the sounds and move towards the door. Calling your humble abode an apartment was pushing it, so it only takes a few steps to cross the shoebox of a studio and grasp the door handle. Some might label you paranoid for the amount of locks on your door, but there were many things in Gotham you’d like your apartment to stay free of. 

“What do you want?” You call to the unrelenting knocker, fumbling with the top lock. “It’s too damn early for you to be selling something.”

A barely audible cough reaches your ears, and you’ve never wished for a peephole so bad before. You hold your taser against the opening as you begin to crack the door, letting curiosity win out. 

Expecting to see someone standing in the hall, you pause upon first peeking out. The hallway is dark, even the 24-hour lights dimmed past their normally drab setting. No face greets you, instead you’re made to look down and find the source of the noise. A figure sits slouched against the opposite wall, rubber ball in hand. A sweatshirt hood falls over their face, and you immediately point the taser at them. 

Their head lifts a fraction, and you catch the gleam of white teeth in the darkness. “Easy, Bug.”

It’s barely a whisper, but you recognize the nickname and the voice instantly. “Jason?”

You kneel down to the floor, growing heavy with concern. His head falls back against the wall with a thud, and you reach out to cushion it. “Y’gonna i-invite me in or wha’?” 

The Red Hood didn’t usually ask permission to enter your apartment, given you’d known each other since first grade, so you took that as a bad sign. “Come on. Before someone else comes out.”

On a good day, Jason was heavy. Since the Pit and since he’d been running about Gotham again, his body was built and firm- a weapon. That, combined with the weight of his body armor, guns, crowbar, and various sharp objects on his person made him a living tank.

Today, not only was he in excess of three-hundred pounds of muscle and weapons, but he was soaking wet. All the way through his sweatshirt and tactical pants, into the fitted armor beneath.You allow yourself to act more as a crutch than anything, making Jason carry most of his own weight to your couch. 

He falls onto the cushions with a groan, and you’re quick to flick on the lamp. “Jesus, Jay.”

“Jesus had nothin’ t’do with it, Bug.”

It wasn’t uncommon for Jason to show up bruised and bleeding. You’d accepted that the first time it happened, and everytime he climbed into bed you’d gently trace his injuries until he dozed off. But today, you are having a hard time deciding where to start. 

With the sweatshirt hood still pulled over his head, you begin to catalog injuries. Blood drips from his ears and nose, and you’re pretty sure the latter is broken. Only half of his black domino mask remains in place. The exposed eye is bloodshot, though both pupils look equal. Jason is sweating profusely, black and white-streaked bangs plastered against his forehead. He has one hand clutched to his chest, while the other presses against his neck. 

“I’m gonna cut this off.” You hustle to grab your medkit, yanking bandage scissors out and slicing the hoodie straight up the middle. 

Jason hisses as you jostle his neck, and your brows draw together. “What’s wrong with your neck?”

You redirect the lamplight, and immediately gasp at the amount of blood soaking his tan undershirt and armor. “Fuck, is that all coming from your throat?”

With nothing for him to do but hold pressure while you get him stable, you fill his hand with gauze and replace it on his neck. Jason’s green-tinged eyes follow you groggily, dragging a few seconds behind each movement. You keep working, removing soaked clothing until he’s down to his boxers and every cut and bruise has been checked. At some point you’re sure he’s lost too much blood to stay conscious, and hastily begin suturing the massive gash on his neck.

Jason whines pitifully in his forced slumber, and you can only murmur reassurances aloud and stroke fingers through his hair until the painful part is done. In the end, you jostle him enough to crush up some vicodin with water and syringe it down his throat, mixing in antibiotics for good measure. Once you’re satisfied he won’t choke on the water, you take a moment to clean up his face. 

Your yellow washrag comes away stained with blood, but you can’t find it in you to be upset. You return to the couch, carefully wedging yourself onto the cushion and bringing Jason’s head to your lap. Your adrenaline is beginning to subside, and exhaustion replaces it. Jason breathes slow and quiet, and it’s enough to lure you towards sleep with just one question on your mind. 

“Who did this to you, Jaybird?” 

---

If there is anything Jason Todd hates, it's waking up.

After crawling out of his own grave and waking bruised and sore on the daily, it was his least favorite activity. Today, it seemed, would be no different. 

Jason’s eyelids feel like sandpaper and his torso screams with every breath. The familiar tug of medical tape is present on his neck and hands. Underneath the gauze taped near his throat, Jason feels the pulling of stitches as he swallows and works his jaw, and his mind throws flashes of the night before at him in shades of black and red. 

“It’s him or me! You have to decide!”

The gun clatters to the floor, and Batman turns his back. 

That particular memory was unsurprising. 

He remembers the sound of flesh slicing and the smell of his own blood on the floor. The Joker’s haunting cackle as he hooted at Batman’s betrayal of Jason. 

The explosion, and clawing out of the rubble. 

“Jason?”

It was then he realized he’s barely breathing, hyperventilating to the point where his chest burns and his fingers begin to turn blue. A hand touches his chest and Jason reacts by swinging blindly but only manages to offset himself from where he’s resting. His shoulder collides with a hard floor, and he scrambles until his back hits a wall. 

“Jay, stop.” The voice comes again, “Listen to me, or you’re gonna pass out.”

Jason’s brain grabs onto the words, replaying them over and over until a face pops into his mind. 

“...B-Bug?” 

“Yeah, Jaybird, it’s me. I’m coming over there.” 

He swallows, head tipping down in a nod. Bug was safe. She would take care of him. She always had. 

It’s Bug’s hand in his hair that coaxes his vision to come back to him. Jason blinks, the black spots covering his field of view lessening as he makes himself breathe deep. His chest is still on fire and his neck protests with every heaving breath, but the fingers scratching his scalp abate the panic to a manageable level. 

Jason reaches out, fingers twisting into the oversize crew-neck, his crewneck, that hangs loosely on Bug’s shoulders. He tugs until she’s flush against him, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and hiding his face in the fabric of the sweatshirt. The scent of her, like vanilla and the ocean and everything good mixes with her lingering perfume and washes over him. 

“Shh, Jaybird. I got you.” 

Tears dampen Jason’s face and Bug’s shirt as she cards fingers through his messy hair. Her hands gently pull his face up, and Jason forces himself to swallow the pain as their eyes meet. 

“Fancy meeting you here.” He croaks, unwilling to let his sarcasm die for just a moment. 

“Yeah, it’s weird, me being in my own apartment and all.” Bug shoots back, letting her hands graze his cheekbones before slipping to his shoulders. “Come back to the couch and let me check your stitches.”

Jason goes easily when Bug pulls at his hands. Joints creaking, he staggers back to the couch. Surprisingly, he sits upright, back to the cushions and bandaged hand on the armrest. Bug nudges the lever for the recliner, and Jason sighs as he stretches out. Her hands peel at the bandaging on his neck first, dabbing fresh gauze over what he assumed was leaking blood. 

“You’re not gonna ask what happened?”

Bug pauses, crystalline eye flicking to his face. “Do I ever?”

Jason concedes. “Fair enough.”

A single brow raises as she replaces the gauze on his neck. “Though you don’t usually show up with your throat near slit. Or wake up in your boxers having panic attacks.”

A weak laugh claws its way out of Jason’s mouth, and his fingers close around Bug’s wrist. “I usually wake up in my boxers.” 

She rolls her eyes, bringing his hand up to kiss his knuckles. “This is a bit extreme. Even for you, Red Hood.”

Any ounce of playfulness he’d been feeling moments ago was chased away by the memory of Batman- his foster Dad, Bruce- throwing a batarang at his throat. Of him letting the Joker live again, even after he’d beaten Jason to a pulp. It was almost as if Jason was not only back from the dead, but reliving the events that had brought him to the precipice. 

“You’re doing it again.” Bug states matter-of-factly, shaking Jason from his thoughts. 

“What?” He understands then he’s hyperventilating again, and appreciates the lack of pity on her part. “Sorry. It.. it was Bats.”

She tenses beside him, one hand ghosting up his knee and resting on his thigh. “He… Bruce did this to you?”

God, why does it sound so much worse when she uses his name?

“...Yeah.” Jason laces his fingers with the ones massaging his thigh. “I tried to make him choose. To make him-”

He stops himself. 

“-I just wanted him to choose me.”

Jason fucking hates how whiny it sounds coming out of his mouth. He bites back the tightness in his throat and refuses to let himself cry over Bruce. 

Bug blinks a couple times and settles herself cross-legged, facing him. “Choose you, or..?”

“Or him. The Joker.” Jason grits the name through his teeth. “The one wh-who-”

She shakes her head and squeezes his hand as the color drains from her face. “Killed you.”

His head snaps to her. “And almost killed you.” 

She stares at him then, and Jason’s hand reaches up to trace her left brow. The one intersected by a jagged scar, trailing all the way down to the corner of her mouth in a horrid mimicry of the Joker’s Glasgow smile. The scar that left her eye cloudy and blind, unable to be healed even by Bruce’s state of the art technology. No matter how many times Jason was killed by the Joker, Bug’s scar was his constant reminder that he had failed. 

“I’m alive, Jay.” She soothes, leaning into his shoulder and looping her arm across his midsection. 

“And that’s the problem with him!” Jason cries. “The Joker should be dead.”

He knows when he’s losing his composure, and it is sliding away quickly. Tears nip at his eyes, and Bug clambers carefully into his lap. She may be half-blind, but she is the best at understanding when the rage from the Pit is beginning to boil over. 

“I know, he should be. We were just kids, Jason.” Bug presses her forehead to his. “We were kids when he did what he did to us. But Bruce… you know he’ll never change.”

Jason works his jaw a moment, gathering up the motivation to speak without sobbing. “He just… I hate hating him, Bug.”

His hands clutch at her shirt, aimlessly searching for a hold, for anything to anchor him to this reality. Green floods his thoughts, raging against the sadness. Jason’s sanity is a sinking ship, being tossed by monstrous waves in the sea of emotions that is his mind. The Pit may have restored his memories, but it broke his ability to reason- to understand the complex emotions that came with everyday life. Talia al Ghul trained him to be a weapon, but in Gotham he was so much more. 

An orphan. 

A vigilante. 

Robin- The Boy Wonder.  The Red Hood. 

A son. 

Bruce’s son. 

Loved. 

Jason draws his knees closer to his chest, bodily bringing Bug flush against him. He seeks her lips out with his, desperate for  reassurance once again. Her hands are twisting in his hair and her legs tighten around his hips. Jason’s tongue runs along her bottom lip, seeking permission before moving on. Bug moans softly against him but chastises him when he attempts to grind his hips upwards. 

“You know I love you, but you need rest.” She speaks against his cheek, hot breath washing over Jason’s ear. 

He relents, cupping her cheeks with his hands. Two fingers follow the scar down to her lip, and Jason presses his lips there. “Only if you go to bed with me.”

“I think I can make that happen.”

-

Masterlist | Send me ideas

#Jason Todd x f!reader #Jason Todd x you #Jason Todd x Reader #Under the Red Hood #Jason Todd #Red Hood #Bruce Wayne #Batman #Bruce Wayne is Batman #Batfam #Batfamily #DC Imagines #Red Hood x f!reader #Red Hood x you #Red Hood x Reader #The Joker #Death in the Family #Lazarus Pits

[sukunasstomachtongue]

"He Put out an Ad?"

~Hey my darlings, Let's cut to the chase and post part 6 of We FLock together. I'm truly excited to post this, the last part was kinda filler. Now we gettin into some shit.

Series Masterlist

Bruce Wayne x Dove (black OC)

Rating: PG-13; warnings: obsessive Bruce Wayne, plotting Bruce Wayne, silk press getting caught in the rain; cursing, barely edited.

Taglist [OPEN]: @prettyvintageafternoon @zennydaye @lalaooopsie @leahnicole121919

Bruce watched behind his cowl as dilated brown eyes became glazed with tears. Dried specks of blood had been splattered on the side of her head. If he hadn’t met with her two days ago to slurp down oysters at the newest restaurant in Gotham, he would have never believed the puffy mane on her head used to be straight. 

“Batman? Please, don’t hurt me…” A shrill voice called out, and oh, how it pained the man behind the mask to hear. As if he could ever hurt her, his sweet Dove. But he couldn’t let her know that. Batman doesn’t show compassion for criminals. Even someone like her, with a fearful expression and trembling body. Like a lone bird grounded by a broken wing. Later he would explain, over coffee at that diner she took him to, that Batman does what’s necessary for the public. 

For now, he had a job to do. 

His heavy shoes crunched on the discarded newspapers, stepping over unconscious bodies and pools of diluted blood. The tears in her eyes fell over her lower lid and blended in seamlessly with the raindrops hitting her brown skin. 

“Don’t, please! I’m not with them! Stay- Stay away!” Uncoordinated limbs attempted to move her out of his reach. Dove looked up at the vigilante. She’s never seen Batman in person, but the stories her customers told her about how intimidating he could be rang true. Her mind couldn’t direct her body to move, there was nowhere to hide. The pickup scheduled tonight has been ruined, and the dripping woman could swear her ears were hearing the sound of police sirens. 

Guess who’s going to jail tonight? 

The darkness of the suit worked in his favor, and soon Dove found herself flat on her back looking into the lens of his eye cover. “What are you doing here? What’s your business with Joker?”

“Nothing, nothin’. I promise I’m not a criminal. I’ve never even stolen from the self-checkout. Please don’t hurt me!” The taste of Gotham rainwater saturated her mouth with bitterness. Still, she spoke loud and clear, unwilling to give him an ounce of doubt in her innocence. 

The dark knight leaned further until they were a breath apart. She still smelt like how she did last time he saw her. His hands yearned to skim her body, the clothes she wore already glued to her frame, exposing curves he had only dreamed of prior. Focus, Bruce. 

“I won’t have to hurt you if you tell me the truth of why you’re here.” At the sound of her whimper, Bruce leaned back just slightly. Like a weight off her stomach, Dove sucked in air for all she was worth. “Don’t make this difficult. If you don’t tell me, I can promise the GCPD won’t be any kinder.”

“It’s just clothes. I-” Her heart pounded and her head felt fuzzy. This was all too much for her to deal with. A lone woman, out in the rain, with Gotham City’s fiercest defender on top of her. “Didn’t do nothing.”

He waited for her to elaborate. When her mouth didn’t open again, Bruce felt the ice-cold rain run down his back. A dark gloved hand lifted her neck to get a response. Her head fell back, Dove was no longer conscious to support herself. 

“Fuck.”

---- ----

“When you said ‘it’s just clothes’ what did you mean by that, Miss CartWright?” The detective probed. When Dove awoke from her unintended slumber, her wrists were cuffed and chained to the lone table in the room. This was an interrogation room. She’s seen the setup before in tv and movies, never did she think she would also experience them in person. 

“I said what?”

“When Batman apprehended you last night. He claims you said ‘it’s just clothes’ after he inquired about your connection to the Joker.” Long lashes fluttered, her mind racing and trying to catch up to her current situation.

“I meant that I’m just the supplier for his costumes. Well, all their costumes.”

“Uhm, What? Please explain.” The cop leaned back against the mirror, a two-way she thought. Clearing her throat, Dove pondered her next words carefully. She wasn’t a snitch, not against Gotham’s biggest menace. All she had to do was clear her name and pray they let her go without further interrogation. She would chirp as much as she needed to avoid a jail sentence. But if worse came to worse, she would sooner sew her lips shut with her strongest thread than snitch and end up on Joke’s shit list. 

“I’m a seamstress. You probably already knew that.” With a nod, the suspect continued. “I have an apprenticeship with Tailor Spinelli. It pays, but not enough. So I make the costumes and uniforms for Joker and his gang. Pays well. I don’t have to take up a second job or sell feet pics to men on the internet.” 

“Are you serious?” Her nose flared at the dubious tone in the detective’s voice. With a hard glare, she met the man’s eyes. 

“You think Joker is getting those purple suits off the rack? Or that he has his goons buying their matching outfits off the web in bulk? I’m serious.”

“Okay. Now how did you end up in this arrangement? He put out an ad?” The more the pig talked, the angrier her tone became.

“No. Miss Harley did.”

“Alright, enough bullshit. Tell me the truth.” Dove felt her temper rise and she had to fight to get a hold of it. Slamming the table and shaking her binds, she spat it out for the last time. 

“I told you the truth. I’m the Joker’s seamstress.”

His focus left the video in his hands and traveled to the smoking law enforcer. Letting out a cloud of tobacco, Gordon reached out to ask for the footage back. 

“Far as I can tell, she’s telling the truth. So why is she still in custody?”

“Miss Cartwright knew of illegal activity and knowingly associated herself with criminals. That’s enough to keep her at the station and guarantee a trial. We have a warrant to search her apartment.”

“She’s the closest connection we have to Joker right now, had in months,” Gordan admitted to the dark knight. Bruce frowned. The thought of someone he cherished being behind bars unsettled him. Regardless, the commissioner spoke the truth. The only thing he could do was wait for her on the other side of the trial. To do anything more, to tamper with the process would go against everything he fought for. 

If they tried to throw her behind bars, however,then he would have no choice but to act.

He left the rooftop in silence, something he knew Gordon had to be used to by now. The Batman still had a city to protect, a patrol to stick to. He made a note to set up alerts on his computer for any mention of Dove Cartwright. Hopefully, all went well, and she won’t be convicted of any crime. 

A week passed and he had heard nothing of what could be happening to Dove. The golden prince of Gotham planned on waiting one more day before he broke into the surveillance footage at the station. So he remained in his office, going over figures and reports when he got a call from the station. The caller ID flashed brightly in front of him, it beckoned him to pick up the phone and demand answers. 

Stay calm, Bruce. 

“This is a collect call from Gotham City County Jail for inmate Dove CartWright, say yes if you wish to accept this call.”

“Yes.” The silence on the other side deafened him. Concern crawled up his body and looped itself around his neck, constricting like a snake until he was on the verge of passing out. Then, a muffled sniffle came through the line. “Hello?”

“Bruce? Thank God you answered. I couldn’t think of anyone else to call.”

“Dove? Is that you? Are you in jail?” These were questions he already knew the answer to, but to get what he wanted, he had to play his part as a bewildered friend. Hammering down his role, Bruce cursed low under his breath, loud enough for her to hear. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. I ran into some trouble. Made acquaintance with the wrong crowd and now the police are charging me with being an accomplice. I-uh need a favor, Bruce.”

“Do you need a lawyer? Don’t worry, I have a team ready. They’ve never lost a case, you’ll be out in no time.” He expected a sound of relief but did not receive one. “Dove?”

“I don’t need a lawyer. I already accepted a plea deal. I was hoping you could uh..” The billionaire smirked. He knew where this was going. 

“You want me to bail you out?”

“...yes.” He sighed and leaned back into his chair, staying quiet until she broke the silence. Focus, Bruce, focus. “M’sorry Bruce. You know I don’t see you as a walking bank or nothing. But I need to get out of here. I didn’t do anything. And I’m not safe in here.”

“Whose after you Dove?”

“Bad...bad people Bruce. I fucked up. I-”

“Ok.” And that was the end of that. She’ll remember this moment for the rest of their lives, Bruce rationalized, how quick he was to help her any way he could. How he didn’t even question her innocence, not like the GCPD have been doing. This would be the first of many milestones in their relationship.

This would be the day Dove realized Bruce Wayne was someone, the only one she could count on. 

Thoughts raced in his mind, plans forming and disassembling at an inhuman speed. He had calls to place, guards to disarm, supplies to buy, but piece by piece, his next steps became clear. 

“Bruce?”

“I’ll see you later tonight, Dove. Take care of yourself until then.”

“I,” a harsh exhale filled bounced around his eardrums. It didn't take detective work to know on the other side of the phone, shuffling her feet next to the phone station, Dove was struggling to hold it together.  “Thank you, Bruce. Really.”

The line went dead, his phone screen still pressed firmly on his side profile. Lowering the device, Bruce stared absently at the black screen. 6 minutes and 17 seconds. It felt much shorter than that, but the numbers refused to change. It made him crave more.  A calloused finger pad tapped the touchscreen, raising the phone back to his ear. The cooing of a call yet to be answered riled his spirit. 

“Alfred. I need you to prepare the manor for a guest.”

“Absolutely Master Bruce. May I ask how long this guest will be saying.”

“Indefinitely.”

#written by junk💋 #batman x reader #batman fanfiction #batman x black!reader #yandere batman #black!reader #black oc #batman x oc #bruce wayne x reader #bruce wayne fanfiction #bruce wayne x black oc #bruce wayne x oc #bruce wayne x black!reader #dc fanfic #black reader #black writers

[fantastic-nonsense]

As one of the few DC people on here I trust to read good fanfic, do you have any fanfic recs centered around Dick, Cass and/or Damian?

I'm super flattered you trust my fic taste and would like to assure you that while I've read a LOT of questionable fics in pursuit of scratching a particular plot or character dynamics itch, I refuse to rec fics to people that I don't consider good.

That being said: yes, I do. The short answer is that I keep an ongoing DC/Batfam fics recs list here (for those interested in the rest of my fic recs lists, you can find my recs list masterpost here. Word of caution for the Sherlock Holmes, Tolkien, and Doctor Who lists; I can’t necessarily vouch for their quality due to having not read the majority of the fics on the list in 7+ years, but all other lists should be good). I've also done a Cass recs list before here.

Now, picking out a few specifically that focus on one or more of those characters:

3:16: The knife pushes thin along Dick’s carotid artery, cupping the indent between neck and jawline—forcing him to angle his chin. The metal is warm, pulled with execution speed from under Damian’s pillow. “Okay,” Dick says quietly, tracking the intricacies of his own heartbeat—counting the space between breaths. “Guess I did need a shave.” (With faltering steps, Dick and Damian become Batman and Robin.) 

[60k, WIP. Originally written as a 'filling in the spaces between canon' fic, has now evolved into a 'rewriting canon but slightly to the left because Bruce actually died in this verse' fic. General warning for Morrison-era!Talia due to the canon being worked with]

bad signal: The rescue mission went well. Nightwing is safe. Everything should be alright. Right? 

[Note: explaining what this fic is actually about would lowkey ruin the excellent suspense and tension that the author builds up, but it can basically be summed up as "the Dick Grayson the Batfam rescues is not, in fact, alright, and that becomes A Problem for everyone else."]

do I dare disturb the universe?: Cassandra Cain was falling, and there were stars. When she landed, she found herself stranded in a universe where there never was a Batman. Good thing that she’s a detective.

Dragon and Daughter: Cassandra Cain isn't in Gotham during No Man's Land. She's in Canada five years earlier, and Richard Dragon is the one to stumble across her instead.

exactly how this grace thing works: Dick gets de-aged. You'd think this would be a routine thing.

if you just call me: “Dick.” She squeezed his shoulder. “Dick, look at me.” Slowly, as if he were pushing against a terrible force, he lifted his head. “I have known you since I was thirteen years old, and I have known you in a dozen other lifetimes, so I need you to believe me when I say that there is nothing you could do that would make me stop loving you.” Dick held her gaze. He looked like he was searching for something in her eyes, so Donna held still and hoped he found it. “Did you really know me in other lives?” he asked. Dick and Donna, after the action, through the years.

Making Time: Bruce does not remember anything leading up to this moment. He does not remember teaming up with Superman recently, nor does he remember being anywhere but Gotham proper. He does remember having Robin at his side. Robin, it turns out, is not there any longer. God does he hate magic. [Temporary Amnesia]

no matter how far you unbend: Laying there in bed, letting Catalina take what she wanted to take, an idea had occurred to Dick. This, he had thought, is an unhealthy relationship. In the weeks after Blockbuster's murder, Dick is trapped in a toxic relationship with Catalina. His family will do anything to rescue him.

[Note: deals with the events of Nightwing (1996) #93-95. TW for rape and abusive relationships. Heavy fic]

the city without stars in its skies: “Gotham is filthy,” Damian says flatly, honestly. “I understand now why Mother sent me here instead of coming herself.” Nightwing’s face is turned to the left, but the smile on his lips is audible. “It’s not all bad,” he says.

Damian thinks of Grayson, and the too-sweet donut he had given him, and the Chinese restaurant with the nice Asian lady and the park and the stray cat that had crossed through the grass in the darkness. “No,” he admits grudgingly, “I suppose not.”

(Or, in a world where he was never sent to live with his father, Damian al Ghul is contracted to assassinate one Dick Grayson.)

The R Stands for –: Damian pretends to focus on lacing up his boots as his father tugs Drake to his side, plants a gruff, casual kiss in his hair. Drake's lips curl into a pleased smile, and Damian yanks the strings so hard his palms burn.

[Note: incredible Damian-centric oneshot, focusing on his character growth from his time with the League through Batman and Robin era. Plays with both canon and fanon concepts in interesting ways]

the space between: What kind of parent forgets their own kid? Or: Ric, Damian, and some old forgotten adoption paperwork.

[Note: In which The Devil (DC) works hard, but the fans work harder to make the devil’s work bearable]

-----

Hope you enjoy reading!

#bri's recs #asks #batfam

[levitatingbiscuits]

we all love big n cuddly clark but i like the idea of him being shaped like a twig because nothing on this planet can give him a proper resistance workout. maybe he’s still super tall so he looks like a beanpole. the trinity is probably very funny to look at because diana is a literal amazon and bruce’s kevlar makes him look like even more of a brick shithouse but it’s the slenderman looking motherfucker who does all the heavy lifting. diana literally picks him up to hit people with when she doesn’t have her sword handy because he’s a perfect substitute for a staff (maybe a spear if he points his toes). bats bulks out of spite whenever he gets pissed at supes for something, just to make him look even weedier by comparison. whenever superman flies him anywhere it looks like a ferret caught a hawk instead of the other way around.

#trinity #superman #wonderwoman #batman #clark kent

[eupheme]

Penny For Your Thoughts | Part 6.5 - Reconcile

masterlist

Alfred Pennyworth x F!Reader

Rated E - 7k

Tags - age gap, arguments, mentions of wounds (bruising), shower sex (please be careful), oral (f receiving), brief/light anal play, PiV, cum play

Summary: And suddenly, a lot of things begin to make sense.

The phone is answered with a swipe of this thumb, Alfred bringing the device up to his ear. A hurried conversation - each question and response short and clipped, his voice low and calm despite the worry etching in his face.

Where are you? Are you okay?

Yes.

Of course I can.

There’s the sound of another question, his eyes lifting to yours with it as he answers.

I am.

I really don’t think that’s a good-

His jaw closes - interrupted, teeth clenching.

Okay.

Stay there.

I’m on my way.

He exhales a long breath as the call ends, a fraction of the distress waning from his features.

“Was that Bruce?” You’re asking him, clammy fingers curling around his arm. Your own worry is still swirling - the pounding of your heart, a tightness in your throat, “Was he there, is he okay?”

“Yes,” His eyes are moving around the room, mind racing through next steps, what he needs to do. “I’m sorry but I need to go, darling.”

Crossing the living room in just a few steps, reaching for the coat he shed earlier. But you’re on his heels, fingers still trailing after him, reaching out.

“Can I go with you?”

He halts, head turning slowly towards you. Brow pinching as his lips part - something running through his mind that you don’t understand.

You’re bending - reaching for your boots, determined, “I can help.”

There’s uncertainty in his eyes, you can see that now that he’s close. You assume it’s for Bruce, not understanding the depth of your question, what his acceptance would mean.

Where tonight was leading - a moment he had never expected to arrive quite so soon. He’s not ready.

But Bruce needs his help.

“Please.”

His jaw closes with a click as he swallows, “I’m not sure what I’m going to find.”

Your head shakes, tugging your own jacket from the coat rack, checking the house keys shoved deep in the pocket, “I don’t care. I want to help.”

The battle raging in his mind and heart settles. A decision, finally made. Almost a relief, after the weeks that have passed. If it has to happen, and it does - why not now?

A hand reaching for yours, warm and firm and enveloping, tugging you closer. A palm cupping your jaw, his head bowing as lips press against your forehead.

“Thank you.” The word breathed out, low and rough.

A determined look flickering in his eye - a path now set.

“Let’s go.”

———

You don’t ask where you’re going, silence settling in the car as he navigates the busy streets - Gotham always seemed to be bustling at all hours of the day. The sidewalks filled with small groups of people, vehicles lining the roads. Rain or shine, morning or night, the city lived on.

The apprehension in the car is almost palpable - thick and heavy, and you haven’t seen him quite like this before. Other than that night that you turned up at the Tower.

Worried waves roll off him, tension evident in his arms, his back. Strung tight enough to snap, eyes darting down on occasion to glance at his gold watch - his sleeves roughly shoved up, silver cufflinks discarded into a pocket so he could view the numbers flickering across the screen.

Coordinates maybe? You don’t ask, hands tucked under your thighs as you silently watch the streetlights passing by.

He gets caught up at a stoplight near the Gotham City Police Department - the lights from the building backlighting his face as you glance his way again. His expression pulled tight, anxiety written all across his face.

The light turns green, and he's pulling down a side street, and then another. Winding deeper, the bright city lights starting to fade. It's hard not to think of another night - the already accelerated beat of your heart thudding just a little bit faster at the memory.

But this is different. He's with you. You are helping him - or will try to, anyway.

"It's going to be okay." You offer quietly, the car beginning to slow. A hand on his arm, the muscles bunched under your fingers.

His expression softens, his eyes glancing at yours. The soft rasp of his voice, "I know, dove. I trust you."

The response one you're not quite expecting, the confusion deeping when you realize the car has now stopped.

You'd been expecting to be close to the Cathedral, that maybe he knew a shorter route. But this is far from it - the engine idling at the mouth of a dark alley, so deep that you can't see the end.

The darkness seems to grow the more you look into it, an ominous looming, a void - and you find yourself glancing back at Alfred. He's turning the car off, his fingers on the door handle.

"Is-," You ask, already hearing the tremble in your voice, "Is he down there?"

"Yes."

You swallow. It doesn't make sense, "How did he get there?"

"I don't know. But I need to find out." His fingers slide, falling from the handle, finding yours, "You can stay here. It’s okay, I understand."

He's not baiting you, there's no trick, no underhanded message to his suggestion. It's genuine - knowing that just because he has to head into the unknown, it doesn't mean you need to, too.

And it's his understanding that has you inhaling a short breath, opening your own door. Stepping out into the drizzle, tugging up the hood of your coat.

Taking his arm, you follow him into the dark. Each step feeling like you're fighting gravity, like the ground is trying to anchor you to it. The further in the quieter it grows, until it's just the sound of rushing cars, the tape of his cane with each of your steps, just out of sync.

A crumpled, discarded can knocks against your foot and goes skittering - your hand going tense around his arm, fear catching your breath in your throat.

So deep between the walls now that the only light comes from above, from small windows scattered a few stories up. The bright red numbers on his watch, ominously counting down with each step.

He halts then, and you stop with him. A light coming from his phone as he switches on the flashlight app.

A slow sweep of the beam, starting high, swooping down low. Part of you doesn't even want to look. Shifting until you're pressing against the back of his shoulder, peering over it.

The light makes another pass until it snags on something large and curled on the asphalt - the light pausing on it before it drops.

His voice, still so low and calm - gentle instructions that only you can hear, "This might get a bit confusing, dove. But please try to stick with me, okay? I'm going to need your help."

You nod, your voice small, “Okay.”

Close on his heels as he moves to where his light lingered - a narrow space tucked behind a rusted dumpster and an arched alcove.

He crouches down next to something big and dark and inky black, crumpled on the ground. The rhythm of your heart kicking up a beat when it shifts - when it groans.

Sounding almost inhuman, reminding you briefly of the snarls of the man that saved you in the alley so much like this one. And suddenly, with a sick lurch in your stomach - your mind catches up.

Seeing the form for what it really was - as Alfred kneels at the foot of the mass, the shapes slowly starting to unfold, the fabric peeled back.

A man.

Pieces of him slowly revealed - dark plates of armor, a pointed cowl as dark as night.

"There you are." He says calmly, as if finding a lost stray - not a vigilante that you had watched take down three men like it was nothing.

But it doesn't make sense - you have to be in the wrong place. You don't understand, you're here for Bruce, not... not-

“Alfred.” The name is rasped out into the quiet, low and labored.

But it’s not the voice you heard that night, in the car. Deep and growling and threatening, setting you on edge even as you told yourself you were fine, were safe.

This was a voice you were familiar with, one that had helped you, had shared a small moment with in the kitchen, all those weeks ago.

“I’m here, Bruce.”

It’s hard to process, your legs going shaky, your shoulder leaning until it presses against the brick wall. Not making sense, but there’s no mistaking the eyes now that you see them - hazy and unfocused, but still his.

Still staring as you sag, open-mouthed and unashamed - until Alfred is beckoning you with his hand, focusing back on the curled form.

“I know,” He coaxes, “It’s okay. We need to get him into the car, okay darling? I can’t do it on my own.”

The name gets your attention, the urgency of his voice. Remembering your promise to help - not wanting to be dead weight just when you were needed.

You shakily crouch down, gravel shifting under your boots - your breath sounding too loud in your own ears as he passes you his phone, directing where to shine the light.

Watching as his fingers slip under the cowl to check his pulse. The mass moving as Bruce shifts, pushing himself up onto an elbow. Lips twisted in a grimace, teeth outlined in crimson from a split lip and bloody nose.

Alfred's words quiet, hushed as he asks questions - if he hit his head, if he can be moved. The light glinting off the cowl as he answers, shifting until Alfred can get an arm under him, tugging him slowly upright.

Beckoning for you to do the same, and it takes both of you to lift him - your shoulder tucked under his armpit, lifting with your knees and hips, an arm around his waist.

A low, rough shuffle to the car, he towers over both of you in the suit, it's bulk weighing you all down. Feet dragging with each step, it takes ages to make your way back - and by the end all of your breaths are labored, soaked through with the rain.

Cold, trembling fingers fumble with the car handle, and somehow he's clumsily maneuvered inside, until he's stretched out across the back seats. A hand clamped over his ribs, a groan barked out when he has to shift for the door to close.

You slide into the passenger seat as Alfred starts the car, pulling back onto the narrow side road, down another. Still feeling tense, your mind a swirl of thoughts, though you're unable to stick to just one. They sift through your fingers like sand, and all you can do is sit there, tense and riddled with nerves.

A hand extends across the seat, resting palm-up on your thigh. Alfred's face is still drawn, concentrating on the fastest route home. But you take it, fingers curling around yours, finding comfort in that tiny, brief moment.

It's rude to stare and you resist the urge to crane your head, to turn around and gape again. Your eyes flit up to the rearview mirror again and again, trying to make sense of it all.

Seeing the exposed pieces of his face, but it doesn’t doesn’t seem like it could really be Bruce under there - even if it is his features. Still feeling like a weird dream, like maybe you're still asleep at home. That it's still midday, that you're still napping… waiting for a much different kind of call.

But small moments seem to click into place. Absences from Alfred when he never seemed to be in his usual spaces. Bruce’s attire when you all shared that dinner. The alley, and your strange conversation with The Batman afterwards, and just how you ended up in a place you had suspected - and now know - that you never asked for.

You lose the route with your thoughts, the Tower passing by, the car not slowing. Twisting and winding until it's passing by a high, chain-link fence. Whipping by caution signs, your heart lifting into your throat as he barrels down a dark tunnel - the only lights coming from the headlights.

Driving over an old train track, the hint of an old, iron gate looming in front, impassible.

Your fingers squeeze automatically in fear, clamping around his, but the gate cracks open and parts just as the car gets close. Slamming shut behind as you continue deeper - until it opens into a massive cavern. A terminal, at the end of the line.

Slowing to a stop right at the edge of a platform - Bruce alert enough now that removing him from the car is not quite as difficult. He still leans heavily on both of your shoulders, as Alfred guides you both through the open room to a tucked away corner. A cot taking up a lot of the space, a table made out of flat steel just to the side.

Bruce rests on it, gingerly pushing himself up, each movement slow with gasping breaths. You own breath catching in your throat as he peels his gloves off, hands rising to cup his cowl.

Dark hair appears from underneath, matted against his head from sweat and the close cut of the mask. Eyes rimmed with black, beneath strong brows. The downward turn of his lips, the sharp edge of his jaw.

It shocks you even though you’re expecting it - only really starting to accept it now that you see him fully. The memory of his actions in the alley seemingly so different then the Bruce you know.

Alfred is busying himself, sorting through containers under the table top, pulling some out. Showing you where the clasps are for the cape because Bruce can’t move his arm that high up without flinching yet. The gauntlets next - the two of you slowly taking him apart, piece by piece.

You’d be more nervous if you weren’t so worried, seeing the way he holds in the pain, the bruises that blossom over his skin as the suit peels back. Healing shades of gold and purple scattered across his scarred shoulder, back. A deep, mottled red streaking across his ribs and his hips that make you gasp when you see them.

Alfred circling to see, worry lining his own face as he gives him a once over - shoulder slumping in relief because he knows it could have been worse, much worse.

“How close were you to the bomb?” He asks, pressing fingers against the edge of a yellow bruise near his ribs. “You have a fracture or two here.”

There’s a pause, teeth clenched in a grimace as he inhales. Finally getting his voice back after the force of the collision, the adrenaline pounding in his veins. His shoulders hunch, back curving as he answers, “Wasn’t from the Cathedral.”

The fingers pause, lifting, “Then what caused this?”

Bruce’s head lifts then, shoulders straightening but still looking ahead, “I used the wingsuit.”

You don’t know what that means, but you take it to be bad - Alfred’s head snaps up, brows furrowing as he bites out, “You didn’t. From where?”

“GCPD.” He answers, tone defensive.

“Christ, that has to be 10 stories at least.” Alfred leaves you to circle around, his fists planted on his hips.

“13.” The correction comes automatically, a scowl on his face, “And I didn’t have a choice-”

“You always have a choice,” Alfred interrupts, his voice low and hard, “What if it didn’t work?”

“Of course it works.” You can picture the roll of his eyes from his time, paired with his heavy scoff, “That’s not why-, you really think I’m that stupid-”

All of this watched with wide eyes, fixed firmly on the ground as you wished to be just about anywhere but here - it was too personal, too private. An argument that seemed to be just a rehash of one’s come before - Alfred’s answer hot and sharp on his tongue as you shift uncomfortably, catching his attention.

His jaw clicking shut, shooting Bruce a message that could only be interpreted as ‘we’re not done talking about this’. Taking a steadying breath, the furrow smoothing his brows, though the anger still lingers in his shoulders, his back.

“He’ll need ice.” Your head snaps up, his tone calm and focusing again. “Would you mind getting that for me, please? A change of clothes as well.”

His gaze flickering back over to Bruce, “We shouldn’t move you too much tonight. You most certainly have a concussion.”

Bruce’s reluctant and short nod, his own form of truce. A small penitence for the worry, the panic he caused - both of them knowing that if he’d had his way, he’d already be back out there. Meeting up with Gordon, though exhaustion gnaws at his bones.

You leave them - taking the lift upstairs, stopping by the kitchen. Finding ice packs already in the freezer, tucking bottled water under your arm. Nosing through the pantry until you find packaged snacks in the back, behind the boxes of healthy cereal and protein bars - dragging out a bag of chips, some cookies.

Stopping by the laundry, grabbing a neatly folded hoodie and a pair of sweats from the top of the clean basket. Bringing them back downstairs, where things have settled down - where it was down to bandaging the last small cuts and scrapes.

Alfred’s tired smile as you arrive makes you feel like you did something important - his arm looping around your waist, lips pressed to your temple.

“Thank you, darling.” He murmurs, passing a water and the clothes to Bruce so he can change - standing up so you can take his place on the chair next to the padded cot.

You sit with Bruce while Alfred cleans up, gathering the leftover supplies, scrubbing his hands clean in the small bathroom. Watching as he lingers near the shed suit, but not touching it - the one piece that Bruce preferred to handle himself.

There’s a silence as you shift, stretching your legs out, sinking a little further into the seat. You were never good at small-talk, and you’re both burning with questions and have nothing to say, all at once.

“You don’t have to babysit me.” Bruce glances your way as he lounges, but there’s no bite in his words, “I’m not going anywhere tonight.”

“I’m not babysitting you,” You shrug, reaching down to grab the chips, pinching the top, ripping the bag open. They might be the best ones you’ve ever had, you hadn’t realized how hungry you were. “I’m just hanging out.”

You offer the bag to him, and after a long moment, his hand reaches out, grabbing a fistful. He eats as much as you do, pretending to reluctantly take the rest of what you brought down - but it disappears quickly.

Eventually digging a device out from the bag at the side of his cot - an ipad and stylus, opening an app. From this angle you can just make out the AutoCAD display, what looked like the skeleton structure of his suit.

Seemingly uninterested in staying idle, already dissecting what went wrong earlier - how to improve.

Your eyes bounce around the Terminal now that you have a moment, your fingers itching to examine the computer setup, to sneak a closer look at the suit, the car. Remembering how the interior was far from the base model - wondering just how far the modifications went.

Eventually unable to keep the questions pushed down, "How long did it take you to do everything down here?"

His eyes flick up to yours, the stylus pausing. Now that he’s cleaned up, you can see a purpled bruise curving around a cheekbone, a red tinge to his eyes. Crescent-moon scabs on the back of the first two knuckles that grip the pen that have to be from another night.

Your stomach drops, as you cringe - forgetting just how intense his gaze can be, that he might not want to answer your questions, "Sorry, I wasn't thinking… you probably need to concentrate on your work."

"I don't mind, I don't like working in silence.” The stylus starts to move again, his eyes dropping, “It's been a little over two years. I am still working on it."

Two years. That makes sense - he must have started going out soon after. You remember when the Batman first began showing up online, in the news. It had been all people talked about for weeks.

"Did you do it all yourself? It looks like a lot of renovations."

Another nod.

"I had parts shipped to me, but built everything myself. The only person that knew about this-" About me, his meaning unspoken but clear, "was Alfred. And now, you."

He says it so simply, but the weight of his words hit you. Just how closely-guarded this secret was, something you hadn't really understood - too caught up in the reveal.

A lot of other things, recent things, start to make sense. The ache of anger and hurt you've been carrying starting to ebb, fading away.

"How-" the words feel thick in your throat, "How did you tell him?"

There's the hint of a smile, as he remembers. It wasn’t funny then but it was a little bit now, after everything that’s happened. From being in complete opposition - to now patching him up, working on the ciphers. It’s still far from encouragement, but he’ll settle for acceptance.

"I was careless, in the beginning. My suit wasn't as… sturdy, I would come home bruised. He noticed, though I had a list of excuses."

Foolish to think that Alfred would believe him for long, as observant as he is. Silently picking up the stiff movements of sore muscles, the increased interest in certain moves when they sparred.

Piecing things together, one sliver at a time.

"It took a little while, but he found his way down here, poked around when I wasn't paying attention. I thought my secret was safe, but I forgot he always has a way of figuring things out."

That makes you smile, sitting literally on the edge of your seat as he talks, your chin cupped in your palm, "How did he take it?"

Bruce gives you a look, one that says ‘how do you think?’ and you're certain you can guess. Not happy.

"He disagrees with my choices." The words are quiet, and your smile fades at the edges. "I keep hoping he'll come around."

You wonder if they've ever talked about it. Remembering Alfred’s confession the first night you stayed over. That someone could be supportive and worried and terrified all at once. That Alfred must care - because of the things he's said, he's done - sacrificing his own happiness to keep him safe.

Has Bruce had to make his own sacrifices? Is his reclusiveness the burden of having to keep such a secret, or has he always been like this?

Doesn’t he ever get… lonely?

You think about that a long time before you try to ask, your voice hesitant, “Is it hard? Going out, I mean. Wearing the mask.”

His gaze is solemn and heavy. Not having to think about the answer, because there isn’t another one.

“No.”

Your eyes drop before his do - the sudden intensity of his eyes a little too much.

“It’s the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”

———

It’s late into the night now, when Alfred finally finds his way back to you. By that time, the pain medicine has started to kick in, and Bruce’s eyes are drooping, blinking sleepily from his spot curled up on the cot.

When they finally shut, you breathe a sigh of relief - finally letting the tension and worry melt from your shoulders.

“I think all we can do is let him rest up.” Alfred’s voice is low, his hand touching your arm, palm upwards, “We can go upstairs and clean up, if you’d like.”

Your hand fits perfectly into his, fingers curling around, palms pressing together - tugging you out of your seat. A gentle shift as you stand, never letting go as they entwine.

Following him to the elevator - the light inside a little too bright after the darkness of the renovated terminal. Leaning against him as the door slide shut with a clang, the slow crawl upward.

Silently, Alfred’s arms open for you, and you twist to curl into his chest, sagging against him. Your own warms wrapping around his waist, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his shirt.

“Thank you.” His voice is low, the sound so comforting, “You did so well tonight, I know that was a lot.”

“Is he really going to be okay?” You can’t help but ask, thinking back to the dark, painful bruises - just seeing them made you ache in sympathy.

“Yes. That’s not the worst shape he’s been in. I just hope he stays put tonight.” His hands smooth down your back, his words a rumble in his chest from under your ear.

“He told me he would.”

Alfred hums, “He says that, but I wonder. He can be so stubborn. It is maddening.”

You head tilts upwards then, and he catches your expression - a raised eyebrow, the hint of a smile. His own small, curving smile as he interprets it.

Pot, meet kettle.

Exhaling a breath against him then, your eyes closing - basking in the relief of knowing that everything was going to be okay. So much had happened in the past twenty four hours, it seems like it had stretched across days.

His warmth, strong presence is comforting after the agony of the unknown - the way your heart and mind have been yanked in so many different directions. The soft brush of his thumb against your neck as he holds you, the tight embrace of his arm as it wraps around making you feel so safe.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about Bruce before we found him,” He breaks the gentle silence, the hum of the lift. “I wasn’t sure how hurt he would be. If… he’d be in the suit.”

Your eyes open as the grip on his shirt tightens, but you don’t say anything, waiting for him to continue.

“I wanted to tell you. I was planning on it, but I thought I had more time. Wanted to do it properly.” His chest rises with a sigh, the deep exhale of his breath in your ear, “Will you be running for the hills, darling?”

The anchoring grip loosens as you lean back, his last words spoken with such a resigned, self-deprecating depth. A poor attempt at a joke - at shielding himself, his worry beading up before dripping through the cracks. He doesn’t look at you until you’re reaching, palm curving around his cheek, coaxing him down to you.

Eyes searching, his lips parting with yours as you ask your own question, “You were going to tell me? When you felt ready?”

The sad pull of his smile as he answers.

“Yes.”

With his answer your mouth rises to his, a relieved groan when they finally meet. Wanting to, aching for this since yesterday, since even before then. The slight pause as he processes, before his own fingers twine into your clothes, his mouth softening against yours.

Kissing him until you feel dizzy, desire flickering into a full, roaring flame from the smoldering embers. Missing him - all of him, trying to make up for lost time with the swipe of your tongue against his lips, his own groan when they part for you.

Getting lost in the moment, his back pressing against the wall, adjusting you against him - hands on your waist as a thigh nudges your legs apart. You shift in response, sighing into his mouth as your body flattens against his. The first roll of your hips is pure bliss.

Hands roam greedily, pulling you against him again, another sharp jolt of pleasure. Your own drifting over the planes of his chest, coming up to entwine around his shoulders.

Neither of you noticing the slowing ascent until the doors open with a chime, and you’re blinking as you step back - brought back down to the earth again.

The elevator taking you to a small room, exiting into one of the main hallways in the Tower. A large display case next to it, half-hiding the entrance - you’d been down this hallway before and had never noticed.

Heat still coils in your stomach, his hand in yours as you follow him down the familiar path to his bedroom. The hallways dim in the late night, his room even darker as the door opens.

The bathroom light is almost blinding as he switches it on, and you sigh in relief at the large, walk-in shower. You’re chilly and speckled with grease - and absolutely longing for the heat of the shower.

He lingers in the doorway, hand tucked in his trouser pocket as you open the cabinet, grabbing towels. Waiting for permission, enjoying just how easily you move around his space.

You glance over your shoulder as you ask, “You’re coming in with me, right?”

“If that is what you would like.” Alfred answers, letting you take the lead, not wanting to push.

Your footsteps slow as you walk over, towels set down on the counter so your hands can rest on his chest. Sliding up slowly to his neck, fingers slipping into the knot of his tie, tugging it loose.

Moving to the buttons of his shirt underneath, each one carefully undone as you answer, “I would.”

The breadth of his chest heaving in a sigh as you work your way down, eyes dragging up his form until they meet his face. The relief in them, mixed with gentle affection.

Only when the shirt hangs open and loose, your hands dropping to his belt, does he find himself - reaching for your clothes, hands skating down your sides.

“I want to keep you in this.” Fingers smoothing down the knit fabric on your hips, curling around the hem, “It suits you.”

That makes you smile, and you kiss him again, lips pressed to the curve of your jaw as he bunches it up, your head ducking after so he can lift it over.

A moment of pause, something weighing heavily on his mind. Trying to find the words, fingers brushing over bare skin, “Even after you came to see me, I still did not dare hope…”

Words trailing off, a small smile as he remembers, “Until you opened the door, wearing this. Then I realized that just maybe-”

As he trails off, your throat feels thick, chest tight. Fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt, half-pushed off his shoulders. Never wanting to let go.

He swallows, the smile turning melancholy with the furrow of his brows, “I don’t deserve forgiveness for how I treated you. But please know that I never wanted to hurt you. Or to be apart from you.”

Eyes pulling back to yours, insistent, and your heart lurches, your hand lifting to his face. Your smile is strong enough for both of you. He’s tortured himself enough - your next kiss pressed to the worried crease between his eyebrows.

“I know.”

Your hand finds his with a gentle, coaxing tug, “Come on.”

Clothes are peeled off each other until you both finish stripping bare. Turning on and stepping under the warm spray together, his body pressing close to yours. Fingers tracing the curve of your shoulder, up to your jaw - cupping it in his hands as you press close to him again, sighing as the heat warms your skin.

His touch is reverant as he washes you - lathering up a washcloth, carefully wiping away the rain and grime from your skin. Eyes that never leave you as his fingers drift, following the soapy path.

Your mouths meet frequently, swallowing sighs and moans as he maps you with his touch. Never forgetting your soft curves, but merely reacquainting the way his hand feels as it cups the weight of your breast. Your body smooth and slick with soap as it slides against his.

His thumb eventually brushing over the taut peak of your nipple, mouth chasing yours as you groan, begging, “please Alfred, more-”

Unable to hide what you, your words, do to him - his hard length curving against your hip as his fingers grip the flesh at your hips, squeezing, before moving lower, between your thighs.

Parting you gently, fingertips ghosting down to pet at your folds, slipping deeper to where you’re wet and needy for him. His own sigh, the sound going sharp, deepening, when your hand pushes between you to wrap around his cock, squeezing and stroking.

Pulling them back to rub the pads of his fingers against your clit, your thighs spreading for him as you lean on the tiled wall for support. Dragging him with you, your hand wrapped around the back of his neck to keep him close.

The other hand on your hip roams - greedily - flattening his palm against the swell of your ass, grabbing soft skin to push you against the hand teasing your clit. Fingers slipping over slippery, soap-soaked skin, the tip of one brushing over the tight ring of muscle, the next pressing down against it with his grip.

It’s unintentional, erotic, and you find yourself keening into his mouth, hips jerking - the fist around his cock squeezing him tightly. His eyes open, voice low as he growls out an, “Oh, fuck-”

Disentangling himself from your grip as his mouth drops, lips pressing open, wet kisses against your throat, your breasts, the curve of your stomach.

Sinking to his knees in front of you, the scratch of his beard dragging over sensitive skin, before soothed with his hot, warm mouth. The pink peek of tongue between parted lips before he licks a stripe up your cunt.

Your moan echoes against the tile, hips flexing against his tongue - words almost a song as they tumble from your lips, “Fuck, baby-”

His eyes fluttering shut at the praise, eyelashes making sharp points against his cheeks from where they are soaked from the spray. An achingly-sweet clench in your gut as he groans against you, tongue lapping at your clit as your fingers push loose, damp strands back from his forehead, clinging to them to anchor yourself.

Alfred devours you, hands sliding up your shins, thighs. Pulling another groan from him as you tug on his hair, the sweet tang of you on his tongue as the pleasure pulses in your veins.

Moving until he’s cupping your ass again, tilting you against his mouth, his lips closing around and sucking as his fingers slip between the curve of your cheeks until they’re teasing you again.

Because of course he noticed how you reacted - the touch not one that was completely new. But it had been with him, and you think maybe he likes finding out what makes you moan. Committing each little part of you to memory.

You think you’d let him do anything he wanted. There’s such a quiet confidence to his movements, his eyes cracking open to gaze into yours, watching the way your head tilts back against the tile, feeling the minute flexes of your muscles as you clench around nothing.

He’ll take care of you. Here - now, and then after, and beyond. Things aren’t magically like before, seamlessly repaired. Your heart still hurts, a wound that’s still tender and sore at the edges. But it’s like a lens has finally come into focus, a puzzle piece sliding into place. You can see a bigger picture now, beyond your own small bubble.

He said he trusted you. And you trust him, too.

It leaves you feeling desperate, needy for him. You want him to take you, fuck you, fill you. Begging him for his cock, wanting to finish with him buried deep inside you.

Even though you know the answer before he says it - his head tilting back; your arousal glinting against his lips as he grits out his answer, “Not until you come.”

Because he always says that. And you always do.

“S-Stubborn.” You whine, the word panted between parted lips; his amused hum against your cunt.

In the steaming heat of the shower, the delicious pressure builds until you shatter, his hands gripping your thighs as you tremble against his mouth - dipping to press it against your entrance. Tasting your pleasure, smeared across his tongue, your fingernails pressing into the meat of his shoulders as the sounds of your moans overwhelm him.

Finally rising, his nose tracing the column of your neck, head still tipped back. Leaning down to kiss you, tongue darting into your mouth so you can taste yourself on his lips, a curving smile when he pulls back, countering your earlier remark.

“Thorough.”

Your laugh is soft, satisfied, arms winding around his shoulders. Pressing your own kisses to his jaw, neck, collarbone. Hips curving to meet his, the wet tip of his cock leaving a mark against your belly.

Fingers wrap around his length, hot and thick in your hand, angling it to slip between your thighs. Ghosting along your slit, slicking him up with your release.

“Patience,” he tells you, but it’s half-hearted as he bites back his own moan. “I want to take you to bed.”

Your teeth scrape against his shoulder, and the moan releases from his chest, your hips rolling to make another pass against him.

“Please?” Grinding against him, the tip catching against your clit and making you sigh, “I don’t want to get out yet.”

Tilting your head up, brushing his lips against yours, giving a gentle order, “Turn around.”

You turn eagerly, palms splaying against the tile, feet flat on the floor as you spread your legs. A gentle hand pressing against the small of your back, your hips angling until your breasts press against the tile as well.

When he leans back he can see all of you, shining and on display, for his eyes only. His broad hand wraps around his cock, pumping and squeezing.

He thinks he could easily get off just like this, just from looking at you - spilling himself across the swell of your ass, letting it drip down your holes.

It’s tempting, but not as much as feeling you wrapped snug around him.

“You want my cock, dove?” His question makes your body clench, heat licking up your limbs. Holding your breath as you peek over your shoulder at him, the dark, hungry glitter in his eyes. “Can’t wait, can you? Need me to fuck you right now?”

You nod as he steps forward, crowding you in, the blunt head of his cock pressing against your entrance. Holding himself there until you remember your words, a sighing stream of, “Yes, god yes- I need you to fuck me, please-”

His hips shifting forward, the sweet stretch as he nudges his way inside. Too far gone to mind the ache as he sinks in - your fingers and toes curling as you rock back to take more of him, as he fills you with a long, steady thrust.

Clenching around him when his hips sit flush with yours, hands gripping your hips. Mouth at your ear, his words already turning soft, broken.

“Christ, I missed you.”

A confession, drawn out of him - and you know it’s not as shallow or simple as him missing how you feel. It’s there, deeper, in the way he holds onto you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear. The press of his lips against the curled edge of the bandage on your shoulder, one he’ll fix later.

The way his chest presses into your back, the hands on your hip curling around to embrace you, covering a breast, splaying across your stomach.

“I missed you, too.” Your head turns, tilting back so his lips can slot against yours, sighing into your mouth.

His hips setting a steady pace - sliding back, a shallow thrust back in. The heat of the running water making you feel warm, dizzy. The slap of skin on skin filling the small space, goosebumps raising on your arms with each of his rough, harsh breaths in your ear.

Meeting each thrust of his hips as you rock back, the slide of his cock setting your nerves alight, each thrust pressing deep inside. The hand on your stomach dipping to circle your clit again - he’s not sure how much longer he’ll last with you wrapped around him. Wanting to feel the tight pulse of your pussy as he comes.

“Perfect,” he groans, feeling you clench around him, “My perfect girl.”

The words make you whimper, eyes closing as your own hand drops from the wall to cup your other breast. His voice and the swipe of your thumb over a tight nipple building you up.

Your own sounds needy as you answer, “Yours.”

His hips jerk, losing rhythm - breath ragged in your ear. Slowly, he tries the word out, the edge of beard scraping your jaw as he moves closer, “Mine.”

It does something to you - you’re reaching back, your cheek pressing against the tile as you grasp for him, palm curving around the back of his neck.

“Oh my god.” You can feel it, the fire coiling in your belly, the tremble in your legs, “Say it again, I’m going to come-”

He does, the sound groaned out, desperate - hips snapping a little harder, faster.

“Mine.”

Repeating it, again and again as his fingertips rub against your clit. But it’s too much - there’s so very little in this world that is his. And yet here you are, in his arms, wanting him - his own pleasure racing down his spine until he can no longer hold it back.

His words dissolve into a broken moan, his thrusts going shallow as he keeps himself pressed deep. Wanting every inch to be buried in you as he comes. Fingers stuttering, but not stopping - trying to make sure you’re pulled over with him.

You can feel him, the throb of his cock as he coats your walls, your head tipped back to rest against his shoulder as you cry out. The feeling, his voice, sending you over with him - the edges of your vision going hazy as you come hard.

His answering groans with the tight, warm clench of your walls around his cock, your body going stiff in his arms. Milking the last of his release from him, taking every drop.

Listening with closed eyes to sweet sounds of your release, the decrescendo of your pretty moans until it’s just soft gasps and his name, sighed out between parted lips.

Sliding from you only when he has to, hands on your hips to turn you around so he can kiss you properly. Either of you unable to hold back the smile - the aching rush and need now expended, leaving you loose-limbed and contented.

Afterwards, hands still wander. His slipping against your inner thigh, fingers tracing where he drips from you - a moment of indulgence before he carefully wipes it away with a cloth. You fingers scratching along his scalp tangling in his hair as you wash it for him. The tension slowly easing from both until the water goes cold.

Bundling up in soft towels, warm robes as you wander into the bedroom - tugging open a drawer. Finding your spare set of clothes still inside, your heart flipping in your chest when you see them.

He kept them, your things still mixed with his. Your eyes soft and warm and full of so many swirling emotions as he slides a thumb across your cheek, reaching down to pluck his own clothes from the pile.

Alfred’s voice soft as the shirt tugs over his head, sitting on the bed as he pulls the sheets back, “You can sleep up here, where it’s comfortable. I’ll be back up as soon as I can.”

Your brow furrows, tugging the leggings up your thighs - soft against your skin, “Where are you going?”

“Back downstairs, I want to be close if I’m needed.”

Fingers fit together as you grab his hand, pressing it to your lips, “Can I go with you?”

He smiles, and you go together - arms laden with spare blankets, pillows. Taking the lift down, finding Bruce still sleeping, the color back in his cheeks.

Flattening the futon nearby, making the best of the narrow space - layering the bedding. Finding a way to fit onto it together, limbs tangled, his nose buried in your hair, chest pressed flush against you.

Far from comfortable… but you were together.

And that was all that mattered.

Thank you so much for reading! Would love to know what you think! 💖

(taglist - @rescuethewretched, @stalinsthirsttrap, @slavicwitchling, @zinzinina, @bacarasbabe, @kakashibabe02, @princessxkenobi, @maskhoper, @thelastemzy, @celestianstars, @squidlywiddly87)

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