Word counts and prices can be discussed, no worries. ^^ Ko-fi

If you want to see what my writing looks like, then just go here to see the fics that I’ve written. Or visit my AO3. Commission samples below: 

Samples, more below the keep reading section:

Bruce who does want children, who wants to grow old and settle down, who wants to see grandchildren and spoil them.

Yes! My favourites are Musa and Techna, mostly because I love that Techna has seen leaning toward the tech-inspired/streetwear combination, it was cool. And Techna would present as pretty androgynous at some times with her outfits, I just loved it.

Musa because there really wasn't that many Asian representation in media at the time. If there was, it usually cartoons set in Asia, like Boboiboy (something something, I had a crush on him, specifically Wind/Cyclone Boboiboy) or Upin and Ipin.

Never really outside of that realm, because it's typically just the typical white teen dominating media.

Also, I just really love Musa's colours, the red, purples, and deep blues with some hints of pink at times were such a great combination. Also, Musa with streetwear who loves music. And I just loved Musa as a whole. She really should've just ditched Riven early though.

Like, girl, please, you can do so much better. Better yet, find a girlfriend instead.

I talked about it before but Bruce is 100% a fairy! (In my mind the transformations only go up to Harmonix because Harmonix is great.) Bruce has Harmonix and he's the Great Nymph of Gotham.

All his boys from Dick to Duke are fairies, Damian is still trying to figure out his powers, but he doesn't have his fairy transformation yet. He will though when he gets older.

Jason has Enchantix and Dick has Believix. They all get their Harmonix forms eventually.

Cass, Steph, and Barbara are all Specialists! Because I said so.

Bruce used to be enrolled as a Specialist until he finally stopped hiding the fact that he's a fairy and enrolled to Alfea to hone his powers.

Drunken, proud grins painted on their faces. Egotistical, cocky, and disgusting.

The speak of the things they plan to do once they're crowned King. Talk as if the Queen has chosen a suitor. Boast as if their win is as sure as the sun rises with each morning.

It leaves him with his blood boiling as he listens to them speak, it has his sight turning red, his body taut with restraint to not move.

He should've left.

He knew it. He should have left as soon as he could. He never should have returned.

Perhaps his long journey had been the sign from the gods that he was never supposed to return.

Perhaps killing that baby had been the test—one that he'd failed. And the consequence is 20 long years away from his babe, his son no doubt a man now with years lost to time, away from his lovely wife, his Queen, his life.

Bruce would never take him back, if he knew all he'd done to get here. Bruce wouldn't love a monster, forever stained in the blood of his brothers.

Bruce wouldn't be able to look at him now—the man he once he knew, the man he once married, forever gone.

Getting up to leave, he's stopped as a man's roaring, gruff cackle echoes above the elation of every man present.

"Don't you see the Queen is playing us for fools?!" He slams his cup of ale, spilling the drink, sticky on his hands and the table. Roughly, he stands up and walks up to where the bow is perched, displayed as a reminder of the challenge about to take place tomorrow.

And takes it.

Watching, in the flicking torch-light he notices the sheen of the wood. How polished and cared for it is. Had his wife been maintaining it in his stead?

Had his wife been looking out for his favourite bow, with their promise consuming him every day?

Had Bruce been waiting—Bruce has been waiting. The bow has no signs of wear, no signs of brittleness from disuse over the years.

Warmth grows within his chest as he keeps his gaze upon the bow, gripped by two strange hands.

The man who'd grabbed it scoffs, the crowd's attention taken by him. "The Queen wants us to string some stupid fucking bow? Can't you see this is just another one of his ploys to keep us at bay?

"How long!" He screams as he throws the bow away, the wood clatters on the stone floor, away from sight, "How long as he kept us here, fed with scraps like we're mere dogs! Where's your rage! Your anger! How long have we been waiting, stuck here while the Queen does whatever the fuck he wants! I say we take what's ours."

Interested murmuring consumes the hall, and his stomach drops.

"How'd you propose we do that?"

The man's grin is unnaturally wide, stretching from ear to ear, teeth glinting menacingly in the glow of the fire. "That bastard brat of a prince is coming back tomorrow. I heard he's set to land in the early morning.

"We can ambush him, take him by surprise—cut off any potential usurpers from stopping us. Then, we cut him limb from limb and feed his body to the creatures at sea. No more of that bastard Kal's blood running amok to stop us."

He spots someone nodding their head in agreement, a few are talking about taking their weapons from the armory.

"Screw this damn challenge, I'm not stringing some trick bow." The man walks to the nearest table, smile in place, "I'm going to take the Queen—I'm going to watch him run. I'm going to hold him down while I get a taste—that fucking bitch must be aching for cock at this point."

A whole table cackles with laughter, "Probably touches himself every night all alone. We can change that."

"We can hold him down, make him choke on our cocks—he'd delighted to finally have a man take him to bed again."

"Make him bear our children. He's a good breeder."

"His cunt will be as tight as a virgin."

"Or as loose as a whore's, more like. Probably have his servants fucking him every night in that needy cunt."

"No better than a bitch in heat."

"Make him work for it."

"The feistier, the better!"

"We'll spread his legs wide and open, and have him take three of us, he'll be wide enough after popping out that bastard son."

"Oh, he'll fucking sing!"

The laughter grows louder, the cackles and the jeering. They plan of breaking down the Queen's bedroom door. They speak of shoving the Queen to the floor. They cheer of raping the Queen for all to see—

And the blood in his veins sing with anger. They all speak as if he's dead, talk as if he'll never return. Two decades gone, they smear his name and his blood to boast their own dirt across the life he'd worked so hard for.

They gather as their revelry changes its reason. Their drunken breaths traced with malice, with treason, with hurt and pain.

In all their cheering, jeering glory, they abandon the tables they occupy as they gather around their new-found leader. Their voices overlapping, eager to scheme.

No one notices as the weapons they left disappearing from the reckless places they left it in, no respect for the tools they wield. No honour in the blade they hold.

He takes his bow amidst their planning. They're talking of routes to take, where to hide, how to take over an anchored shipped and take his son by surprise.

His hands move with familiarity. Restringing his bow is child's play. It'd been so long since he'd strung it yet the string easily catches on the groove, the tension easily makes itself known.

The weight of it in his hands is a one that he recalls all too well. And it only takes a breath as he shoots the arrow cleanly across the room, right at the man's throat.

He watches as the man chokes, gurgling on his own blood as it spills down his skin, staining his robes of dark crimson. His hands barely have time to lift before he's falling to the floor in a thud that leaves the room stunned.

The man is wheezing, his blood is pooling, gathering out of his mouth, body convulsing as he tries to take a breath, fingers clawing at his own skin, digging along where the arrow is piercing through his flesh, remnants of sinew clinging to the metal tip.

The whites of his eyes are red, slithering tendrils of blood vessels popping, bursting from the lack of air.

He takes his time as he listens to the man struggling, as a pool of blood gathers, spilling out of his mouth, bubbling from the air he tries to breathe.

"20 years is a time that I will never be able to reverse." The men around the hall all shuffle, taking cautious steps back, "20 years of sorrow, pain, and rage." He stops to stand right next to the body convulsing pathetically on the floor.

The blood seeps into the leather of his footwear, some creep up and touch his skin with its losing warmth.

"20 years, my hands have been stained with blood and battle. Every god, nymph, and monster I have faced just to see my wife and son once more." Gritting his teeth, he raises a foot and stomps it down onto the man's stomach.

"I have endured every single suffering just to come home. And what do I get?" Bending down, he snaps the protruding half of the arrow and stabs it right into the man's eye. "Suitors with plans to kill my son and rape my wife."

He twists the arrow and the incessant gurgling finally, finally stops.

"Run for your lives!"

The men scramble as they take to the hallways, out of the great hall to save their life.

He doesn't hesitate he draws his bow and shoots the men with their backs turned.

He rips the cloak he wears and lets it pool into a blood-soaked spot on the floor as his sword is a steady weight by his waist as he hunts the halls.

"Where're our weapons?!" His head is easy, the torch's light casting heat and shadows across his face. His mouth remains agape as he falls head first with tongue cut by an arrow tip, wood splintering through his throat as his blood pools around him.

"Take cover!"

"Where!?" He cries out with a grunt as a sword pierces through his chest—no armour to protect him, flimsy silken robes cut into shreds as the sword is pulled out, and the back of his knee is sliced.

There's the pattering of panicked footfalls hitting the floor, and he aims down at the running suitor's thigh and listens to him wail as he goes down into a tumble.

-

The wailing echoes. It breaks through the silence of the night. Distantly, he can hear the faint pleas of mercy and peace.

And his heart jumps in his throat. Could it be?

In his impulsivity, he'd reached the bedroom doors, closed and locked. There's a scream that travels followed by a sobbing beg. Could it be?

He wants to open the doors, he wants to run down the halls, he wants to know—

But he keeps his doors locked. He takes his place on the edge of their wedding bed, and lets his back face the door.

His axe hidden beneath the bed, within his reach should he need it.

He doesn't want to hope. Yet he wants to hope.

Instead, he waits.

-

"Old king, please, I-I—m-mercy!"

He laughs in the cowering man's face, snot and tears and piss all over the floor. The man's leg is twisted, bent at an angle as the blood of his fellow suitor is splattered across his frame.

"I showed mercy once." He stabs the man's thigh and listens to him screech in pain, "It led to me watching my own men die." He pulls his sword out and hacks down at the man's hand.

And as the man's mouth parts wide and open, he reaches forward and stabs it through the skull, before twisting the blade vertically and slicing upwards. The man's head splits into two.

A few have been brazen enough to try and plan to ambush him in the darkness of his palace.

They gather, foolishly in one of the halls leading to the gardens, voices lowed into whispers.

"You don't think I know the palace I built with my own two hands?"

They scramble then to try and attack him.

One of them had their stomach sliced open, gutted out and spilling unto the floor with a wet squelch.

One of them charged with a shout that died the moment his head is cut from his own neck.

One of them tries to attack him from behind, wrapping an arm around his neck with a pathetic attempt to choke him out.

He drops his sword with a clatter to the floor. The man lets out a breathy, disbelieved laughter. With the man's attention on the sword on the floor, he holds onto the man's biceps on either side of his neck and drops down to displace their weight, momentum taking the man off guard as he stumbles forward.

Using the motion, he flips the man on his back with a slam, he presses his knees, uses his entire weight to pin the man against the chest and curls his fist into a ball.

He doesn't stop even as the nose breaks and bleeds. He doesn't stop as the eyes turn lidded and black. He doesn't stop the broken teeth burrow into the skin of his knuckles.

He doesn't until the man's skull is cracked open, a splash of red staining his palace floor, soaking into the crevices and grooves of the stone beneath him.

He doesn't stop until the man's heart stops beating.

-

"Our weapons-!"

The armour brims with their blades; their axes and their swords, their shields and their bows. They lay in a discarded heap amongst the ones that the soldiers of the palace use.

"Quick, take your weapons—"

"Do you not find it strange that the King would leave his armour unlocked for us to find?"

"Who the fuck cares? We can finally take him! A single man against all of us—he wouldn't stand a chance—"

-

"M-my King!" The man cries, "Please! I-I was a soldier, y-you tra-trained me! My loyalty lies with you! I beg for your mercy, your Majesty! I can guard your halls—"

He takes the man by the hair and slices his sword right between the top half and bottom half of the suitor's lips. He makes it slow and pain.

He kicks the man's stomach when he struggles, he watches as fearful eyes roll back, he endures the blunt grime-filled nails scratch at his skin and leave welts along his flesh.

He cuts as if he were chopping through fruit. Sawing the sharp blade through muscle and bone.

"No."

-

The sand still clings to his skin as he'd run from the shoreline.

He still reeks of salt water and days-long of travel. But he doesn't care.

The winds were in their favour, carrying them fast along the ocean's surface within a week's worth of travel.

His stomach growls with hunger, and the excitement bubbles. He can picture the shock and joy in his mother's face as he bursts through the halls upon his arrival.

He can smell the meal his mother would make, just for him.

He can taste the iron of blood that floods the air—

There's bodies littering the hall, blood on the walls, along the column pillars, and the lead in a trail of red to the great hall.

Laying on the floor just by the steps of the dais of his parents' thrones is Jax—the bastard's eye rolled to the back of his head and drowning in his own blood.

A broken arrow head is standing, pierced through his left eye.

Good riddance, really. He doesn't feel an ounce of shame as he spits at his rotting face.

Slowly, he takes in the faces of the men that cover the hall's floor and walls—his mother's suitors.

Dead and rotting, bodies growing colder. Some have their arms out stretched as if they crawled away from their assailant.

Their limbs are cut, arrows on their backs, piercing through their skulls, a hand, a leg, a head missing from the bodies it was previously attached to.

He doesn't hesitate as he draws his axe from his hip and follows the trail of dead men.

-

"Look who it is."

"I said, drop your weapons."

The suitors jeer. He's heard wolves that can laugh better than they can.

"You with your tiny little axe think you can take all of us?"

"Maybe if you take us to your mother, we'll let you live long enough to turn into a whore like him-!"

They draw their weapons, "Attack!"

Running out of the armory, he takes to the halls for better space.

One of them comes charging with their sword raised, which he manages to dodge, using the blunt handle of his axe to stab the man's stomach who wheezes from the action.

Another charges at him with a shield, knocking him back into a pillar. It knocks the wind of out him as he leans his weight against the stone and follows the surface to go around it. He manages to strike quick enough and hit the man's back, body pinned to the column.

There's one who swings their mace at him, embedding into the stone with a crack.

He retaliates by taking his axe and cutting the man at the knee, kicking him across the face when the man goes down.

A man with a sword manages to take him by surprise, hacking through his armour and slicing through his flank.

Then his comrade comes and uses a bow to pull his head back, the wood pressing right against his throat, making it difficult to breathe.

One of them forgoes their weapon of choice just to punch him in the face.

"We have you now." Their leader sneers, "The King wouldn't stand a chance against us with you by our side."

His ears are ringing—his warmth spilling from his side, they're lying. They must be.

Then, the leader turns to his fellow suitors, "We'll use him to make the kind stand down."

Gripping his axe, he risks a swing, the blade makes contact with a neck and blood spurts him, hot and sticky on the face.

The man using the bow to choke him procures a knife and presses the tip to his throat. "You little fucking bitch—" Whatever he was about to say ends with a wet cough.

The hold on the bow loosens. One of the suitors still standing takes a step back, and points their sword at him.

"One more step or I'll break the kid's hands."

"Try me." A voice growls.

The sword is raised, only for it to fall with a metallic clang as the man's body hit the floor. His head is cut in half.

Swaying, he falls to his hands on the floor as his own blood soaks through the tunic and leathers he wears, trailing down his waist, to his thigh, pooling where his knees are knelt on the unforgiving floor.

An arrow is shot in front of him as the remaining suitor tries to flee. Body falling with a muffled thud.

He doesn't hear any foot falls approach him but he tries to cling on, blinking away the haze of his vision. He tries to breathe through the pain and ache, he tries not to think about his stomach spilling out of him.

It hurts and he can't let his tears cling to his lashes and dampen his cheeks.

Feet appear in front of him and it takes instinct and fear to make himself move, wielding his axe and crowding himself back.

The man in front of him kneels, hair long and covering his face, beard greying and scruffy. His cheeks are gaunt and his gaze are haunted, but the they soften at the edges as their eyes meet.

I think Tavros as Martha could work actually. He and Karkat don't have to be such close friends at the start, and and Karkat finds out that Gamzee and Tavros are actually best friends, he starts to feels remorseful for ever being mean or indifferent towards him.

It could also help in Karkat completely separating himself from the Heathers.

I don't think Sollux could work, mostly because, yeah, you're right, he just wouldn't really give a damn.

Maybe June could be Karkat's first friend, just before meeting the Heathers, and just like with Tavros, feels bad for acting like a bitch towards her when he eventually starts acting like a Heather.

They discover an unusually large male specimen that they label as a good potential breeder, Absolute Bruce Wayne.

Post the destruction of Krypton, Kal-El has been traveling. He finds he wants to settle and have children, but how?

The astralus bizarre is where he finds his answer, on an auction block, and alien his computer indicates is a viable breeding partner.

Absolute Kal buys Absolute Bruce and takes him to an alien homestead on an otherwise uninhabited world that he's slowly been making perfect.

Trad Wife Bruce. Alien Abduction. And mpreg all in one.

Kal who looks dainty and ready to snap in half, is actually pretty strong. And Bruce is so used to people assuming that he's always strong, that he's the peak of what it means to be a man, to be masculine.

Bruce is so surprised to be treated like a princess--like a queen, that he was a bit resistant at first.

He tells Kal that he can do things on his own, that he's fine by himself. Because at this point, any chance of him going back to Earth is null, so he's just trying to make sense of what his new life will be, he's treating the whole thing as if he and Kal are just roommates and not... Mates.

It all culminates in him finally exploding on Kal. Telling Kal to stop, to just let him be, that he's not some damsel, that he can take care of himself.

So it takes him completely by surprised, has him flat-footed and dumbfounded, when Kal, very earnestly, very quietly tells him that he knows that Bruce can take care of himself, that he can handle it just fine.

But Kal wantsto do all these things. He wants to chop firewood for their fireplace to keep warm in the cold nights, he wants to plant and cultivate food for Bruce to eat and be healthy, he wants to build the house--the home that Bruce would feel safe in. And he wants Bruce to see despite it all, Kal is just as lonely as he is.

Takes time, sure, but eventually, Bruce does warm up to Kal, he does let Kal do most of the manual labour, so much so that the 5% fat that Bruce used to have on his body as turned into more.

He isn't just skin, bone, and pure muscle anymore. Bruce's thighs are softer, his hips have love-handles now that Kal loves to hold, his chest is softer and rounder, and Bruce catches Kal staring at his cleavage more often than not.

Bruce himself catches himself staring at his own cleavage, the definition of it, wearing clothes that he sew from the threads that Kal helped spin.

There's a bit of fat under Bruce's face that gives him a 'second' chin when he angles his head down enough.

And Bruce finds himself lingering around Kal. Kal has always worked shirtless, always soaking up the sun their little planet revolves around, Kal has his hair tied up or sometimes, he'd wear a bandana to keep his hair from getting on his face and into his eyes.

Bruce finds himself enjoying the small little touches that he's given, shivers and tucks himself by Kal's side whenever Kal places his hand on the small of his back.

Despite his size, Bruce finds himself making himself smaller, softer, tender, daintier around Kal, around this man who provides for him, makes him safe, comforted, and fed.

The first time they have sex, it practically lasts an entire week. Just a week of them being unable to separate, Bruce is taken from the back, the front, in his mouth, bent over, on his knees, standing, against the wall.

They've christened every part of the home they've built, they christened the garden that they cultivate, hell they've had so much sex on the porch and on the grass itself, the grass around is practically a second bed.

It doesn't take them by surprise that Bruce is pregnant within a week of them first having sex.

At first, I was going to say it's unlikely that would be since it's that easy to clean definitive markers, but then again the AI models out there are competing with each other and if one version can be easily passed as another, that'd be bad for business, so I'll probably keep an eye on that

The thing that also makes me laugh is knowing how these models and their free versions work, and how more limiting they are becoming now that the returns aren't nowhere near enough to keep them afloat. Most models have a limit of how many messages they can generate for free every 5 hours, with ChatGPT being limited to a little over than 10 and Claude around 40

So the most prolific untagged Claude users who pump a ton of updates or big chapters would need to pay actual money for more text generation without the 5 hour cooldown

Which means there is a chance that the people who don't even try to clear the markers might also be paying for a text bot to do the fic

Yeah, someone's creating a code using the one that's circulating right now that's for Claude. Apparently they're still testing it out.

In other news, I doubt people would be smart enough to even clean the texts up considering that these people just... Copy and paste directly onto the HTML, or, maybe even right into the Rich text box, so they wouldn't really know what to look for, either way, lmaooo.

Also, yeah, they definitely would use a text bot for it. 🤣

Listen... My mother used my money to pay for Claude (it had to be used for work) and let me tell you. No amount of me telling her to stop made her stop, lmao.

The only reason she went from ChatGPT to Claude is because ChatGPT's so much worse to use now, apparently.

Well, good thing is, is that the subscription for it has finally been cancelled. But yeah.

If that person copy and pasted the Claude text into any other word processor, like Word or Google Docs or Ellipsus or even Discord, copy the text from said word processor and then put it into AO3, it'll clear the Claude marker, which means the code won't work

This only catches the occasions the person was too lazy to bother trying to hide it, essentially. And it's only Claude too, other AI gen don't have this sort of marker and there are a bunch of other AI gen in the wild

I'm mentioning how it works since learning the exact mechanics and limitations helps with my own anxiety about this situation. While this produces no false positives, it relies on the person not bothering to clear the marker off

(And if someone mentions it'll only be used to harass people to make false positives or something, remember people could and did something called "This person left an AI prompt but edited out!!1 Trust me!!11!" even before this code happened)

Oh, yeah. I do know and understand how the code works, I'm just real anxious for no reason, lmao!

Also, the whole witch hunt for authors who are and aren't using AI was just awful, yeah.

It's both a shame and a pity to see so many getting caught using generative AI when they were the people who said that they don't use it.

The call is coming from inside the house, as the saying goes, after all.

This new method, with an actual working code to show the remnants of generative AI html code, it really helps to show who do and don't use AI.

And it's just... Well, ironic. I'm not going to say how it's shameful or whatever, I understand that generative AI, in some ways can feel useful. But it's not... Art. It's not passion or emotion.

It's just someone putting in a prompt and claiming to have done the work when they haven't.

Also, speaking of other AIs, there's actually someone currently developing a code using as a base the one that's been made to detect Claude AI, to find the remnants of ChatGPT or Gemini.

Clark would be pumping Bruce until Bruce is all bloated and leaking.

Each time Clark goes back in to fuck him, the cum squelches, and it froths around his cock and Bruce's cunt.

Their sheets are so stained, it leaked down to the mattress with both their sweat and cum and Bruce's delicious squirt.

Clark keeps cumming in Bruce's cunt and cervix until Bruce's abdomen is all bloated, he looks like he's about 4-6 weeks pregnant. Then Clark plugs Bruce up with a thick princess plug to make sure that none of it leaks out.

Clark is laying on the bed while Bruce is laying stomach first, purposefully gagging himself on Clark's cock, sucking and licking at the head, slurping any precum at the slit like he's sipping through a straw and trying to get at every crevice he can.

Bruce showers his face with cum every time Clark cums, rubs it into his face before going back in to suck him again.

Bruce can't keep his tongue inside his mouth because he's either always being kissed by Clark or always sucking Clark off.

The storm had left him weary. Ichor covered hands, calloused fingers still quivering. There's the tiniest fleck of dark brown blood, stuck deep in his nail bed.

7 long years of wandering in some unknown island hadn't been enough to rid him of his sins.

The room is quiet as hands remain raised. A pair of blue eyes counting each one, assessing, evaluating.

After a pause, he asks, "Those in opposition?" The hands come down, and only one rises.

It doesn't reach up above the heads to be noticed, doesn't raise itself higher than chest level, and the room remains quiet.

They all know how this will go. And with years of experience, of familiarity, there's no need for them to react. Their words will matter when it needs to be. But in this occasion, they're content to leave it as is.

"Votes that are in favour have been vetoed by the opposition." Suddenly, the room breathes in a collective exhale. As if it has to wait for permission to be allowed breath.

The hand comes down, silent and graceful as it rests on the table's surface, lithe fingers twining together.

He's just about to move on to the next topic when a chair clatters, palms hitting the table with a raucous slam.

Next to him, a sigh of exasperation, imperceptible to those who don't know how to spot it or don't have superhearing.

"Yes?" He asks, calm, collected. Cold. No one's been... Bold enough to cause such an outrage before.

Then again, the children were trained directly, learned discipline, respect, and also held the same high regard for their mother as he does.

This child wasn't theirs.

"Vetoed? By one vote? I-I worked hard to be in this team—I'm not asking to be part of t-the Founders or anything like that, I'm just trying to be part of the actual team! Instead I'm being babied around, it's not fair!"

He's just about to speak when the presence beside him shifts, a subtle movement, a displacement of the air surrounding them.

He settles down, closing his mouth and taking in a breath that he doesn't really need.

"You're questioning my vote?"

The younger member—a new one, recently joined, a fresh recruit, still trying so hard to prove their worth—gapes, mouth flapping like a fish for a moment before ultimately hardening their resolve.

"Yes. Yes, I am." They lean forward, shifting their weight to the palms still on the table as their eyes narrow into a glare. "I'm ready to be out there—to help. I know I've proven my worth, I've trained." Turning to the rest of the founding members around the table, they add, "It's just one vote. You're really not letting me out on the field just because Batman said so?"

The members barely even shift in their seat. Barely react, barely bat an eye. There's really no need for them to make any counter arguments to Batman's decision.

Besides, if they had anything to say, they could—they can. They just don't need to in this instance. Why waste time on something so, well, callow.

As much as they like to tease and joke one another about it, the years really have gotten to them. They don't have time to argue or have petty squabbles like they used to.

"Does anyone have any objection to the vote?" He asks, casts his gaze about the room, at his friends—their pack.

"Nope," Hal shrugs his shoulders, pushes and balances his chair on it's two legs as he kicks his feet up to the table. When he nearly falls over, he rolls his eyes at the look directed at him, but rights himself either way.

Barry shakes his head, doesn't hide the snack he's opening beneath the table on his lap. Arthur looks impatient, twitchy in the way he gets when he wants to be in the water.

Shayera simply shakes her head and states, "No." His eyes land on Diana's.

She has a pause to her posture as if in consideration, but then, she turns to the younger member, the one they had voted for, the one they favoured ready to be out in the field, yet so easily deferred when Batman had vetoed.

"Why do you question Batman's vote?" She asks, gentle in her nature yet succinct in her action. She's curious, not interrogative.

"Wh—because!" The young one gestures at Batman's figure who remains still, watching, "He's just one vote! Why—How is he allowed to veto a majority? I mean, c'mon, he's Batman."

The air stills with tension as everyone around the table freezes.

He can feel his eyes warming, blood bubbling, and snarl threatening to pull his lips back to bare his canines.

"I—"

He knows his eyes has tinged red. He doesn't care. "You will be trained, directly by me." The young pup quivers, a barely there, thready whine swallowed forcefully as they stand frozen on their spot.

Their throat bobs with another swallow as they finally bow their head, baring their nape despite the skin being covered by the collar of their suit. Shoulders jumping up and down, body trembling as they pull their chair back to sit down.

"Kal, down." It's whispered, quietly, stately. A command, a plea, a phantom hand guiding an alpha down from their rage.

Keeping their head down, listening as a crooning omega lets out a chirp. Just a small one—a near click of the tongue-like noise, and the growl bubbling from Superman's chest switches to a rumble—a tense reply.

When the growling stops and the air eases back from its tension, they carefully lift their head up, just for a peek.

The alpha at the head of the table has closed his eyes, the golden diadem around his head glimmers from the fluorescent light above, the white cape he wears has loosened to flow off the sides of his shoulders.

The golden, shimmering crest on his chest is blinding.

And it feels like a lie. The more they look, the more they see a facade, the thin lines of a plastic smile, the creases around eyes that force themselves to curve.

The greys and silvers of his hair and beard work to disarm—the practiced ease of his posture drawing one in.

But the power, the control, they reside, crashing against the shore of tightly held restraint.

And realisation comes. They may have powers, but Superman, leashed by Batman's side, is otherworldly.

Atlas with the world on his shoulder with his wife perched daintily by his side.

A black mask, as dark as the night, enveloped by shadows, with thin tendrils of crimson red on each side framing the mask covering Batman's head, circular white lenses turn and stare straight at them.

"Dismissed." The command is absolute, no tone or inflection in it to allow a question. A hint of hesitant non-existent.

They barely even realise it as they stand, mind controlling their body before it could truly register.

The door slides closed behind them with a hiss, barring them out. For a moment, they just simply stand there, staring at nothing.

It takes sheer will and force to keep walking all the way to the temporary quarters they've been assigned to.

Interesting question.

Now tropes that I love to apply to superbat? God, it'd be the size/height difference. Whether it's in canon or just my AUs, I love how there's this bit of size difference between them.

Best friends to lovers is another one. Something about them just having established such a strong bond and then turning it into something romantic is adorable to me.

Strangers or love at first sight is cute too.

Girlypop Bruce with slight internalised homophobia Clark is something I love. I don't think I've fully implemented it into a fic before (at least any published fics) but I always like to think that Bruce helped Clark see that romance and relationships aren't just two opposites, and that it can be more. Because as much as I like how Clark is so incredibly accepting, there's also a reality of Clark being sheltered or had his views skewed slightly when it comes to relationships, growing up in such a tight-knit small town.

Another one is definitely angst. "But that's not a classic trope", considering how much angst, convoluted or otherwise, there was in old BL (think Junjou Romantica and what not), I'm considering it a classic trope. Angst is just very versatile, and I can't go through writing a fic without, at least, a bit of angst in it. Especially for SuperBat.