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hiiii cutie!! may i request a batfamily x batmom!reader where theyre on a plane (i know he has his own but for story’s sake he uses public airlines) and encounter a really mean old lady who finds discomfort with the family for some reason or other and makes it reader’s problem until bruce comes back from talking with the pilot or restroom or wtv and the old lady sees this and immediately goes hush. i just think thatd be so funny
Please Secure Your Attitude for Takeoff
Pairing: Batfamily x Batmom!AFAB!Reader
Words: 4k
Content Warning: None!
A/N: Hiiii!! Finally getting through my request inbox, yay!
Enjoy, Reader
This was going to be a shitshow.
You knew it the moment you arrived with Bruce Wayne at the public airport with seven children, two garment bags, far too many carry-ons, and the serene, devastating confidence of a man who had never once been personally humbled by boarding group numbers, overhead bin politics, or the particular little purgatory of removing shoes while an entire security line breathed down the back of his neck.
He had said it would be fine, because Bruce always said things would be fine in that low, steady voice that made disaster sound like an administrative inconvenience waiting for his signature.
The private jet was unavailable, which you strongly suspected meant one of the children had broken something expensive, another had attempted to hide the evidence badly, and Alfred had decided, with all the silent cruelty of a man who polished silverware like a verdict, that commercial air travel was the natural consequence.
So Bruce had bought first-class tickets, guided everyone through the airport with one warm hand at the small of your back, and said, “It will be good for them.”
You had looked up at him beneath the harsh airport lights, surrounded by travelers, rolling luggage, crying toddlers, and the smell of burnt coffee. “For them?”
“For all of us,” Bruce had said, which was much worse.
“That sounds like something said immediately before a tragedy.”
“It’s only a few hours.”
That was only an hour ago. Now the plane hums around you, that strange hush that only happens in the air, all of you sealed inside a narrow metal body above the clouds, breathing the same cold, recycled air. The engines drone low and steady, interrupted by the occasional soft chime overhead. Sunlight presses in through the oval windows, pale and bright, turning the leather seats glossy and catching on the plastic cups scattered across tray tables.
The cabin smells faintly of coffee, expensive perfume, warm electronics, and the sharp, artificial chill of pressurized air. Dick sits across the aisle, already adored by two flight attendants and a toddler with a dinosaur backpack. Dick Grayson could make polite eye contact with a vending machine and leave it feeling understood.
Jason has a paperback open in one hand, but he looks less like he’s reading and more like he’s daring the entire concept of literature to pick a fight. Your heart pulls a little when you catch him checking, just once, to see if you noticed the title; one of the stray, silent ways he still asks for approval, as if old habits might let him believe he is only visiting home.
Tim is behind you, laptop open, soul halfway gone, fighting sleep with the tragic dignity of a vigilante fighting bedtime. You remember the year you learned to make strong tea just the way he prefers, so he wouldn’t fade during finals.
Cass has already taken the laptop before it can slide off the tray table, moving so quietly that Tim just blinks at his empty hands like a magician stole his future. She gives you a fleeting, conspiratorial smile, the kind she reserves only for family.
Duke wears a travel pillow and watches the cabin with the mild amusement of someone waiting for the plot to thicken. On mornings when the world feels heavy, you still call him your little sun.
Damian sits beside you, sketchbook open in his lap, drawing Titus in what looks like a cape and a small, deeply judgmental cowl. He leans a little into your shoulder as he draws, a closeness he pretends is absent, but you know is his version of trust.
Bruce had been seated on your other side until ten minutes after takeoff, when a flight attendant leaned down and murmured something about the captain wanting a word. His eyes had shifted in that subtle way you recognized, attention sharpening behind the mask of a polite billionaire, and he had touched your wrist before standing.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he said.
“You said that once and came back with a child.”
Jason coughed into his fist, and Dick suddenly became very interested in the safety card.
Bruce’s mouth barely twitched. “No more children.”
“Do you promise?”
“For the rest of the flight.”
“Romantic,” you said, and he brushed his thumb once over the inside of your wrist before disappearing toward the front galley, broad shoulders making the aisle look unfairly narrow as he moved past the curtain.
For approximately thirty seconds, there was peace.
Then the woman in 3C cleared her throat.
It was not an ordinary throat clear. It was a declaration of war wearing pearls, the sort of sound produced by someone who had been storing disapproval in her chest since boarding and had finally decided the cabin deserved access to it. You looked up and found her turned just enough in her seat to face you without fully committing to the indignity of twisting around.
She was elderly, elegant, and stiff-backed, with a silver bob sprayed into submission, coral lipstick, a cream cardigan buttoned over a pale blouse, and a handbag resting in her lap like a judgmental pet. Her eyes swept across Damian’s sketchbook, Jason’s jacket, Tim’s half-dead posture, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s watchful amusement, Dick’s easy charm, and finally settled on you with the hard little satisfaction of a woman who had found the person she intended to make responsible for her discomfort.
You knew that look. You had seen versions of it in school offices, charity events, grocery stores, hospital waiting rooms, and once in a museum where Damian had been accused of “lurking with intent” beside a Monet. It was the look people gave when they saw your family and decided love had exceeded the legal occupancy limit.
You gave her your politest smile. “Can I help you?”
“I certainly hope so,” she said.
Damian’s pencil paused against the page.
Dick leaned slightly into the aisle with that bright, well-meaning expression that made strangers believe diplomacy might survive the century. “Is something wrong, ma’am?”
The woman glanced at him, seemed briefly inconvenienced by the power of his face, then recovered. “I was speaking to the mother.”
Jason turned a page without looking up. “Which one? We rotate emotional support adults.”
“Jason,” you murmured.
The woman’s lips pinched. “That is exactly what I mean.”
You folded your hands in your lap because if you gave them nothing respectable to do, one might drift toward Damian’s wrist in warning or Jason’s shoulder in preemptive damage control. “What do you mean?”
“The noise,” she said. “The whispering, the constant shifting, the atmosphere.”
Duke blinked. “The atmosphere?”
“Yes,” she said, as if he had personally released a weather system into first class.
The bleakest part is that no one had been loud. The Wayne children in public could be many things, but when they needed to, they went quiet. Not normal quiet. Dangerous quiet. Rooftop quiet. The kind of quiet that makes sensible people check the exits and wonder why their instincts have started ringing little silver bells.
“I’m sorry you’re uncomfortable,” you said. “We’ll be mindful.”
“Mindful would have been arranging yourselves properly before boarding,” she replied, lifting her chin. “Children should not be scattered across the cabin like loose change.”
Jason’s eyes lifted over the top of his book.
The air changed almost imperceptibly, and a silk thread pulled tight. Dick’s smile stayed in place, but the warmth thinned at the edges. Cass’s gaze moved to the woman with calm precision. Duke straightened a little. Damian lowered his pencil, his mouth flattening into the expression he wore when deciding whether a person deserved mercy or a footnote.
“They’re in assigned seats,” you said.
“They’re practically surrounding people.”
“We do that,” Tim mumbled, still half-asleep. “Family tradition.”
Cass gently shut his laptop the rest of the way.
The woman stared at him. “Is he ill?”
“Sleep deprived,” Duke said. “Very tragic. Very Gotham.”
“Then perhaps he shouldn’t travel.”
Tim opened one eye. “I suggested cargo. Nobody listened.”
“Tim,” you said softly.
The woman seized on that tiny crack of chaos with visible satisfaction. “You see? Disrespectful. Dramatic. And that one looks as if he is about to start a fight.”
She pointed at Jason.
Jason looked down at himself, then around the cabin, as if searching for whatever violent criminal she could possibly mean. “Me?”
“You know it’s you,” Dick said quietly.
Jason placed one hand over his heart. “I’m reading Austen.”
“That does not comfort people the way you think it does,” Duke murmured.
The woman turned toward Damian next, apparently determined to catalog every offense by row and blood pressure. “And that one has been staring at me.”
Damian looked up slowly, and the temperature of the cabin seemed to drop by several degrees. “I have not. I have been drawing my dog.”
“You looked at me twice.”
“You were in my line of sight.”
“Damian,” you said.
His jaw tightened, but he looked back down. “Apologies.”
It sounded less like an apology and more like a royal pardon delivered under protest.
The woman clearly mistook your restraint for permission. Some people did that. They saw courtesy and decided it was an unlocked door; they saw motherhood and mistook softness for a public utility. “Large families like this always think the world should accommodate them,” she said, loudly enough now for the nearest passengers to hear, but not quite loudly enough to admit she wanted an audience.
“We paid for our seats too,” you replied.
“Yes, but you chose to bring this entire… assembly.”
Dick’s smile vanished.
It did not vanish dramatically. It simply left his face like a light being switched off.
“Assembly?” he repeated.
“Dick,” you murmured.
“I’m just checking the vocabulary.”
The woman looked at him, perhaps sensing for half a second that she had stepped onto a floorboard with teeth beneath it, but then her attention returned to you. You were always the safer battlefield. Bruce was too imposing, Jason too visibly unpleasant when provoked, Damian too sharp, Cass too unreadable, Tim too dangerous in proximity to electronics, Duke too watchful, and Dick too charming until he was suddenly not charming at all.
But you looked like the mother, the soft one, the one expected to absorb the blow and turn it into an apology. And in truth, you were their stepmother. It was a title that knew how to wear armor and softness at the same time, and you had learned to hold both, whether the world recognized the difference or not.
“I understand wanting to give children opportunities,” she said, her voice sweet in the way spoiled milk might be sweet if it learned manners. “But some children simply aren’t suited for public spaces.”
Jason’s book closed.
Not loud. Loud would have been less threatening. He closes it with one finger still marking his place, slow and deliberate, and lifts his eyes.
“Careful,” he said.
The woman recoiled, one hand fluttering to her pearls. “Excuse me?”
You looked at him. “Jason.”
“What?” he said. “It’s good advice. Lots of sudden drops on planes.”
“We are not doing this.”
A flight attendant named Maribel appeared in the aisle with the cautious smile of a woman who had smelled smoke before the alarm had started screaming. “Is everything alright here?”
The old woman turned to her immediately. “I’m being harassed.”
Jason made a sound like his soul had tripped over furniture.
Dick leaned forward. “No, she isn’t.”
“She is,” Tim murmured. “Being disagreed with.”
“Not helpful,” Duke whispered.
Maribel looked between all of you with admirable professionalism. “Can you tell me what happened?”
“I asked this woman to control her children, and they became rude and threatening.”
“Threatening?” Dick asked, and the word came out quieter than before.
“That one told me to be careful.” She pointed at Jason again.
Jason lifted a hand. “General safety reminder.”
“Please stop helping,” you told him.
“I have never helped once in my life.”
“That’s true,” Dick said.
“Do not defend my character right now.”
The woman turned back to you. “Are you going to allow this?”
Your smile thinned. “I’ve allowed a lot less than you think.”
Her eyes narrowed.
“I’m sorry if you feel disturbed,” you said, and though your voice stayed calm, you could feel your patience fraying beneath it, thread by thread. “But my children have done nothing to you.”
The words changed the cabin.
My children.
They were simple words, but they settled over the rows with a weight that made several of the kids go quiet in a different way. Dick’s expression softened for half a second, unguarded and young despite everything he had survived. Jason looked away, jaw working once as if the sentence had struck somewhere too private to acknowledge. Tim stared at his closed laptop. Cass’s gaze warmed with a softness that was nearly invisible unless you knew how to read her. Duke’s smile tucked itself away into something careful and touched. Damian’s pencil hovered above the page, unmoving.
The woman missed all of it, naturally.
“They’re not children,” she said. “Half of them are grown men.”
“Then stop tattling on them like they stole your crayons,” Jason muttered.
“Jason Peter Todd,” you said.
He winced. “That was unnecessary.”
The woman lifted her chin. “In my day, young people respected their elders.”
“In your day, planes had smoking sections,” Tim said, then looked immediately betrayed by his own mouth.
Duke covered his face with one hand.
Cass patted Tim’s arm.
The woman gasped. “Are you going to allow that?”
Tim looked at you with the doomed expression of a man who had wandered barefoot into a courtroom. “I may have over-participated.”
“You think?”
“Statistically, yes.”
The woman leaned back, offended dignity gathering around her like a shawl. “I don’t know what kind of household you run, but clearly these children have been given too much freedom.”
Your anger always arrives quietly. It isn’t fire, an explosion, or something that cracks through a room and demands attention. It gathers like weather over dark water, slow and heavy, giving people too many chances to mistake the horizon for peace.
“You can complain about the seats,” you said, voice low enough that the nearby rows had to fall silent to catch it. “You can complain about whispering, or atmosphere, or whatever else you’ve decided is unbearable about sitting near my family. But you will not talk about my children like they are burdens someone dragged onto this plane.”
The woman’s face stiffened. “I never said burdens.”
“You implied it.”
“I only meant,” she said, wearing a small, ugly smile now, “that it is generous of you to take on so many complicated young people. Though generosity does have limits.”
For a moment, no one moved.
The engines hummed beneath the floor. Sunlight flashed on the woman’s pearls. Damian went rigid beside you, and you felt the barely contained fury in him like a blade heating under cloth. Jason’s stare flattened into something cold. Dick’s hand tightened around the armrest. Tim was fully awake now, which was rarely a good sign. Cass became too still. Duke’s expression lost every trace of humor.
You reached over without looking and touched two fingers to Damian’s wrist.
“No,” you said softly. “It does not.”
Before the woman could answer, the cabin shifted.
You saw him first.
Bruce came through the curtain at the front of the plane with his dark hair slightly mussed, his suit jacket folded over one arm, his white shirt fitted across his shoulders in a way that made the aisle seem narrower by personal insult. He thanked the flight attendant near the galley, then walked back toward you with that quiet, controlled presence that made the world appear to straighten itself as he passed. No music swelled, no cape unfurled, no dramatic shadow fell across the cabin, though Jason would have paid actual money for all three. Bruce simply returned.
The woman turned because everyone else did.
Then she saw him.
And immediately went silent.
Not quiet. Silent.
It was the kind of silence that happened when someone realized the thunderstorm had a name, a jawline known to every gossip magazine in Gotham, and a very expensive watch.
Bruce stopped beside your row. His eyes moved over you first, always you first, and then over the children with a swift, practiced precision that missed nothing: Jason’s closed book, Damian’s clenched hands, Dick’s missing smile, Tim’s awake stare, Cass’s stillness, Duke’s sharpened expression, Maribel standing in the aisle with the fragile composure of a woman praying no one committed a felony at cruising altitude. Finally, he looked at the woman.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
His voice was polite, even, and dangerous as a locked door.
The woman swallowed. “Mr. Wayne.”
Jason leaned back in his seat, delighted in the way only Jason could be when consequences arrived wearing cufflinks. “You were asking where our father was, right?”
“Jason,” Dick whispered.
“No, I’m helping.”
Bruce did not look away from the woman. “Were you?”
Her mouth opened, then closed. “There was a small misunderstanding.”
“A small misunderstanding,” Bruce repeated.
He glanced at you. You lifted one shoulder in a tiny motion that told him both nothing and everything. You could handle it. You had handled it. But Bruce looked at the children again, and something in his expression cooled.
“My wife,” he said, “is usually the most patient person in any room.”
The woman tried to smile. “Yes, well…”
“So if she became impatient,” Bruce continued, “I assume there was a reason.”
The smile died.
Maribel looked down, clearly fighting for her life somewhere behind her professional expression.
The woman clutched her handbag. “I didn’t realize this was your family.”
Bruce’s gaze sharpened. “That should not have mattered.”
Jason looked as if Christmas had arrived early and brought legal counsel.
Damian looked like justice had descended in human form and found the seating satisfactory.
The woman stared at her lap. “Of course.”
Bruce turned slightly to Maribel. “Has my family caused any disruption?”
“No, Mr. Wayne,” Maribel said. “They’ve been respectful.”
Bruce looked back at the woman. “Then I trust there won’t be further issues.”
It sounded like trust.
It was not trust.
“No,” the woman said stiffly. “There won’t be.”
“Thank you.”
Bruce sat down beside you and took your hand as if he had not just folded the entire argument into a neat little coffin and slid it beneath the seat in front of him.
For several seconds, no one spoke.
Then Jason whispered, “Dad voice still works.”
Dick exhaled a laugh, shaky with relief. “That wasn’t even full dad voice.”
Tim leaned back in his seat. “Full dad voice requires a first and middle name.”
Damian sniffed. “Father did not need volume. His disappointment was sufficient.”
Duke nodded solemnly. “Artisanal disappointment.”
Cass signed something with one hand that you couldn’t see fully from your seat.
Dick choked.
“What did she say?” you asked.
Dick grinned. “She said Bruce has resting principal face.”
Bruce looked at Cass.
Cass looked back, serene and merciless.
His mouth twitched. “Not inaccurate.”
You finally let out a breath, only then noticing how much tension had settled in your shoulders, tucked there like a smuggled knife. Bruce’s thumb moves slowly over your knuckles, hidden beneath the armrest where only you can feel it.
“What happened?” he asked quietly.
“She had opinions,” you said.
“About?”
“Our atmosphere.”
Bruce glanced around the cabin. “Our atmosphere.”
“Yes. Apparently we travel with a weather system.”
Jason muttered, “Accurate.”
You lowered your voice. “She said generosity has limits.”
Bruce’s hand stilled.
Damian looked up, his chin lifting with sharp, wounded dignity. “She implied we were burdens.”
“Damian,” you said softly.
“It is relevant.”
Bruce went very quiet.
Then he looked at them one by one. Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, Duke, Damian. His expression did not transform dramatically, because Bruce’s face had always been a locked house with only a few windows lit, but something deeper moved beneath it, something heavy and certain and fiercely held.
“None of you are burdens,” he said.
The sentence landed gently, and somehow that made it heavier.
Tim looked down. Cass’s eyes warmed. Duke swallowed. Jason’s jaw tightened as he stared hard at his book. Damian glared at his sketchbook with ferocious concentration. Dick smiled faintly, the kind of smile that looked like it had been stitched out of old hurt and gratitude.
Bruce’s voice stayed low. “Not to me. Not to your mother. Not ever.”
Your throat tightened before you could stop it, because even when a truth was known, there were moments when hearing it aloud made it real in a new place.
The woman in 3C sat so still she seemed to be trying to become upholstery.
Maribel returned with drinks a moment later, giving you a quiet look of solidarity as she stopped beside your row. “More water, Mrs. Wayne?”
“Yes, please.”
“Anything else?”
“Coffee,” Tim said at once.
“No,” you, Bruce, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Damian said together.
Cass accepted the coffee Maribel had already poured and placed it on her own tray table, far from Tim’s reach.
Tim stared at her with hollow despair. “Cruelty from the quietest corner.”
Jason reopened his book. “This family hates innovation.”
“This family hates whatever happens when you drink airplane coffee after thirty hours awake,” Duke said.
“Thirty-one,” Tim corrected.
Bruce looked at him.
Tim closed his eyes. “Allegedly.”
Slowly, your family settles back into its shape. Dick makes Maribel laugh with something kind and easy. Cass watches the clouds like they’re speaking a language she almost understands. Duke quietly guesses which passengers are afraid of flying and keeps being right every time. Tim actually falls asleep, mouth slightly open, protected from caffeine by Cass and whatever higher power is on duty. Jason goes back to reading Austen with the grim focus of a man determined to win an argument with a woman who will never know she’s part of it. Damian finishes his drawing and, after a small hesitation, tears it carefully from the sketchbook and hands it to you.
You took it with both hands. Titus stood in the center of the page wearing a cape and a tiny cowl, one paw planted on a defeated vacuum cleaner.
“He looks brave,” you said.
“He is brave,” Damian replied.
“Is the vacuum cleaner dead?”
“Subdued.”
“Of course.”
Jason leaned over. “Can Titus have a gritty reboot?”
You laughed before you could stop yourself, and Bruce’s hand tightened around yours, his thumb brushing once over your skin like punctuation.
The old woman did not turn around again.
After a while, when the cabin had settled into that soft middle-of-flight hush and the clouds beyond the windows stretched white and endless beneath the wing, you leaned forward just enough for your voice to reach her. “I hope the rest of the flight is more comfortable for you.”
She turned slightly, embarrassed and stiff, no longer sharp enough to cut with. “Thank you.”
You sat back.
Jason stared at you. “You’re too nice.”
“No,” you said. “I’m exactly nice enough.”
Bruce’s gaze warmed. “Yes, you are.”
Damian frowned. “She did not deserve courtesy.”
“Courtesy isn’t always about deserve,” you said, watching the clouds glow like pale silk beyond the window. “Sometimes it’s about who you want to be when someone else is small.”
Damian absorbed that with the deep displeasure of someone who had asked for ammunition and received a philosophy lesson.
Jason groaned softly. “Great. Moral improvement at thirty thousand feet.”
“Hydrate,” you told him. “It’ll pass.”
Bruce lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, the gesture hidden from most of the cabin by the angle of his body, but not from you. His lips were warm against your skin, brief and old-fashioned and tender in a way that made your heart ache.
“You were magnificent,” he murmured.
“I was irritated.”
“Magnificently irritated.”
You smile despite yourself and look around at your family, scattered across the cabin just like the woman said. Loose change, she called them, or close enough. But she was wrong, the way people are always wrong when they mistake what they can count for what they can understand.
Not loose change, you thought.
A constellation.
Bright, stubborn, impossible stars, scattered across the dark and still belonging to the same sky.
buff!l blurb inspired by @/oghostfucker’s beautiful art work bc i can’t get it out of my head >_< :: https://www.tumblr.com/oghostfucker/807267147611029504/some-buff-l-sketches-for-this
💬 11 🔁 184 ❤️ 900 · Some buff L sketches for this
“I’m hitting the gym, would you wanna come with?”
“Why?”
You pause in your steps, turning back to look at your boyfriend who had been sitting quietly in his chair, knees to his chin while his thumb pressed gently against his lip.
Perhaps not the right person to ask…at least you think? You’d never really seen L work out, and that was understandable due to his occupation—but it was a Saturday, and you knew he had nowhere to be.
“To stay fit?” You chuckled, walking back over to his hunched over figure. The blue light reflected in his eyes, highlighting the bags beneath them and his pale skin color.
“Hm.”
You hesitate for a moment before leaning down to place your chin on top of his shoulder, your lips close to his skin.
“Come on, why don’t you come? It won’t hurt. Besides you’ll make for great company.” You give his cheek a quick kiss as a little…persuasion.
“Please?”
“I wasn’t asking earlier why you would go to a gym…I was questioning why you would go to a public one? Hundreds of people enter in and out, it’s plain unsanitary.”
You almost laugh at his response, but when he tilts his head to look at you, you give him a confused look. “What do you mean public? You’re acting like you have your own private one.”
“..I do.”
You lift yourself back up, standing straight.
“What!? I didn’t know this—When did you work out so frequently you had your own gym?”
“Regularly. I didn’t think it was important..”
He slowly ascended from his chair, towering over you as he scratched his ankle with his other foot.
“You knew I went almost every week, how come it didn’t make itself relevant then?” When he stayed silent you didn’t even bother scolding him…
“Come on let’s go there then! I wanna see!”
“If you insist…”
Oh and you insisted greatly. Fortunately for you, you were stubborner than even the smartest detective in the world, and when you arrived? You could barely contain your excitement.
“How could you have been hiding this from me!” You squealed, running around the space like a little kid. Different kinds of machines littered the room, and mirrors decorated the walls. It was perfect! No more randoms checking you out or judging you, no more experiencing the feeling of being watched, and of course, L was just a bonus.
“I didn’t know it would provoke this much excitement from you.” He murmured, walking towards you—your body practically vibrating.
“It’s a dream! Absolutely no more anxiety—how is this not a safe haven for you?”
You barely even gave him a chance to answer your own question before you bounced over to the bench lift, immediately positioning yourself. “Wait, wait—spot me here first!” You giggled, smiling as you watched him add weights onto the machine. You should’ve asked him to go to the gym with you months ago, maybe you would’ve been here sooner…
“Ehm, L? Are you ready?”
“One moment.” You heard the sound of clothes shifting yet paid no mind, focusing on the weight you were easily going to lift! A little flaunting never hurt anyone… Maybe he’d be impressed!
“Ready.”
“Okay!”
Your hands slowly wrapped around the bar, struggling in the beginning just a bit before successfully lifting it! Your mistake however came when it was time to bring it back down. Literally.
You were shaking ever so slightly, and L noticed immediately—not missing a beat to quickly reach out and help.
Now, what you expected from L physique wise was a pretty lean yet still athletic build. Not huge biceps!! You almost dropped the bar completely when they came into your line of vision—was he shirtless!?
He immediately lifted the bar back into place, but you—once again—didn’t allow him to speak.
“How many secrets are you keeping from me!?” You exclaim, getting to your feet and turning around to be met with a body you seriously couldn’t believe belonged to your boyfriend.
“What!?” You squeaked once more, placing your palms against his torso. Rock solid.
You felt your face begin to heat up—and you could’ve sworn he was flexing!? How dare he!? In a predicament like this!?!
“Why are you?—How did you do that!?”
“I feel hurt you’re so surprised.” He replied, the sly little smile on his lips not going unnoticed.
You squeezed his sides as if you were inspecting him, trailing your hands over his body like he was a shiny new ken doll. His muscles were prominent—how could you not notice?
“How long are you going to continue?…”
“Shut up, I know you’re enjoying it.” You grumbled beneath your breath, going in for a hug just to feel him. “Wrap your arms around me. Tight.”
A pause.
“I-it’s for a test!”
With faux annoyance his arms slowly encircled you, squeezing your waist almost mercilessly. It hurt. In such an amazing way. You wouldn’t mind seeing the light if it was the cause of his arms…
You sighed into his neck, giving the side of it a quick peck before deflating entirely. Pure relaxation.
he knows it's petty. yet, that does nothing to abate the furrow of his brows and the pout on his lips.
your mii is refusing to date his mii. the stubby big-headed character he poured way too much effort into making it look like you using the face paint and tinkering with the facial placement— though it is but a pittance compared to the real deal. not to mention the fact that he had to make you based off memory since he had been too shy to confess that he made both of you as miis on his island and wanted a reference.
the only two residents on his island, in fact.
and he's still getting rejected.
if he was lucky you'd let him talk to you whilst sitting together on the fountain. only for his mii to vaguely ask to hang out and make things awkward.
he had even made place holder miis, before unceremoniously removing them, until he got the island expansions! the restaurant. photo booth. pawn shop. hell, even the ferris wheel! yet, no juice could be made from the fruit of his labor.
your mii had been adamant in constantly rejecting his advances, even having the gall to fall in love with one of the placeholder miis.
and after every rejection, his own mii kept falling back in love after a trip to europe to subside his despair. after the first few times the love bubble inevitably popped up, jason had told his mii-self that it was too soon to ask your mii out only for that equally big-headed bunch of pixels refuse his advice and ask you out anyway. rinse and repeat.
perhaps it was a cruel joke on him for even trying. was it because your mii wasn't accurate enough? jason swears to himself that he'll keep a small photo of you in his wallet from this day forth.
perhaps it was poetic. that, no matter what happens to him, he'll always come to love you.
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This is totally not based off a true story or anything buuuuut
SMAU where Reader is repeatedly warned not to try and crack their bones so aggressively and ends up having to text their partner and explain that they might need to go to the hospital because they dislocated something
The Hospital??
featuring: Dick Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, Wally West
warning: panicking and dramatic bfs, dislocation mentioned, hospital, tim being a little stalker (not in a bad way tho…)
A/N: Can you tell that I had a lot of fun writing Wally’s part?? LMAOO, I hope you’re doing okay now and of course I hope you enjoy reading this<33
a morning with damian and the latest guest in your home, or — in which, he realizes he has two spoiled girls on his hands. damian wayne x fem!reader too much fluff . now playing : ( fairuz ) يسعد صباحك – فيروز
“You’re making qahwa?”
Damian hummed, glancing briefly at where you stood in the doorway. “And toast. Come sit, you’ll get fed.” It’s an act of bravery from him, you think, and a great show of strength to be bare footed against the cold floors at this hour of the morning.
There’s a hypnotic softness within his voice though that coaxes you near, and your feet move without much thought, tiptoeing — or trying to, with little yelps along the way — across the cold tiles.
January was always one of the coldest months in Gotham, where mornings came with glowy windows slick from condensation and the silent stillness of wintertime.
January, the month of new things, like the rug Bruce gifted you both after the announcement of your engagement that you dreaded having to clean, like Damian’s Peds rotation that had him extra soft on you lately, because being around newborns will do that — not that you would ever complain when you get to have him home in the mornings, sweatpants hung loose, dark hair mussed from sleep and a Gotham U thermal sweatshirt big and soft over his impossible shoulders.
A soft meow came from atop one of the kitchen stools and Damian sighed. “Yes, ya Sultana, you’ll get yours too.”
New things, like the cat that has made her way into your lives. A fluffy white thing, ragdoll-ish and always frowning unless she gets her way. Sultana, Damian called her, because clearly he’s a servant in his own house.
“She’s not pleased, you missed her breakfast time,” you murmured, scooping the cat into your arms and settling yourself onto the stool. “Aren’t you, Sully?” The kitty meowed long and low, a grumble of frustration from her feline throat that spoke only of neglect.
“Tt.”
Damian slid a small plate across the counter — a small slice of toast, no crust and a dollop of labneh. He hunched next to you with a butter knife and his eyebrows drawn tight. “Sully?” he questioned, inquisitive.
“Short for Sultana,” you shrugged.
“Like the Federal Agent?” Damian spread the labneh diligently.
“Isn’t it so cute? We could have it printed on her little pillow.” You hummed in response and he shook his head, raising to his full height again to eye the work he’d completed.
“She does not pay rent. I don’t recall these living arrangements,” he grumbled.
The unwanted guest in question meowed once more, a paw outstretched towards the plate, and Damian, in the middle of his culinary assessment yanked it away, his brows lifting with realization. “Not yet.”
“Well, neither do I,” you said, suddenly distracted by the sight of him crossing the kitchen and reaching an arm up to the highest cabinet, the sleeve of his sweatshirt slipping down to his elbow.
A muscle twitched in his forearm, a vein peeked out too and you swallowed.
“Your name is on all the paperwork, do not insult me.” There was a small glass jar in his hand, and with expert movements, he moved it in front of him and out of your view before you could question it.
“Soon to be our name?” you grinned wolfishly. “Which do you think suits me best, Wayne or Al Ghul?”
“Both are yours,” Damian took the plate away and hunched over it at the corner of the counter like an evil scientist in his laboratory. Sultana meowed and you tried to take a secret glimpse, to no avail. “As well as the one who was born with them.”
“So romantic…” you sighed wistfully. Then your nose twitched at a smell; you knew that smell, earthy and sharp like fresh herbs.
Without a second lost, you rose from your seat. “Damian—”
“I would advise you not to—”
“Is that your mother’s za’atar?”
He winced. “There’s barely any in the jar, I’ll have to contact her soon.”
This did not deter you, as you stalked closer, one of your cold palms slipping under his shirt and meeting the warm flesh of his bare back.
“You liar,” you huffed.
On the counter there was his magnificent display of a dish worth The Sultana’s time, from which he had probably realized that a pretty sprinkle of za’atar on the top was all that was missing from his masterpiece. But the jar next to him was damn near full. “You’ve been hiding the za’atar from me?”
“You put it on your ice cream, ya rouhi.” Damian argued. The memory alone made his shoulders tighten.
“To see how it would taste!”
“You are not mentally well,” he picked up the plate and moved to serve the displeased cat who still sat perched and impatient for her breakfast. “And as your doctor…” he whipped back around to grab the jar before you could beat him to it. “I would advise you not to have any today.”
“You are not my doctor,” you pouted, and Sultana only meowed, happily accepting the dish placed in front of her. “Damiannnn,” you whined.
“I won’t be persuaded,” he turned his back to you, inhaling sharply through his nose. “Go sit down.”
“This is unfair!” You complained childishly. “How come Sultana gets za’atar but I can’t have any? What is this favoritism?”
At the same time, the poor cat sneezed. Definitely the za’atar.
“Bless you, Sully.” “May the Most High prolong your reign, Sultana.” Came simultaneously.
“And this is the cat you don’t want?” you trailed behind him like an invasive shadow, following his every turn, even when he poured the qahwa into your favorite mug, leaving it out to cool. You were by his side when he reached for another plate — or rather, melted into his side — as the loud click! of bread popping up from the toaster took his attention.
“My exact words were that I did not recall any agreed upon living arrangements,” he said. Again, he cut the crusts off — not that you ever once asked him to — and spread labneh onto the toast, the magical jar of za’atar next to him still unopened. “I’m open to options regarding her staying.”
“But you’re not open to sharing the za’atar?” you mumbled, smooshing your cheek against his arm, peering up at him with big, pleading eyes. His jaw twitched, yet his resolve remained.
“Pleeaaaseee, Dami…”
Damian closed his eyes and sighed. “No.”
“But—”
“No, you’ll have too much and it will make you ill.”
“But, I promise—”
“Do not beg,” he sighed. “It’s beneath you.”
You deflated, snaking your arms around his middle. His hand rested atop yours briefly before he broke off a piece of labneh covered toast and brought it to your lips. “Where’s yours?” you asked mid chew.
“I ate last night,” he answered.
You shook your head. “You’ll eat with me,” your fingers found the toast and you reached up to feed him a piece. He accepted it, one of his canines grazing your thumb. “Good?”
He hummed in satisfaction. Your fingers brushed a crumb from his bottom lip and he took your hand against his mouth, pressing a kiss to your palm. “Missing something,” he murmured into your skin.
“Like… your mom’s za’atar?” you smiled cheekily, lifting your head to kiss his cheek, then the corner of his mouth.
He pressed a peck to your nose as you pulled away. “Perhaps.”
“Damian…” you pouted, placing a kiss to his jaw. Your eyelashes fluttered against the skin of his cheek and you felt his lips curve upwards in a smile. Then you suckled at the little sweet spot under the curve of his jawline where his pulse beats your name.
He squeezed his eyes shut tight, one hand wrapping around your waist to pull you closer to him through that facade of restraint. “Seduction tactics are also beneath you,” he whispered, in that low throaty voice.
A giggle left your throat. “I’m not doing anything…”
Damian sighed, long and heavy. “You’re a better liar than that, beloved.” He tilted his head down and kissed you for real this time, your mouths moving together softly.
Your fingers grasped at the front of his sweatshirt to pull him closer as he hummed against your lips, open mouthed and wanting more.
Brazenly, and mid kiss, you reached your other hand blindly onto the counter for the za’atar jar, but he grasped your wrist in his gentle hold, bringing it up to rest against the short hairs at the nape of his neck. Damn him and his assassin senses.
Across the way, Sultana meowed hungrily. You pulled away, lips swollen, and burst out laughing.
Damian was quick to work on more labneh toast, his brows drawn as he murmured with faux disbelief, “I am a servant. I am a servant in my own home.”
With a sprinkle of za’atar he turned to serve Her Highness, but paused to break a piece of the toast, coated in labneh and now dusted with za’atar, bringing it to your overexcited mouth.
You chewed happily with a squeal and wiggle of your knees.
“Spoiled,” he said, the smile on his face contradicting his words. Then, he leaned down to steal a kiss from your lips, flavored with za’atar and the assorted spices of loving him. He bumped his nose against yours. “You were wrong. It did not require the za’atar.”
“What was missing?” You followed close behind him.
He took your hand in his as he sat down next to the hungry cat, pulling you across his lap. Sultana padded gracefully towards her awaiting plate and began her feast.
“You,” Damian brought the back of your hand to his mouth, placing soft kisses along your knuckles. “Now it tastes like home, ya rouhi.”
🗒️ had to post a dami fic, sick and tired of ppl playing in his face also where are the dami fic writers pls hmu so i can binge read 😔 #myrobin
pairing: jason todd x fem! reader, platonic!damian wayne x fem!reader, platonic!tim drake x fem!reader, platonic!dick grayson x fem!reader
summary: Teaching Jason's girlfriend self-defense didn’t turn out as they expected.
word count: 890
warning(s): English is not my first language, not proofread, no use of y/n. Only dick, damian and tim on this fic, sorry! fake gun and knife
author's note: my ig's feed keeps popping this account, and i knew i had to do something with this hahah
˗ˏˋ ♡ fic inspired by this video and this one tooˊ˗
Boredom had arrived at Wayne Manor.
Everyone was gathered for a family lunch. It was customary for the whole family to get together at the Manor once a month to spend some family time—away from their vigilante lives.
It had been a couple of months since Jason had introduced his girlfriend to the family. Or rather, formally introduced her; after his siblings had invaded his apartment looking for answers about his disappearances.
The group was in the living room. Each one held a drink in their hands or had one by their side.
It had been a while since boredom had swept over the group, and now they were talking about the first thing that came to anyone’s mind.
“We could teach you some moves,” Dick said to the girl.
The conversation had drifted toward the lack of coordination among Gotham’s criminals.
Jason’s girlfriend turned to look at one of her brothers-in-law, frowning in confusion.
Jason laughed under his breath, the bottle of beer just inches from his mouth.
“Yeah... good luck with that.”
For space reasons, they moved several pieces of furniture so they could move around freely without worrying about breaking something and getting a scolding from Alfred.
“What is this?” the woman asked, referring to an extendable wooden ruler Tim had handed her.
“It’s a ruler.” Jason’s girlfriend looked at him, stating the obvious. “But we’ll use it as a knife.”
Dick leaned against a table next to Jason, crossing his arms.
“Bruce used it with us at first to train us,” the boy explained. “After that, he moved on to real knives.”
“Huh,” she muttered under her breath, inspecting the ruler. “What a nice family,” she murmured sarcastically, raising both eyebrows.
“And yet you’re still here, doll.”
The girl winked at her boyfriend.
“All right. First I’ll show you how it’s done, then you’ll try,” Tim announced. “Extend your left arm forward with the ruler.” The girl did as asked. “Perfect. I’ll block your move.”
With a nod, the woman extended her arm forward again.
Tim raised his left forearm upward to prevent her from attacking him by pulling her arm toward him. With his other arm, he would strike the girl’s wrist with his elbow to disarm her.
However, the girl raised the ruler upward, pretending the blade was up.
Faced with the new movement, Tim stopped his arm.
“What just happened?”
Jason smirked and took another sip from his bottle.
Dick’s turn.
“After that weak job from Red Robin, Nightwing will show you how it’s done.”
The three boys rolled their eyes and sighed tiredly.
“Go ahead, Wonder Boy!” Jason exclaimed with amusement.
“All right,” Dick said, mentioning her name. “You’ll attack me from above and I’ll block your move, okay?”
The girl nodded.
Dick had given fewer instructions than Tim, which showed he wanted to catch her by surprise and prevent her from making a move he didn’t expect.
“Now.”
With her left hand, she raised the ruler above her head. Dick, with a quick movement, blocked the action by forming an X with his arms, preventing her from lowering her arm any further.
However, the girl dropped the ruler, quickly catching it with her other hand, and hit Dick on the head with it, taking advantage of the fact that he was distracted by the unexpected move.
Jason burst out laughing at that.
“Another wonderful job by the incredible and marvelous Nightwing.”
“Tt. I’ll show these fools how it should be done.”
Pff... it didn’t turn out as the boy expected.
Unlike his brothers, Damian hadn’t even given her instructions.
The boy let her approach to secure victory.
The girl, just as she had done with Tim, extended her left arm.
Damian grabbed that arm to immobilize it and take the weapon away.
However, when the boy turned his head, Jason’s girlfriend pulled a toy gun from her pants and pressed it against his head.
“Bang!”
The room was suddenly plunged into silence, as three out of four vigilantes blinked, assessing the situation that had just occurred.
Damian looked up to observe the woman, who was smiling at him while still holding the toy gun against his head.
“Impossible.”
Damian’s eyes went to the toy gun.
“How do you do that?”
“Where did you get that from?!”
The girl laughed, handing both things back and moving closer to her boyfriend.
“I took it from the box while Dick was thinking about what move to make.”
Jason extended his arm around the girl’s waist, pulling her closer to him.
“I used to take self-defense classes when I was a kid,” she said, feeling Jason’s fingers slowly caressing her waist.
“Before I knew he was Red Hood and before I could do anything, she stopped us from being robbed with a broomstick.”
Damian looked at the girl and narrowed his eyes.
“Would you be interested in being a vigilante?”
Before the girl could say anything, Jason began pushing her away to get his girlfriend away from his crazy family.
“We’re leaving, it’s time for our son’s dinner.”
When both disappeared from the room—which happened incredibly quickly thanks to Jason—to say goodbye to Alfred, Dick frowned and tilted his head in confusion at what had been said.
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Asking the Batboys to get you period stuff (my headcanons)
A/N: I needed to write a quick something to punch through the writer's block and I love the Bats but for some reason I don't really have much posted about them?? Crazy. Enjoy!
Also yeah I'm obviously on my period. Don't fight me. (I'll cry)
Dick Grayson:
Honestly probably one of the best guys to ask for this favour
Man knows what he's doing. Just tell him what you need and he's got EXACTLY what you asked for
He's got experience with this stuff. He's never been too shy to ask the women in his life about these things
The swag tm is pretty hot ngl (yeah I said swag. Only bc Dick would)
And he bought some snacks to make you feel better
Very much walks down the isle of sanitary products with sooo much confidence like "look at me, being a good boyfriend. I'm sooo husband material"
(he's not wrong)
Not an ounce of embarrassment from this man. Just pure confidence
10/10 will do it again
Jason Todd:
Jason is also a good choice. No embarrassment, no fuss, no eye-rolls
He knows his job and he's doing it
Fast and efficient so you're not waiting on him too long
Remembers what you asked for, doesn't need to write it down, and remembers it for next time too
Stocks up in advance so you don't HAVE to ask again
(he knows what it's like to be stuck on the shitter without toilet roll so he doesn't even want to imagine how much worse it is for girls every month)
Gets chocolate and ice cream too, and anything else he thinks you'll like
He might overthink it a little if there are too many options though
Probably just grabs whatever looks equal parts good and cheap
Old habits - once a poor kid, always a poor kid mindset
Definitely does a quick search online for anything else he needs
11/10 he wants to help so much <3
Tim Drake:
oh boy
Tim does NOT know what he's doing
You tell him what you want, he'll remember it
He'll write it down so he doesn't forget
But he has no idea what those words mean put next to each other
"Wings? Wings? WTF does that mean?!"
And yeah, he's a little flushed walking down that isle
Not really out of embarrassment, but more with the sense that he's walking into forbidden territory
Like the lady restocking the shelves is gonna kick him out for being there (she's looking at him like this is the fifth idiot panicking in that isle today) he is)
He has to look up everything online
Studies every product like an investigation or sum
He's kind of intimidated by the tampons
And he has no fucking clue what a "goddess cup" is
He definitely made the mistake of looking that up too (traumatised)
Look, eventually he makes it out with everything you asked for
Gets about halfway home before he realises that he forgot your favourite ice cream
Has to go back for it
But he also buys extra snacks to make up for how long it took
All in all it was a very... educational experience
But obviously he'll do it again next time with a little less panic
7/10 tries so hard but bby needs to chill
Damian Wayne:
Unbothered
... On the outside
Damian is fairly educated on this stuff. He knows the human body like he knows a blade
Getting what you need is no qualm. Embarrassment doesn't even cross his mind
That would be for someone far more immature than him
He probably hadn't considered what you needed before you told him
He figured there would be, like, a handful of options at the store
Cut to him being absolutely unprepared when he was facing the enormity of the sanitary products isle
This is the kind of stuff he's only glanced at in public
Poor guy is a little overwhelmed
Buy he refuses to let you know that
God forbid you think he can't do this for you
He probably calls a trusted woman in his contacts
Or Alfred, depending on the mood
He either buys exactly what you wanted or several options
No in between
And every comfort food he could think of. He noticed what you like at this time of the month
Sets reminders in his calendar for every month after
9/10 takes this mission very seriously
(you read this far? Did you like it?)
Hey do you want to see my Masterlist while you're here?
Being Damian Wayne’s chaotic!GF who’s the opposite of him HEADCANONS
Being Damian’s chaotic!GF includes… him always being the one to be calm and collected in the relationship whereas you’re loud, talkative and always out and about doing something random instead of relaxing.
There are instances where Damian does end up letting go and sports a real smile, and there’s definitely moments where you have to step up and be the calm and collected one in the relationship when Damian’s anger gets the best of him.
You guys compliment each other in that way.
Date night ranges from watching a movie in Damian’s room at the manor or a midnight drive around the city with his hand on your thigh and you absolutely butchering the lyrics to a song at full volume.
Damian usually pretends like he doesn’t see the strange looks the pedestrians throw you from the sidewalk.
Every now and then, you and Damian switch roles for the evening. You’ll get real quiet and listen attentively to his rant about the manga he’s been reading, and you’ll bask in his voice, which always ends up putting you to sleep.
Damian wayne dresses for convinience over style. Of course, he’s not the type of man who just blindly reaches into his closet and pull out random pieces of clothing, but his style is definitely on the more simple side. When he’s not wearing cultural/cultural inspired clothing, he’s always in a basic tee and pants/jeans or in sports clothes for training.
You’re far more expressive than Damian with your clothing. Opting for flashy pieces that feel like you, and definitely attract more attention than Damian’s own clothing.
Don’t be surprised when ever week in the Gotham Magazine there’s new paparazzi photos of the both of you spotted in and about Gotham, focusing on your diverse taste in fashion.
It kinda gives underdressed bf and overdressed gf
At night when you’re both cuddling and on the verge of falling asleep, you’ll get a spurge of energy and start asking him dumbass questions that he’ll just grumble about.
You defo slap Damian’s ass in public so many times that he stops telling you off and instead just glares half-heartedly at you. You even got snapped by the paparazzi once and the series of photos including you slapping Damian’s ass and folding in half, holding your stomach while you die laughing because he’s glaring at you so hard becomes a meme for a good year.
Given his upcoming, Damian has always been used to over analyzing his surroundings wherever he goes, it’s a given that his accident rate is about 0.01%.
Yours on the other hand, really can’t compete. With time, Damian ends up developing a new sense for an accident including you that’s about to happen.
Damian loves your outgoing nature because when he gets tired of talking to guests at a gala (generally after the first 10 minutes), you’re there to speak their ears off and answer their questions with pride.
You guys have the type of relationship where you’re posting instagram stories about your life each 10 minutes everyday and his followers are lucky to even have one story every few months.
Talking about socials, Damian’s account has about 20 followers and they’re all his brothers and friends. Yours is public and you’ve got about 500 thousand followers checking your page everyday for updates on the most famous couple in Gotham.
Unlike Damian, who loves keeping your relationship reserved to the both of you, you love flaunting him. Every month without fail you’ll post a 20 picture long post about the both of you and the places and things he’s brought you to and bought you.
Don’t be fooled, Damian loves having you on his phone. Your contact is pinned, half of his gallery are candied pictures he’s snapped of you and your name is always first on his predictive text (the three suggested words your Iphone gives you when typing). But he never posts you publicly because he hates having people commentating or intruding your relationship.
Damian is always tidy and put together, whereas you on the other hand, is always so messy and unorganized. You’re always testing his patience and making him rethink his dating choices, but it works out in the end.
Everyday without fail, you just have to wind up the dogs before dinner time. And everyday without fail, when Damian brings out their food bowls, he ends up getting muddy paw prints all up on his shirt because they’re restless and only want to play.
Damian considers himself a refined young man whose eardrums are satisfied mainly by orchestral tunes and classical music. Cue in the usual halfhearted argument in the car before a long car trip because you want to listen to something a little more ‘energetic’
If Damian and you met when he was first brought to Gotham and the Manor, he’d absolutely hate your guts. 10 year old Damian would have absolutely no patience for a cretin such as yourself.
You start growing on him during your mid-teens, when he’s still grumbly about every single thing on earth but starts opening himself way more to people.
At 17, Damian accepts that he can’t run away from his feelings for you and is genuinely doomed with a future with the most chaotic person he could ever name. He wouldn’t have it any other way though.
- NSFW below:
Let’s not kid ourselves and pretend like Damian is some super kinky dude who likes being tied upside down and spanked until his skin’s raw…anyway. Damian is definitely a vanilla and pretty boring guy but he just does you so good that it makes up for his lack of craziness.
You, on the other hand, love the thrill of exploring new things with Damian. He’ll always agree to trying new things, to an extent of course, but they never last too long and by the end he’ll have you back in missionary.
He’s more into that romantic slow sex and you’re more into that carnal, crazy sex. But he always makes you come so hard even in the most basic positions so you never really complain.
Damian loves it when you ride him. It also give you a canva to fulfill your desires on him. Sometimes when you feel the sex is a bit too boring to your taste, you’ll tie his hands to the headboard with his tie. It’s not something Damian would’ve asked for, but he’ll do it for you.
You take a lot of guilt and pleasure into seeing Damian comming back home frustrated and pent up after a long night of scouting Gotham. Generally it means he’ll be rougher and harder on you and you love it.
Nevertheless, given the nature of his night job and his upbringing, Damian has more than enough energy to keep up with you, he’s just far more reserved and calm than you. It doesn’t mean that he loves you any less, just that he has to brace himself for 10 minutes every morning before dealing with you.
-
A/N: currently finishing an actual ff but i’m kinda feeling the headcanon vibe recently so like
scenarios Alfred Pennyworth has to be a witness to as a resident of Wayne Manor that the batkids have absolutely no shame in front of whatsoever part 16 (masterpost here)
*Alfred bringing tea and a plate of biscuits down to the cave during a monthly mandatory strategy meeting, with Bruce stood at the head of a table all the kids are seated around*
Duke: i shouldn't even have to be here, i'm the only one on dayshift.
Jason: uh- i reject that; i'm doin' shit during the day too, y'know.
Duke, without missing a beat: that's because you're unemployed and have no civilian friends, there's a fucking difference Jason.
Dick: *covers his mouth, snickering*
Bruce: now, boys-
Jason: i will jump over this table, brightshit. try me.
Duke: *flips Jason off*
Jason, starting to get up: oh you want it-?
Alfred, pointedly putting the tray of snacks down in between them, giving them both warning glares: i trust that the meeting is going well?
*a beat*
Jason, sitting back down: dammit,
Bruce: *sigh* thank you, Alfred. now if we could just get back to-
Duke: i still don't want to be here.
Bruce: oh for- we've been over this, Duke. everybody has to attend these meetings.
Damian: just because you say something is mandatory doesn't mean it's actually necessary. it's subjective.
Bruce: it's not subjective, it's fact. if we don't take time to co-ordinate ourselves then we're more liable to miscommunicate and get ourselves, or others, hurt. it's important that we take this time to go over protocols and codes, as well as alert everybody of upcoming missions. it's not like you have anything better to do tonight, Damian.
Damian: what the hell,
Dick: oooh~
Damian: how dare you; i have plenty of ways to spend my evening, thank you very much-
Bruce, pinching the bridge of his nose: i didn't mean it that way, chum, can we just-
Damian: for starters, Drake and I have a new Lego set to construct, which you are selfishly taking time away from!
Steph, squinting across at Tim: sorry, you two build Lego sets together?
Tim: *defensive* what, mad that he doesn't play with you?
Steph, turning to Damian incredulously: well fucking yes?? dude- i ask you to hang out all the time. how come you'll play with Tim but not me!?
Damian, easily: because your version of hanging out is just dragging me all over Gotham while we stalk your English professor. i don't give a fuck which of the PA's he's hooking up with, Brown. i just want to build Lego.
Alfred: *watches with narrowed eyes as Cass slowly leans forward and drags the entire plate of biscuits towards herself*
Bruce: Damian, language.
Damian: me?!
Dick: fuck yeah, bring down the hammer, B.
Bruce, exhausted: can we all just-
Damian, planting his hands on the table: NO, WHY AREN'T YOU GETTING MAD WHEN THEY SWEAR?
Bruce: Damian- sit back down,
Jason, casually putting his feet on the table: it's 'cause you do it wrong, Dames. the curse word has to fall off the tongue comfortably, so that nobody even realises it shouldn't be in the sentence. *tipping his head up to show his mouth* you gotta- like this, roll your tongue slightly, just let it fall off, see: cunt.
Damian, copying: cunt.
Jason: cunt,
Damian: cunt.
Bruce, staring between the two in defeat: *makes eye contact with Alfred pleadingly*
Alfred: *shrugs*
Jason: cunt,
Damian: cunt, like that?
Jason: yeah, but in a sentence.
Damian: Dick Grayson is a cunt. like that?
Jason: yeah you got it.
Dick: WOAH WOAH- why am i catching strays? the fuck did i do?
Tim, flatly: if you hadn't fucked up the protocol code names three months ago, we wouldn't have to do these meetings.
Duke, pointing at Tim in agreement: that's true.
Dick: I WASN'T THE ONLY ONE, JACKASSES, STEPH DID IT TOO!
Steph: at least i was concussed. you're just an idiot.
Dick: *visibly offended* i'll have you know-
Bruce, snapping: ok that is IT. all of you sit back down, we are going over the current standing protocols and that is FINAL. none of you are leaving until i dismiss you, and if you don't comply then you will be benched for the foreseeable future, understood?
*silence*
*the kids awkwardly exchanging glances as they settle back down into their chairs*
Bruce, sighing in relief: finally. now, can we all-
Jason: *sticks his hand up in the air*
Bruce:
Bruce: *wary* what is it about, Jason?
Jason, innocently: i have a question about the protocols.
Bruce: ...go on then.
Jason: what's the protocol for when you let a call from your overbearing father go to voicemail because you're busy getting it on with Roy Harper mid-patrol, and then said overbearing father just hacks into your private com line mid-fuck anyway, completely ignoring your boundaries and throwing off the mood, all because he wanted to ask whether or not you'd prefer fish or chicken for the family barbeque that weekend?
*complete and utter silence*
Alfred: *stares in disappointment at a rapidly reddening Bruce*
Duke, grinning wildly as he looks between Bruce and Jason: has that ever happened?
Jason, flatly: three times.
Bruce:
Bruce:
Cass: *loudly crunches on biscuits*
Bruce: ok Jason you can go,
Jason, already leaping out his chair: SEE YOU SUCKERS-
Steph: WOAH- HOLD ON, HOLD ON-
Dick: THAT'S SO UNFAIR,
Duke: JUST BECAUSE HE'S A SLUT HE GETS TO AVOID THE MEETINGS?!
Bruce: -STOP SHOUTING AT ME-
Damian: so what i'm hearing is that to get out of these ridiculous things, i just have to tell Jon he's allowed to hit?
*silence*
Bruce, to Damian: ...ok you're grounded,
Tim: Steph, i know we broke up years ago and you're technically my sister now but i feel like this is for the greater good-
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