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DAILY PLANET | MARCH 19TH DOES DAMIAN WAYNE HAVE A CRUSH ON SUPERGIRL? Article written and edited by Catherine Grant 

This morning, an alien attack struck upon Metropolis around 9:43 am — a race coming from another galaxy wanting to destroy Superman; common routine. The Man of Steel immediately got into action, and as he bought time by negotiating with the chieftain of the invaders, other Supes such as Supergirl and the Superboys assured that the population was properly evacuated and far away from the zone of the inevitable, impending battle that was soon going to take place. 

The laser cannons went off at 9:47 am, and by that time, most civilians had been warned about the looming attack and were on their way to LordTech Field, where Superwoman and Superboy (the one with the punk fashion sense) were already stationed to protect the population. Out of all the areas, the only one who still hadn’t been properly evacuated was the business district, as the LexCorp building apparently proved to be particularly difficult to clear from all the employees. When the attack started, only a few establishments still had citizens inside, including Wayne Tower. 

We’ve already talked in yesterday's article about Damian Wayne’s — son of famous billionaire philanthropist Bruce Wayne, as well as top executive and heir to Wayne Enterprises — sudden arrival in Metropolis, supposedly because of an important work meeting with S.T.A.R. Labs. Reliable sources claim that Mr. Wayne was one of the last people to exit the building, as he apparently made sure that everyone was out before even thinking about running away from the building himself. 

“He waited until we were all on our way to the emergency exits before running to the staircase leading to the upper floor,” says Lynn Porter, 23, interning at Wayne Enterprises and survivor of the attack. “He said that other people were still there — that he had to make sure everyone got out safely.” 

Mr. Wayne’s bravery didn’t come without a price, as he was still in the building when the mothership’s attack reached the business district. Fortunately, Supergirl intervened quickly, and all remaining employees were escorted out either into the waiting ambulances or to LordTech Field. However, the most remarkable out of all the victims has to be the youngest Wayne himself, who openly refused to let go of Supergirl as she came to extract him from the rubble. 

The paramedics’ body cam footage was leaked not even an hour after the attack ended, and shows Wayne holding on tightly to Supergirl’s neck as she bridal carries him. When the superheroine tries to lie him down on the ambulance’s stretcher, the video shows the man screeching and holding onto her shoulders tighter — quite a comic sight, considering that Damian Wayne is usually considered to be around 6’2” and Supergirl is clearly shorter than him. 

The footage could be seen as a simple show of a trauma response — if it wasn’t for the fact that before the paramedics managed to get him down in the stretcher, he left a kiss on Supergirl’s cheek. 

This is undeniable — as the kiss cannot only be seen, but also heard, as a loud smooching sound is clearly distinguishable in the body cam footage audio. Before the leaked video ends, Supergirl can be seen laughing and patting Mr. Wayne’s chest as he finally settles over the ambulance’s cot, telling the very perplexed paramedics, “Oh, this one must’ve hit his head hard,”

Damian Wayne has, in fact, reportedly hit his head pretty hard, and was transferred to Metropolis General Hospital with a grade 2 concussion. Netizens have already begun commenting on the short video, some outraged about Mr. Wayne’s behaviour, others speculating about the possible entanglement between a superheroine and the son of a billionaire. 

The thing that has mostly sparked controversy, however, is the known fact that Mr. Wayne has been off the dating market ever since he was a teenager, and has a years-long relationship with Miss Kent, the daughter of well-known reporter and multi Pulitzer Prize winner Lois Lane. The two have always been quite private about their relationship, but Mr. Wayne’s kiss to Supergirl has since led to speculation that they have since broken up. 

Sources very close to the couple state that they’re as in love as ever, and that a simple moment of affection towards a heroine who saved Mr. Wayne’s life is not nearly enough for them to start doubting the other. Although, the only question we all have right now is: does Damian Wayne have a crush on Supergirl?

You angrily slam your phone on the dinner table. “I knew she didn’t call just to wish me happy birthday earlier today!” 

Lois sips placidly her coffee, reading the article on her laptop. “Your birthday was four months ago, honey, you should’ve known.” The smile on her lips tell you everything you know — she’s too flattered by her mention as a multi Pulitzer winner to be bothered with her friend’s breach of privacy in your life. “I think the article is brilliant.” 

Your father has been sulking ever since he finished reading it. “Yeah, because at least she mentions you as her mother,” he whines, resting his forehead on the counter. “I’ve known Cat for twenty years and she bothered to only mention you. She could’ve at least said in passing that you didn’t make her on your own — that Clark Kent has helped, y’know. What am I now, chopped liver?” 

You blink, pushing your glasses up. “Hello? Are we forgetting that she called me earlier to ask me if everything was alright after the attack and instead only cared about how me and Damian were doing?”

“Aw, you know Cat, sweetheart,” your mother hushes, waving you off. “Remember when she wrote that article about you finally being potty-trained?”

Clark deadpans. “She just wanted to write something that would’ve caught the eye of mothers with small children to expand her audience. And she used one of our daughter’s darkest times to do it.” 

You tug on your hair. “Do you know how hard it is to go around like nothing’s wrong when there’s still copies of that article going around? I’m haunted. Grandma still has her copy hung up on the living room’s wall. I once asked Damian to buy all the copies he could find of that just to burn them and instead he kept them.” You’d never felt more betrayed in your entire life before then.

“Just stop answering her calls,” Jon suggests, still a bit weirded out by the video of his best friend kissing his sister — albeit the two of you have been dating for years now, he’ll never get over how weird it feels. “I did when she used my acne as an excuse to write that article about pimple remedies.” He leans over the table, voice as serious as ever, “Grandma has that one framed too, by the way.”

“Horrible, horrible woman,” your father agrees, still not recovered from his colleague’s utter dismissal of his fatherly role in raising you. “Do you know how many diapers I have changed? How many tantrums I had to tame? I even participated in all the dance recitals that strictly requested the mother to participate. I wore tutus for you!” 

“Hey, don’t blame this on me,” you rebut. “That’s your coworker — tell her you’ve won a couple of Pulitzers too, I don’t know,” you open your arms with a puzzled expression, “besides, how is it that she wrote more articles about me and Jon than you guys did?” 

Your parents share a look. “Well, the two of you are the closest people she has to rely on for the younger audience. While me and your father keep our mentions of you for birthdays and TV reportages, she can be a bit nosey.” Your mother's nose scrunches. “I remember clearly the time when everyday she was coming up with a different article on how I was undoubtedly a member of Superman’s supposed harem. She wrote tens of those — more than she's ever written about you.” Another sip of her coffee, “Otherwise, I would've intervened. Your privacy can't possibly get more breached than mine did.” 

You let out a frustrated groan. “I thought she genuinely forgot about my birthday and remembered when she found out Damian was injured in the attack.” 

“I love you with all my heart, honey,” Lois starts with a grimace, “but sometimes, I think that you and your brother took too many traits from your father to properly work in a society — you guys trust people way too much.” 

“You say that because if we weren’t related, you’d probably be worse than Cat,” you grumble. 

Your father nods, spirited, “Yeah– all those articles about Superman when I first debuted? You were so mean about it — and I even gave you all the interviews you could’ve ever wanted!” 

Your mother shrugs. “Sue me — an opportunity is an opportunity.” She gets up from the couch to wash the now empty coffee mug over the sink, “By the way, how’s Damian? He must’ve been pretty out of it if he really kissed you in front of paramedics while you were in your costume.”

You sigh, “I’ll visit him at the hospital as soon as I’m halfway done with the essay that I’ve got to turn in by today– Dick and Bruce came to visit him and when I called, he was already babbling something about Vicki Vale and how much he hates her.” 

Jon raises an eyebrow. “Vicki Vale wrote an article about what happened today? I thought she only wrote about Gothamite things.”

“Technically, this is a Gothamite thing,” you huff, “because the son of the Prince of Gotham just kissed Supergirl, and she’s pissed about it.”

GOTHAM GAZETTE | MARCH 19TH HAS DAMIAN WAYNE CROSSED ALL ESTABLISHED SOCIAL BOUNDARIES? Article written and edited by Victoria Vale 

This morning, after an alien attack struck Metropolis, a video of Damian Wayne — who, for all living under a rock, is the son of billionaire playboy and supposed Prince of Gotham Bruce Wayne — kissing Supergirl — speculated daughter or relative of the Man of Steel — got leaked. The footage has sparked controversy on the Internet as people began to question the role of female superheroes and how Wayne seemingly took advantage of the situation to fulfill some kind of depraved fantasy of his. 

We’ve known of the Waynes’ entanglement with superhero society for a while now (click here for the article about Batman and Bruce Wayne’s speculated affair, here to read about the latter’s disastrous date with Wonder Woman, and here to know all about Dick Grayson’s on-and-off relationship with known alien superheroine Starfire) but this was probably a pairing that not even the most creative fortune teller could've predicted. 

Damian Wayne has always been an elusive figure in high society, especially for what entails his love life. It’s a known fact that he’s been in a relationship with the daughter of Daily Planet’s reporters Lois Lane and Clark Kent since high school, but other than that, he’s always refused to elaborate more during interviews and social gatherings.

Miss Lane has participated in the celebrations for Wayne Jr’s birthdays, and has been a new presence to this past New Year’s Eve Wayne Gala (click here for more on that). 

This secrecy about what should be an established relationship has sparked scandal on socials like Instagram and TikTok, where netizens harshly criticized the new Prince of Gotham — as really, Bruce Wayne is starting to get a tad bit too old for that title — for not sharing every little aspect of his private life like his father does. This, added to the leaked footage of this morning, has users wondering if the supposed relationship is still going strong or if tensions have arisen within the couple. 

Meanwhile, some users are outraged not rather by the supposed cheating, but by the treatment of female superheroes in modern society. “She (Supergirl) handled it very well, but I doubt she would’ve shown otherwise with the already stressed paramedics in front of her”, one comment under the leaked video suggests. “Men’s audacity managing to stay strong even during a literal alien attack never fails to amaze me”, another reads, leading to the debacle on the role of superheroines and their perception by superhero fanatics. 

Users are mostly worried about Supergirl’s well-being, as she found herself harassed by someone she was supposed to be saving. Some could argue that Wayne was in an utter state of confusion caused by the concussion he was later on found to have, but most are convinced that it was a calculated act to try and establish a predominance over a woman, even if said woman is considered to be one of the most powerful beings of Earth.

The primary question we’re all asking ourselves is: how should civilian women be able to feel safe around men, if not even superheroines are spared of their unwanted advances? And what does trust really mean for them, considering that even Damian Wayne, who has never shown an ounce of emotion to the public and has always been deemed as a feminist, did not hesitate to betray his girlfriend with Supergirl as soon as the opportunity presented itself? Stay tuned and subscribe to our newsletter to be updated as soon as Wayne's representatives come out with a statement on the situation. 

“I will go back to my old ways just to murder her,” Damian grumbles, still high off the pain medication. He rises on his elbows, still dizzy, “Father– order a jet to Gotham now, I’ve decided I’m killing this wench–”

Dick — who has barely managed to contain his laughter this whole time — tuts and has him lie back down, patting his shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry — B’s lawyers have already got it handled. Just try to get some rest, will ya?”

“She didn’t even say the kiss was on the cheek!” Damian slurs, “This is insulting — the whole time, it looks like I violated her!”

“Well, if you were a stranger, I guess you would’ve,” Bruce mutters grimly, his eyebrows knitted ever since he entered the hospital room and showed his son the article. “The thing is, you weren’t, but you can’t exactly go around to say that now, can you?” 

“I was disoriented!” your boyfriend screams, outraged. “I was hit in the head by a very heavy piece of rubble! I just wanted to show gratitude towards my girlfriend!” 

“And thought it was snuggle time,” Dick adds, amused, thinking back to how Damian had clung to you like a monkey very clingy towards his favourite tree branch. The latter glares at him, “You say that now, Grayson, but I still haven’t forgotten that one time when you jumped into Starfire’s arms at the haunted mansion in the fair.” 

His brother shrugs. “I wasn’t being recorded, at least. Poor Dami here instead got his lovey-dovey footage leaked, and now everyone thinks he’s a creep.” 

Damian’s left eye twitches as Dick hugs and pats his head like he’s still a kid, “Just kill me now. Ten years of feminist statements, ruined by a little peck.” 

Bruce lets out a heavy sigh, crossing his arms, “At least it wasn’t Tim’s accusation of breaking into the government’s archives to find out what really happened to Marilyn Monroe — I had to pay off federals, Damian, federals. The lawyers have already sent Vicki a very coloured letter — you’ll be out of the trenches in a matter of days.”

Damian grumbles, his words still a bit mushed from sleep and the concussion. “Where’s she? I didn’t ask to be taken to Gotham General just so she could come see me.” 

“The subway’s still down,” Bruce replies easily. “Clark said she wanted to come flying, but paparazzis probably would’ve followed her to have the exclusive on what really happened between the two of you, so he’s giving her a ride — but try to remember that a fifth of the city’s still destroyed. They could take a while.” 

Damian blindly reaches for his phone, seated on the nightstand beside the bed, and nearly rips out his IV in doing so. Dick catches the mobile when it almost falls to the ground, then holds it out of his brother’s grasp. “Lemme call her,” your boyfriend whines, in an uncharacteristic show of actual emotion. Grayson coos, “Aww, and what’s the magic word, honey? Come on, say it, I know you can do it,”

“Dick,” Damian hisses — with in mind anything but his actual name. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. “Stop bullying your brother, Dick — while he’s in a hospital bed, at least refrain from doing so.” 

Grayson sing-songs the whole time as he unlocks his brother’s phone, coos at the wallpaper picture of the two of you at your birthday dinner, and positively squeals when he sees your contact name. “You’ve got her saved as Beloved — and I got my full name? Not even Raven has me saved as Richard John Grayson! I think not even the government knows me like that!” 

“Suck it,” Damian says, in an actually very characteristic show of pettiness. “Gimme the damn phone.” 

You reply on the third ring, but to him, it feels like a lifetime. “Hi, Dami, how are you doing?”

“Where’re you?” he demands, words slurred on his mouth. “You save me and next thing I know, Vicki Vale is calling me a sexist patriarch who molested Metropolis’ golden girl.” 

“I’m sorry about that,” you tell him softly, honestly — you’ll make sure to patch the situation up as soon as you get back into the costume, maybe ask your mother to interview you about the incident. “If it helps, Cat Grant described you with far more gentle words — something about how you bravely made sure that everyone was out of the building before thinking about getting out yourself.”

“Right before calling me a cheater,” he grunts. “Where are you? I wan’ you here.” 

“Picking flowers,” you hum, as peaceful as ever. “Roses or lilies?”

“You,” he replies without hesitation. 

You laugh, and he’s sure he could get drunk off the sound. “Chrysantemum it is,” he can hear a hushed conversation with your father in the background, and the chirpy voice of the cashier as she asks if you’d like to add anything else to the total. “I would’ve gotten there earlier, but you know, the city’s still half destroyed and I still have to turn in that exam by today, and I bet that once I get there, you won’t let me out of your sight.”

He lets out a noise of agreement, sending a pointed look to Dick — currently picking on his nose from behind his hand, probably thinking he’s so discreet — and Bruce — on his phone, trying to look like he’s not listening into the conversation as he replies to the lawyers’ emails. “I don’t think I will. I’m stuck here with a bully and a cop, so you’d be the best upgrade I could ever think of getting.” 

Bruce turns to Dick, stunned. “Did he just call me a cop, when you’re right here?” 

“Don’t worry,” you assure your boyfriend, “I’ve packed a bag to stay overnight. I’ve got my computer with me so you can help me with the essay with that little bandaged head of yours.” You’re acting like it’s not him who always asks you to help write his essays — but it’s okay, it makes him feel useful and you know he needs to hear it sometimes. “About that, how’s the concussion?”

“Hurts,” he whines, definitely faking it out for you just so you’ll get to the hospital faster. Bruce raises an eyebrow at him, having rarely seen his son complain about injuries, as Dick finally bursts out laughing. “When are you getting here?”

“Oh, shush, you big baby,” you chuckle into the phone, the sound of a car door opening and slamming back closed resounding in the speaker. “I got you in time, didn’t I? You’re fine. You’ve handled worse.” 

“Is it Damian?” Jon’s voice — probably from the backseat — rises as he recognises the voice of his best friend coming from the phone. “Hi, Damian! Hope those rocks didn’t hit you too hard!” 

You can basically hear Damian deadpan. “Oh, yeah, guess you’re there too. You didn’t pack a bag, did you? Because I don’t want you here tonight.” 

Jon rolls his eyes even if his friend can’t see him as Clark laughs. “Don’t worry, cowboy, I won’t be the one who stops you from going to town this evening.”

Your father chokes on his breath and nearly hits a street lamplight at the joke, and you lean over the backseat to repeatedly smack your — by now not so much little — brother. The phone must’ve fallen on the backseat, because all Damian can hear is vague insults and the screeching of tires, and then your father’s voice yelling at you two to stop fighting. A chorus of “I didn’t start it!” can be heard before two smacks echo, and your voice comes back to the speaker after what feels like endless shuffling. 

“Damian,” you grumble, “Jon here just tried to murder me.” 

“It’s you who took out the heat vision–”

”Anyways,” you cut your brother off, “we’ll be there in five, ‘kay? Hang on tight for me until then.” 

The yelling starts again right before the line goes silent, and Damian wonders how possibly he has managed to survive the last twelve years with the both of you always at the other’s neck. You and Jon love each other and he’s never doubted it, but the love-and-homicide relationship between a brother and a sister actually needs to be studied. Thankfully enough, Cass has yet to try to murder him. 

The hospital door opens a few minutes later, and you emerge from the hallway, a big bouquet of chrysantemums in your hands. “Bonjour!” Jon is right behind you, hair looking a bit ruffled — no doubt from the scuffle the two of you had — and a floating, bright yellow GET WELL SOON! balloon in his hand. You pause, “Or is it bonsoir by now? I don’t remember anything about French.” 

“It’s bon après-midi," Damian’s pronunciation is as good as ever, but he grumbles when you first greet his father and brother instead of running to him. “Hey! I’m right here!”

He catches Jon’s attention instead, and he immediately drops the balloon in the air to smother him amidst his friend's various protests. “Aww, poor baby! Don’t worry, Nurse Jon is here now, everything will be alright!” He leaves a wet, fat kiss over his cheek as he cradles his head to his chest comically, not caring a single bit about Damian’s shrill screams. “Release me, heathen! I did not call for you — get away from me!” 

You laugh as Dick takes out his phone to snap a picture of the moment for his blackmail folder, and settle the bouquet in the vase sitting over the window counter. “Sorry, sorry — Jon, c’mon, he’s injured, let him go,”

”Does little Dami have a boo-boo?” Jon coos, voice high-pitched as Damian continues to thrash in his hold, “I’ll fix you up in no time–”

“Jonno,” Clark’s voice comes from the door — he’s just entered the room, jacket slung over his arm, “be nice to him — he’s got a concussion, bud.” 

This just escalates Jon’s teasing, even as you rip Damian away from his arms and into yours. “A concussion! You must be the first person on Earth to get one. I’ve never heard of it.” 

High school has taught Jon to finally tease people around him — and he takes every opportunity he can to pay back his best friend for years of being picked on. You swat your brother as your boyfriend settles with his cheek over your stomach, whining softly. “Leave him alone,” 

Your brother chuckles, softening up a bit before poking Damian in the arm. “You’re so fake, man — I’ve seen you handle broken bones with less fuss.” 

Clark sends a concerned glance at Bruce as the three of you bicker, retrieving the floating balloon from the ceiling. “How is he, actually?”

Bruce shrugs — he probably considers this more a facade than anything, as normally, his son would already be up and about. “Well, he has had worse. The doctors would like to keep him here for the night, see if he gets any nausea or other symptoms, but overall he should be out of here by tomorrow.” 

Your father raises his eyebrows — he sometimes hates the way your mother has rubbed off on him being nosey all the time, but it’s his daughter’s boyfriend they’re talking about, and he needs to know if Damian is a wimp whenever someone’s not looking. “So he is faking it.”

Bruce presses his lips into a thin line and nods, sighing. “He is.” 

“It’s like he’s a whole different guy whenever she’s around,” Dick whispers, his tone conspirational. “It’s either those alien genes you guys have got, or he’s down bad.” 

Clark scratches the back of his neck. “If it’s about genes, I’d say it’s the Lane ones working far too well. I don’t have that much appeal compared to my wife.” 

His friend hums. “I agree. Lois is ten times more interesting than you.” 

Your father frowns — the article only citing Lois as your parent coming to his mind. He’d lie if he said he wasn’t still a bit hurt by that. “What’s that supposed to mean, now?”

You and Jon have already settled on both sides of Damian — you on his right, seated on the cramped table chair with your computer open in your lap, and Jon on his left, sprawled over the bed chair for visitors’ overnight stays. While you’re mostly unbothered by it, your boyfriend has been glaring at him ever since he sat down. “I would say that chivalry has fallen on low ends, but that would equal saying that you’re supposedly a knight, and that would be insulting to all cavaliers.” 

Your brother snorts, “So what, you’d define yourself to be a knight?”

Damian huffs presumptuously, crossing his arms. “I would.” 

Jon cackles, “Since when do knights get saved by their ladies?”

“Since ladies started having superpowers. That doesn’t mean I don’t treat her like a lady whenever I’m not in need of saving.”

“Boys, behave,” you say absentmindedly, fingers tipper-tapping over the computer’s keyboard. “I’ve got this assignment due at midnight. I can’t waste any more time lecturing you two about manners.”

By the time your essay is turned in, the sky outside is pitch black, and both your father and brother have left. Dick’s snoring on the bed chair when Bruce nudges him awake, nodding to your form — finally rising from your uncomfortable seat, stretching your limbs out. “That has to be a new record for the most difficult spot to finish a document.”

Grayson yawns as Damian stares at him, disgruntled. “I’ll leave the couch to you,” he tells you, still a bit sleepy, “I assume you’ll stay here?”

You plug in your by now almost dead computer to its charger and nod enthusiastically. “Oh, yeah! Don’t worry, I’ll keep an eye on Damian for the night. Feel free to go back to your hotel.” 

When it’s finally time for the two of you to be alone, your boyfriend demands, “Beloved.” 

Still hunched over your backpack to find a hair clip, you reply, “Yes, Dami?” 

He scooches over the side on his bed, patting the now empty space. “You’ve been far too away for far too long.” 

You laugh, trotting over to his side and settling beside him — noting the way he instantly relaxes, cheek dropping to your shoulder. “I was here the whole time, hun.”

“Yes, but out of touch. Far too away, as I just said.”

Shaking your head, you take your phone from the nightstand, muttering something about how dramatic he is. “So– should we still be together? I mean, you literally cheated on me.”

His groan is the glorious crowning to a whole evening spent under Jon and Dick’s remarkable teasing, and he smushes his face against your bicep in pure, unadulterated annoyance. “Do we really have to talk about this? I don’t think I want to.”

You have to hold your laughter in just to avoid falling off the bed from it, because you know that once it comes out, it will probably never stop. “I already see tomorrow’s headlines — Damian Wayne, misogynist or result of years of Wayne patriarchy?”

“It was a kiss on the cheek!” he protests, “Vale didn’t even specify it — by reading her article, you’d think I had shoved my tongue up your throat!”

“I know that– but did you read the article about your father allegedly having an affair with Batman? Pure gold. I don’t know what that woman’s on, but I want triple the dose she has of it daily.” 

He muffles an exasperated groan on your arm, pressing a soft kiss on the exposed skin. “Years of being a gentleman at galas and with the public — gone with a kiss. And now everyone thinks I’ve violated you.”

You trace the moles on his cheek, “Well, I mean, I guess superheroines are more sexualised and all of that —and, you know, if you weren’t you, I would’ve let you down so fast you wouldn’t even have had the chance to pucker your lips before your ass was back on the rubble.” You shrug, poking where his dimples usually show, “The nice thing about being a girl and a hero, aside from wearing skirts and heels with your costume without being judged, is that you can beat creeps all you want without ever fearing how they might respond to it.”

The kiss you leave on the small unbandaged part of his forehead feels like it’s made of — what was it? Sugar and spice and everything nice? “So, when the reporters inevitably ask, I will tell them that if I was uncomfortable, I wouldn’t have been so nice with you. And that if I did perceive your behaviour like the one of a creep rather than the one of someone who had just hit their head and was clearly very disoriented, I would’ve just kicked you into the ambulance instead of being so polite.” 

Damian finally allows himself some rest, resting his head on your hip as you doomscroll over the monstrosities that are comments left under the leaked footage. “Look– there’s this girl saying ‘Don’t you guys dare lie and say that you wouldn’t have done that, because I would’ve snatched a kiss so fast that one might’ve called me the Flash’.” you giggle like a kid, “Those comments are so fun. I didn’t even realise I was so high on the Hot Heroes List up until now.” 

Your boyfriend grumbles, barely awake, his hold on your sides tightening slightly as you press a soft kiss over his temple. “Don’t get too excited now, it’s not creepy only when I do it.” 

Twirling a strand of his hair with your index finger, you hum. “Sure it isn’t, cuddlebug.” 

DAILY PLANET | MARCH 20TH SUPERGIRL SPEAKS UP AGAINST DAMIAN WAYNE’S ALLEGED HARASSMENT Article written by Catherine Grant, edited by Lois Lane

After yesterday’s incident in the business district, we’ve all been wondering how Supergirl took the situation, as this is a first for Metropolis’ heroes in general. As this morning the Supes gathered to help with cleaning up the rest of the rubble left behind by the alien attack, our staff has managed to snag an exclusive, even if brief, interview with the Girl of Steel. 

The first thing we ask is, of course, how she feels about the scandal that has taken over the Internet in the last few hours — but she just smiles, bright as ever, like all our conspiracies are just nothing more than that. I mean, I didn’t even know who the guy was until I saw the news, she replies easily. Even if it’s not really unusual, saving a big shot with this kind of job. 

When we question her well-being, she just laughs. Now, c’mon — we’ve all seen the footage; poor dude was totally out of it. This happens all the time, mostly with kids– they see something in me that reminds them of their mother or their little sister and they start clinging like crazy. It’s a totally normal, common trauma response. 

Next up is the elephant in the room — the allegations accusing Damian Wayne of harassment in her regards, brought on by the netizens and Gotham Gazette’s reporter Vicki Vale. Supergirl looks surprised, almost embarrassed at the mention of it. Well– not to undermine the gravity of any mishaps my female colleagues might have had with other men, but if a guy bothers me, I make sure he knows of it. Had he bothered me, I would’ve dropped him. 

Of course, cleaning up the city has a priority over responding to such trivial questions, so she soon left us to go back to helping the workers and the other Supes; her answers are however vital to let Damian Wayne off the hook, as they align with the version told by the latter’s lawyers on the official statement published this morning. 

Wayne’s lawyers state that he had sustained a major head injury and so was mostly incoherent during the time of the saving, attaching various medical records that seem to fully clear him of all charges of malicious intent. 

In the end, just like Supergirl said, he has probably just 'hit his head really hard’. We wish Mr. Wayne a fast recovery and leniency from Miss Kent, who has yet to speak up about the situation.

Finally out of the hospital and sat on one of the chairs in your kitchen, Damian side eyes you over his copy of the Daily Planet. “Poor dude really hit his head hard, huh?”

Swinging your legs under your kitchen table, you hum, unbothered like always. “Don’t worry, I love it when you look dumb. It makes me feel like the smart one in the relationship.” 

He can tell. You’re trying not to stare but as his Bentley winds down the driveway, revealing more and more of the three storey manor, you can’t look away. It is impressive, he will admit. An end of the 19th century Manor. From here, you can see the three wings. A central one where two others flank it on a diagonal, facing the back garden. You drive past the surrounding forest and ancient trees, finally entering the driveway the size of a football field.

“Wow.” Is all you say, blinking and trying not to look too shocked. It doesn't work. The corner of his lips turns up.

“It’s a lot,” he agrees, easing the car into the stone arch of the carport.

“It’s the size of a small country.”

“You’re joking but the property is about the same width as Monaco.” He chuckles and unbuckles his seatbelt. Swiftly, he shoots out of his seat and rounds the car to your side. His shoes crunch rapidly onto the stone pebbles. A trait of yours that Bruce had quickly learnt, you’re independent. You didn’t need him to open the door or pull out a chair for you when you were perfectly capable. You'd gently move his hand away or thank him before reminding him that you could do it. He'd just smile and repeat what he always says: he wants to, it makes him happy to treat you. Proven by the slight satisfaction in his chest when he manages to swing the car door open. With a couple seconds to spare, he even holds a hand out for you.

“I should surprise you more often.” Bruce murmurs, pressing a chaste kiss to your temple as you straighten up. With a solid hand on your back, he leads you up the stone stairs in front of the grand door. They swing open without a sound.

You don't have a chance to take in the view of the foyer and grand hall because a man with greying hair steps to the side. His left hand is on the door handle, the other opened like a practised general.

"Hello, Master Bruce." The man nods politely, a polished English accent filling the quiet. "Shall I take you and your guest's coats?"

With nothing out of the normal for the billionaire, Bruce hands him his coat. You don't even notice that you haven't moved, still stuck on the fact that Wayne Manor is well...a manor, and that Bruce Wayne has a butler that greets him at the door and takes his coat. Somehow, Bruce has moved behind you, his hand still on your back but climbing up in a grounding rub. With a gentleness that's slowly starting to coax you out of your reverie, Bruce's fingers brush across your shoulders and slide the soft wool of yours off of you. He hands your coat the butler with a 'thank you'.

"Thank you," you add in, almost forgetting your manners.

"You're welcome." His butler just nods again before disappearing behind one of the antique wooden doors.

With just you and Bruce, you finally look up. Past the waxed herringbone. Past the intricate iron and wood balustrade. Past the neat stair runner. Past the vase of hollyhocks set on a table in the centre of the foyer. Because as your eye travels up and up, and you through the space, you finally take in the scale of the place. This is just the foyer and yet it's bigger than your entire kitchen, dining, and living room combined. Stretching up and beyond it, you can make out the upper hallway whose walls are covered in oil portraits and priceless sculptures. Back on the ground floor, behind an arcade (an arcade is a series of archways usually used to delimit a space), chandeliers drop from the ceiling and light up the massive ballroom. There's a hallway that stretches out to your left. Another to your right. More rooms that are probably even bigger than this one. And, if you squint, you can see a vast stretch of green that seems to blend into the shore and trees.

Finally, your eyes land on Bruce again, and you can only wonder how anyone could call a place this vast and empty his home.

—

The best way to experience Bruce's bedroom is in his bed.

The only downside is that you're pretty sure he's asleep and you need to pee. With a resigned sigh, you slowly peel yourself away from him. His hand, which had been resting on your stomach while you both slept on your backs, is gently placed back down onto the mattress. So far, so good. You carry on your delicate quiet by climbing off of the bed. Not a single creak.

Until your foot catches the ottoman.

"Shi-ow!" You keep your voice down, your whispered yell dulling down into a harsh hiss.

Hobbling on one and a half feet now, you make it another metre before your hip bumps into a side table. A grunt of pain squeezes through your lips. You carry on, your arms out in front of you as you find a wall. In the pitch black, you're mentally cursing Bruce's blackout curtains. Your palms brush up against the fabric wallpaper before finding the doorframe then the knob. With a twist, you push it open and shut it quietly behind you. Turning the light on, the walk in closet blinks to life.

Well, you're the one blinking, trying to adjust to the sudden brightness.

In more rushed steps, you cross the room and shut the bathroom door behind you with a soft 'click'. Cool marble and carved wood greet you but you don't really care because you're beelining for the toilet.

Sweet, sweet porcelain.

Once your business is concluded, you wash your hands and splash your face with some water. You also secretly thank Bruce for being responsible and carrying you to the bathroom after your late-night activities to pee and brush your teeth, because now you have a toothbrush and can get rid of any morning breath. The soft shhh-shhh-shhh of the bristles against your teeth are the only sound this early. Or late. You haven't checked the time. Bruce must really be knocked out then.

All clean and bladder empty, you turn off all of the lights you cross paths with as you make your way back into the bedroom.

Just a silhouette in the shadows, Bruce is still flat on his back. With a little more grace than before, you find your way back onto the bed. And in Bruce's arms. He's rolled over, his biceps curled around you in a sturdy cuddle. Warmth emits off of him instantly, his body having heated up fast under the thousand thread count duvet.

"Good morning," he mutters and the sound travels south.

Good morning to you too, Mr. Wayne.

His voice is rich and gravelly, like a dark coffee or the rumble of a motor. Bruce's morning voice is sexy. Of course it is. He's Bruce Wayne. That combined with the lingering scent of sex, sweat, and expensive cologne, means that the memories of last night come crashing down on you. The deliberately slow peeling away of your clothes. His mouth on your pussy, eating you out just until your back arches before pulling away. His hands rubbing your thighs with a smug smile. His deep, stern voice asking telling you to go stand in front of the mirror. The heat that lingers on your skin as his touch maps out every part of you in front of the reflective glass. His weight then settling on top of you, caging you in-between the hard lines of his chest and the delicate pillow tucked under your hips. The stronger wafts of his cologne bringing you closer to the peak as he slings your legs over his shoulders and bends down to mark your collarbones.

With a small rustle, you turn your head towards him.

Fuck, he's back to sleep.

You decide that you don't want to end up staring at the ceiling for the next hour or however many more. Maybe you could get your phone? The one that's in your purse all the way downstairs in the library where he tried to teach you the basics of chess before deciding that sex was a much sexier way to end date night. So, your phone is a no-go. Maybe your imagination could distract you? Possible but considering your two options are replaying last night's events or worrying about the proper etiquette for the current situation, it doesn't sound promising. Should you wake him up? Should you just hide in the bathroom and put on your clothes from yesterday? Leave with a note? A text? A message from Alfred? Head downstairs? In his own house? Without him? Would it be rude to ask for breakfast?

"You're not breathing like you're asleep." You jump out of your skin at Bruce's voice rumbling against you.

"'Cause I'm not."

"Why?"

"Because I'm awake."

"I guessed that," he lightly pats your hip before rubbing the spot there. "Why aren't you going back to sleep?"

"Can't. Too awake."

"I didn't tire you out enough last night?" He chuckles, his voice getting closer as he presses a soft kiss to the top of your head.

"Shut up."

"I heard you bump into the wall."

Great. The morning after with billionaire bachelor Bruce Wayne is less romantic and steamy than you would have hoped for. Good job at setting the mood.

"Did you brush your teeth?" The mattress sighs as Bruce leans up on an elbow, slowly blinking down at you. You nod, caught.

"Hm." He just nods in return. "I'll message Alfred to get started on breakfast."

Then, like last night had no effect on him whatsoever, he stands up on steady feet and opens up the curtains. Gotham's early morning sun bathes him in a soft light, bringing out the mussed up black mess of hair on his head and the contours of his abs. With a deep breath and a roll of his shoulders, Bruce sits by you again, brushing the sleep out of your face. His thumb traces your cheekbone carefully and he hums. Leaning into his touch, the two of you start a morning routine full of gentle caresses and mundane habits.

—

Arguments are few and between with you and Bruce.

It helps that you're both so similar. Fiercely independent. Blunt and honest. Reflective and pensive. The two of you don't argue. You debate. Points are made, pauses are taken to fully absorb the other's perspective, and a conclusion is reached. It's organised and then moved past. You've each said what you've had to say. You agree and disagree on certain points. There's a mutual respect and understanding that allows for the both of you to come out as equals at the end.

But not last night.

Maybe it's because you were both at a wit's end. You had a long week juggling work, paparazzi, your personal life, and a wedding planner who can't stop sending you emails. Maybe because you're a woman marrying Bruce Wayne so they assumed that you'd be more eager to pay ridiculous sums for flowers and napkins on your fiancé's dime. Less level-headed. More willing to splurge after noticing the massive rock on your left hand. The paparazzi seem to think so too because you swear this one man had been following you since Tuesday when you stopped by a bakery after work. It made headlines in some trashy magazine 'Future Mrs. Wayne stopping by Sugar & Sprinkles for cake tasting. What flavour will the couple's cake be?'. Every little move you made was now an assumption ready for any looking eye to twist now that you're engaged to a Wayne.

Bruce is tired too. The CEO of Wayne Enterprises has been doing the mental math on expanding his conglomerate to other parts of the world, balancing the wants of global politics and the average consumer, and reading report after report on company performance. Add Batman on top of that and he's nearly dead on his feet. The Penguin has something planned but with a lack of proper rest, he can't fit the last pieces of the puzzle together. This other superhero, Superman, has just found out of his existence and won't leave him alone. It's the third time this month the meta-human from Metropolis has approached him with a friendly smile and his cape billowing in the wind like a bright red target. While the paparazzi have stopped bothering him years ago thanks to his lack of response as well as his legal team, his PR team keep on reminding him of the expectations of Bruce Wayne now that he's engaged. Happily engaged, but the extra people in what's supposed to be your private relationship is starting to get a bit grating.

Which is what the two of you ended up arguing about.

Now, the day after the fight. The Manor's hallways seem to stretch even further. Quiet, lined with artwork that makes the air stale. The remnants of the prior tension echo on the wood panelling. You had just glared at him, exaggerating that the silence that stretched down the East Wing of the Manor. He stared back at you, unmoving. You knew it's wasn't going to end well. He knew it too. But both proud and stubborn, the two of you didn't have it in you last night to compromise. You both wanted to win. You both needed a win. Something to pick you up at the end of the long, frustrating week you've had.

And neither of you are fully in the wrong. You know that you and Bruce need to slow down on the wedding planning. The both of you need it. You need a breather between the media and the stupid wedding planner, before you start resenting this wedding planning or even Bruce. Bruce needs the break too, as much as he doesn't want to admit it. His mental load is at its extreme and he can't take any more on. But he has a point with leaving the wedding planner sort through a few things and come back to you two later. They're being hired by Bruce Wayne for crying out loud. That doesn't mean bothering his future wife. It means making the whole wedding thing as seamless as possible.

But instead it ended in you taking one of the cars to drive back to yours in downtown Gotham while he retreated to the cave.

Dick doesn't like the quiet of the Manor. It's why he's been giving Bruce the cold shoulder all morning. He hates the stillness in the air. How life seems to stop and freeze in the presence of the Wayne ancestral halls. It's nothing like the circus. Nothing ever stayed immobile for too long. Tents were put up and brought down at sunrise and sunset. Animals and acrobats never stopped moving. Crowds roared and vendors had their own cacophonies of sounds. All the Manor had were its inhabitants. Alfred, although the butler seems to be incapable of making any involuntary sounds. No matter how hard Dick tries to scare him. Bruce, but grunts and hums don't count. Especially when Dick thinks that he drove you away with his arguing. And you, you added life. Your shoes would click down the hallway. You didn't make it your life's mission to be stealthy like the other two. You laughed, stumbled, bumped into things, and made the house creak. He missed it. He missed knowing that at the sound of the usually well-oiled doors opening, you'd pop your head in and make his days a little brighter, noisier.

"Hey, chum," he doesn't even glance up from his book when Bruce walks into the library. "You want to go into town and get some ice cream at that place near the cinema?"

Dick aggressively flips the page. He pointedly ignores Bruce's approaching footsteps.

"We can get a scoop of sorbet while we're there. Maybe bring it to someone."

Another page flip.

Then, he remembers. You like sorbet. Slowly, Dick lifts his eyes to meet his adoptive dad's. With a dramatic sigh and a sharp snap shut, the book gets put down and he's already beating him to the door.

Hours later, when the three of you walk back into the Manor after an afternoon of ice cream and the park, Dick finally feels like things are going back to normal. He can hear you muttering with Bruce from the open door of the library's second floor. You're debating which book to read with him before bed. There's your laughter, somehow finding something Bruce said funny. Somehow. Then, when his eyes drift shut, sleepy from the boring 'History of the Modern Wheel' the sounds of your footsteps on the creaking wood floors lull him to sleep.

—

The first thing you hang up in your side of the closet is your wedding dress. Zipped up and safely tucked away. Before your foot catches on something, sending you stumbling around the walk-in. You look down and around you at the dozen or so boxes surrounding your feet. Twelve more to go.

Sneakily, a familiar hand finds its way around your waist, settling on your hipbone. You tilt your head up and find Bruce. A habit of his entering and leaving rooms without a single sound. There's a little gleam in his blue eyes meaning he's got something on his mind.

"I meant it when I said I could move my stuff over. I don't wear half of these things anyway." His chin points to his side of the walk in closet. The smaller side. Not that it's lacking in any way though. It's still big enough for his watches, belts, socks, shoes, pants, suits, tuxedos, seasonal wear, and everything in between with room to grow.

"And I told you that I have plenty of room." You remind him, doubting that you'll be needing any more space. It falls on deaf ears though. Bruce sees an opportunity to give you something and he will take it. You speak before he can charm his way into getting what he wants: giving you whatever you want. "So, no. Just help me unpack."

With a nod that comes almost too quick, you regret not being more suspicious when he crouches down and opens up the first box.

Not too long later, your side is full and you haven't even made much of a dent in the wardrobe. Never mind that because your husband is already herding you to the study like you're a prized sheep. The heavy wooden door pushes in and you notice the new layout. What used to be his large and heavy desk in the centre of the room is now gone. Instead, the aforementioned desk is on the right while a matching one is on the left. Both standing over the same rug with their mirroring pairs of armchairs and desk lamps.

"Bruce?" You raise an eyebrow at him. He has the gall to look proud. "Why on Earth did you put a second desk in here?"

"It's pretty self-explanatory." His hand rubs your waist before leading you along to your desk. Complete with your own row of bookshelves behind it.

"I don't need a desk. At least not here. If I ever want to work from home, I can do it in the dining room or the library." You feel the guilt ebb up to the surface as you take in the meaning of the action. You're Mrs. Wayne now. One half of the Manor's owners. You get your own desk. Your own closet. This place is yours even if you only married into it.

"You shouldn't have to work at the dining table." He tuts, gentle leading you to sir down on the chair. A very nice and very comfortable leather chair.

"I don't need to take up half of your study."

"Our study," Bruce corrects, leading against the desk while he rubs your hand. "Plus, it suits you Mrs. Wayne."

"Oh, does it?"

"Perfectly."

When you glance up from your laptop's screen two months later and see Bruce as equally tired of his own work, you can't help but chuckle under your breath. Working across from him, having a space where the two of you can focus, and be professionals in your own right at home is nice. But the quick glances and giddy half-smiles are what convinces you that your place is here. At at a desk across from your husband, a routine of comfort and passing around printer paper so boring and mundane that it just makes sense.

—

There aren't many things in the Manor that are normal. But the plastic plates you bought are one of those things.

It all started a few months ago when you and Bruce brought a skinny little Jason to the Manor. He was wide-eyed and jumpy. Every time Bruce cleared his throat. Every time a piece of silverware clattered onto the floor. Every time you sighed just a little too loud. For Jason, the Manor was a ticking bomb. One wrong move and he was convinced that whatever dream he was in, he'd be ripped right out of. It took time to get him where he is today, even if it still rips your heart out to see him so shy and so scared in what should be his new home. But the plastic plates helped. It got dropped on the floor? Wouldn't even chip. The design faded away in the dishwasher? No one really likes Batman anyway. Jason didn't have to worry about his knife making a horrible scratching sound. It was cheap, it was durable, and it made him feel less like a kid in a museum.

You watch how comfortable he seems to be with the new tableware. as he sets the plates out for breakfast. Dick gets the Superman plate. Bruce gets the Robin plate. You get the Batman plate. Jason gets the Wonder Woman plate.

Turning back to the stove, you flip another pancake and pile it onto the stack. Dick is still in his room, probably asleep like any other normal seventeen year old. Bruce is juicing some oranges and carrots. And Alfred is enjoying his day off. It's all a quiet hum as the fog and dew wake up the Manor's grounds.

Until your eldest crashes in and slumps across the breakfast table.

"I just put those plates down." Jason frowns, his personality always coming out around Dick.

"Thanks." Dick mumbles, curling his Superman plate around his arm.

"Dickhead." Jason mutters and joins your side at the stove. Bruce just glances up, shaking his head with a soft smile.

"Rough night, chum?" Your husband sets the pitcher of juice onto the table and rubs Dick's back.

"Teen Titans." He mumbles against the wooden surface.

"Hm." Bruce nods and pours him a glass.

On your side of the kitchen, you and Jason ignore them. Ever since his arrival and him noticing your lack of consuming of any substance, Jason has stuck by your side. Your little sidekick for anything, really. Primarily in the kitchen whenever Alfred was busy with something else. You hand him the ladle as he pours out another pancake. A nice little circle that sizzles on the butter. Neatly, he sets it back into the bowl and you then hand him the spatula. He likes it. Cooking something. Making something yummy and warm and fresh. He times it perfectly, waiting until the biggest bubble pops before he flips it onto the over side. He doesn't sneak in a bite or steal an entire pancake. He just waits and lets them cook.

With a full plate, you let Jason carry it over to the other two. He settles it in the centre before taking a seat next to yours. You slide in with a jam that Dick likes, reminding him of when the circus toured in Eastern Europe, and some maple syrup. Everyone digs in. Dick piles his plate high. Your husband gives you a small thank you as you serve him a few pancakes while he pours everyone some juice. And Jason hunches over his plate protectively. The four of you move in an easy quiet, the sound of chewing and the early morning birds waking up the kitchen.

"How was Maths with Mr. Bouyer this week?" Bruce asks Dick while wiping some stickiness off of Jason's face.

"Ugh," your teenager rolls his eyes and slumps into his seat. "I have no idea how he's even still allowed to teach. All he does is lecture us on maths for two hours. He doesn't even give us exercises or homework to practise any maths."

"How-"

"I don't know!" Dick cuts your husband off with an exasperated gesture. "I'm gonna fail the IB all because of some stuck up teacher who thinks that he's lecturing in some prestigious college when it's actually a bunch of teenagers at Gotham Prep. Like dude, no one cares so just do your job."

"Wow," you blink.

"Hm." Bruce agrees. "I'll have a word with the school next week."

"And you, Jay?" You turn towards Jason while Dick shoves another pancake into his gob. "How was your book report?"

"Good," he smiles. "I got an A+. And then Lory thought that it was cool that I got an A and she shared her animal crackers with me."

You share a proud smile with Bruce.

—

The Manor is dead. Ever since Jason has passed and Dick needed his own space, the Wayne Manor has died. You and Bruce still live there, but it's just a space to take shelter. Not a home.

It's hard, staying indoors. Walking past the hallway that led to Dick or Jason's bedrooms. But you have to do it daily now.

Cassandra showed up into your lives not looking for parents but for a way out. You still didn't understand out of what, but neither of you were going to deny her a safe space to live in. So she took the third bedroom down that corridor. You let Cassandra settle into life at the Manor. That often meant the fourteen year old disappearing on the grounds during the day and coming back inside for a quiet lunch or snacks. She didn't linger in the library like Jason used to or run down the halls like Dick. She'd just give you and Bruce your space until it was time for bed. Then, like a routine you hadn't even noticed you were doing, you and your husband would read to her before going to sleep. It started when the two of you learnt that Dick had no formal education. Not that you could blame him when the circus was always moving and much more interesting than a classroom. But you needed to fill the gap. You and Bruce didn't want your kids to fall victim to the million word gap.

She didn't speak much, if at all. Just a series of nods and head shakes. But you could tell she was trying, even if it was hard. She'd mouth the words you and Bruce would read to her. She'd take an extra second to scan the kitchen's pantry, tilting her head curiously at the spice labelled 'adobo' that had remained untouched in a thin layer of dust. And, she'd linger in the greenhouse reading the rusted iron plaques.

You had caught her one Saturday morning, crouched down between the leaves.

In a pair of gardening gloves and jeans that had seen better days, you came into the abandoned greenhouse with two goals in mind: clear out the weeds, and to find something to do instead of work and grieve. The Laura Wayne greenhouse and botanical gardens seemed like the perfect place to do so. Untouched when the former Mr. and Mrs. Wayne passed then neglected again when Jason joined them. The intricate glass and ironwork was stained with rain and mud. Inside, the designed planter boxes for exotic plants were hidden by dead branches and dried leaves.

"Cass?" You approach her slowly, moving to crouch with her. "What're you doing, honey?"

She lifts her head up, her big brown eyes scrunched up as she focuses.

"Reading." she finally says, voice soft.

"Yeah? Is it interesting?" You take a glove off and brush a strand of black hair behind her ear. The braid you tied for her at the breakfast table is already drooping.

She just nods, a small finger coming out to trace the letters. JASMINUM POLYANTHUM, Many-Flowered Jasmine. You look at the mess of dirt and branches. Not a single chance you would've guessed it was that by looking at it.

"I'm going to do some gardening," you put your glove back on and straighten up, "do you want to join? I have an extra pair of gloves."

Cass gives you a small nod accompanied by an even smaller smile. You hand her the gloves and the two of you get to work. By sunset, there's a wheelbarrow and trash bags full of dead soil and plants on the outside of the greenhouse. You had managed to scrub down most of the windows while Cass polished the plaques. By her side, she had taken the notebook and pen you brought down, taking her time to neatly write out every plant that used to be there.

She jots down another one, squinting between the letters carved out on the iron and the pen in her hand. You keep on scrubbing at the glass and cobwebs.

"Mrs. Wayne, Miss Cassandra," Alfred's voice pulls the two of you out of your focus. "I believe the two of you are done for the day."

You share a look with Cass, gaging her reaction. Her, like your husband, doesn't give anything away. Of course.

"There is lemonade and sandwiches on the south balcony. I will take care of disposing of all of this." The butler holds the greenhouse's door open even wider while his steady gaze and tone leave no room for argument. With a sweaty sigh, you toss your gloves into your basket and Cass does the same. Your knees pop as you stand, your 30s definitely not loving being crouched over all day. With your hunger finally catching up to you, you and Cass don't have the second thought to glance back at Alfred, and miss his fond smile and shake of his head.

—

"I'm Tim Drake. I've been watching your family for a few months now. Not in a creepy way. Technically I'm your neighbour, just a forest and property over."

You blink, stunned by the eleven year old who just climbed into library through the window. He, like somehow all of the children that have found their way into your lives, has a head of black hair. His blue eyes remind you of Bruce, Dick, and Jason but there's a frantic exhaustion that only your husband seems to permanently carry. He's holding a few things. A backpack, a rope, and a bicycle helmet. He's got knee and elbow pads on and a scuff on his shin.

"Bruce is Batman, right? Well, I know he is but I just wanted to let you know that I know. You've also taken in a girl. I don't know her name, haven't figured that out yet."

You don't move. He looks harmless. A cute little kid. But his cadence is eerily similar to the once Bruce has when he's verbally sorting through a case. Fast, focused, and mostly for himself.

"I'm sorry, sweetheart," you get out of your chair, wincing when it hits the bookcase behind you. "Just give me a second?"

At his small nod, you nearly race down the hallway for Bruce. Opening the sitting room's door with too much energy, you find your husband watching a movie with Cass.

"Is everything okay-"

"There is a random child in our study who's been stalking us and knows that you're Batman."

Bruce pauses then nods, just once. Then he stands up, tall and stable versus your panicking heart. He makes it to the door and settles a hand on your waist.

"Give me a few minutes, okay?" His voice drops to that soft timbre he usually speaks to you in when he wants to help you calm down.

"Okay."

Thirty minutes later and sick of waiting in the unknown, you head back to the library. Sat by the fire in on a leather sofa, Tim is curled up in a blanket with his gear by Bruce's feet. He doesn't seem to care that you've walked in, or that Cassandra has silently followed in behind you to settle by Bruce's side. He just keeps on talking.

"So yeah. They didn't want to get an abortion and had me. They're at a dinner party right now. In Switzerland. They won't be back until next week." Tim tugs on a loose thread. "Anyways, I tracked your patrol routes with Killer Croc's and the water levels of the sewers keep on rising. I'm guessing there's something there."

And Bruce just responds as if this is normal. And for him, maybe it is.

"He's been unwell," your husband nods, his Batman voice gravelly. "It's not easy being him."

"Yeah, I've been looking at different kinds of therapy-" and you stop paying attention because all you can see is a neglected little kid that fits in just like the three others, mirroring and interacting with Bruce in a way that feels natural. He doesn't look out of place surrounded by heavy books and tall shelves. He doesn't even bat an eye at the ridiculous wealth of the Wayne Manor. Not at the marble fireplace or at the 16th century bust on a pedestal in the corner. He just carries on talking with the same eccentricities as Bruce, finally finding someone who can understand him.

—

Jason's back.

He's now eighteen, scarred, a couple inches taller than Bruce, and still the scared little boy you took in all those years ago.

But he's back for vengeance on Bruce.

All day he's been tormenting your poor husband. With already a few strands of grey making a rare appearance in his dark hair, you suspect that he'll have a few more by the end of today. Jason's been scaring Bruce all day. At breakfast, he got Tim to help him with a hologram of him, making Jason's ghost haunt the halls. Bruce choked on his coffee. After lunch, when Bruce was just in his study looking over some papers, he got Cass to grab his ankles. Batman let out an embarrassing yelp. Mid-afternoon, Jason kept it simple by hiding behind a wall in the grand hall and jumping out at Bruce. Your husband had to redirect his punch last minute.

Even during a halloween party, he hasn't stopped.

Excited screaming and giggling bounce off of the tall ceilings of the ballroom. The two of the city's orphanages are celebrating their halloween at the Manor. Kids of all ages dressed in whatever costume they could afford or make fill up the room. There's a few older kids sticking by the buffet table, enjoying some warm food. The younger ones haven't stopped moving since they arrived. As if they were transported to another world, they hide behind pillars and inspect every inch of the Manor's ballroom like it's a giant dollhouse. Two kids are waving their fingers through the fog being emitted by the cauldron in the corner. Some are playing hide and seek behind fake cobwebs. There's a Dracula chasing a unicorn with a giant fake spider.

You watch on, in a black dress and witch hat while Bruce and Alfred make sure everything is going smoothly. Cass and Tim are busy distributing candy, dressed as two bats. Dick will pass by later, before he's headed to a Teen Titans halloween party. He sent a text about Discowing that all your kids groaned at.

And Jason is nowhere to be seen.

It's only an hour later when Bruce makes a speech that gets interrupted by giggles and excited raucous does he appear again. The room has gone dark, a single light shining on Bruce. Jason's by your side again sporting a satisfied grin.

"Jay, what did you do?" You don't have to glance at your son to know that he's planned something.

"Shh. B's giving a speech." You can hear the humour in his voice.

"Thank you for coming tonight. We hope you had a great time and stocked up on lots of candy," Bruce pauses, having expected the excited screaming at the mention of candy. "It was a pleasure celebrating with you all tonight. Happy halloween-"

A loud boom of thunder cuts through the air and makes the room jump. Lightning strikes the sky outside and a bat swoops from the ceiling. Bats that are supposed to be fake. Your husband startles at the winged creature, flinching just little before he composes himself and walks off of the makeshift stage. More bats descend, and the orphanages' caretakers hurry with getting the kids out of there before one gets scratched or bitten.

"Jason." You turn to look at him.

"Okay," he sighs, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. "I wasn't expecting them to all come alive."

Your family spend the next hour trying to shoo the bats outside without getting infected.

—

Ding dong. Ding dong.

The Manor's formal living room smells like pine, cinnamon, and snow. Christmas music plays from a record player on a console table, one of Bruce's old records spinning. There's a pile of neatly and not-so-neatly wrapped presents under the tree. A solid pine tree from the forest just outside decorated in silver tinsel and crystal ornaments. Wreaths, pine needles, and mistletoe line every door and window while a fresh layer of snow piles onto the foot of white outside. On the central sofa facing the hearth, Dick, Jason, Duke, and Stephanie are all piled on. Each in their own versions of festive pyjamas. For your eldest, it means a hideous and tacky Christmas sweater along with the silliest slippers he could find, Rudolph with bells. Jason opted for a green hoodie and some plaid pyjama pants. Duke doesn't mind joining Dick in his chaotic fashion choices because his sweater is as equally appalling and his slippers just as eye-catching. Steph just settled for her usual pyjamas and slapped on a Santa hat.

On the other couch adjacent to them are Cass and Tim. Cassandra's in the nutcracker knit you and Bruce got her last Christmas, curled up with a mug of tea and a pillow on her lap. Tim's in a mishmash of clothing, none of which actually belong to him. Bruce's pyjama pants, Cass's t-shirt, Dick's clogs, and Jason's sweater.

On an loveseat where Bruce insists that you remained glued to his side, your husband is in his usual silk pyjamas and fluffy cotton robe. There's a slight scruff on his jaw and a content look in his eyes seeing everyone here. His arm is around your shoulders, watching your kids and wards exchange gifts and throw crumpled up wrapping paper at each other.

"For you," he murmurs softly, handing you a velvet box. He presses a sweet kiss to your temple as you open it. You gently unfold the delicate wrapping paper and set the lid of the box down, revealing...a wonky tray. Just a simple ceramic tray with a glaze that created spots on the surface.

"Thank you," you smile, pressing a kiss to Bruce's stubbly cheek despite being extremely confused.

"It's for your jewellery." He explains, his hand rubbing yours. "I know you have too much to fit in the tray but you always leave your wedding ring and necklace out. Thought I could make you something for it."

"Oh, I can definitely tell that you made it." You chuckle.

—

New year, new...kid?

You and Bruce weren't expecting a ten year old on your driveway as the new year starts. The two of you have just returned from watching the fireworks from the Wayne Enterprises rooftop, giddy and tired. You kissed at midnight, Bruce said something cheesy about spending another year by your side with his arms around you. You kissed again, smiling against each other's lips.

And now there's a ten year old boy sat on the stone steps with a scowl surrounded by heavy leather suitcases.

"Your home is simple, father." He says before either you or Bruce can get out a hello.

Father? Already? You mean, you and Bruce have eventually heard a 'mom' or 'dad' come from each of your kids. But father? Within the first few seconds of meeting?

The new addition doesn't notice or care about your surprised faces because he's standing up and dusting himself off with impeccable posture. Olive skin, green eyes, and eyebrows just like Bruce's. If you didn't know any better you would've assumed he was some long lost biological child. Yet again, all of your kids somehow ended up all looking uncannily too much like Bruce despite not a single one sharing his DNA.

"I'm Damian Wayne Al Ghul. Your son." He announces, tilting his chin up with conviction. You stare down at the ten year old looking far too regal for the Manor's stone steps and manicured front garden. His bags surround him, leather that looks like it dates from decades ago, sitting on the ground like a makeshift throne. The only light comes from the iron lamps shining behind him, casting his shadow down the pebbled driveway.

"My mother has sent for me to live with you. Talia al Ghul."

—

A/N: I’m in a Bruce Wayne mood idk why.

Also, I wanted to change the design of my Wayne manor build in the sims but there’s no infinite lots which sucks. I even bought Paralives to see if there was one but it’s too small (probably should’ve googled it instead of just buying the game but hey at least it’s not EA taking my money). Considering I want to add a private beach, a forest with horse or walking trails, a small secondary home for Alfred, a large driveway with a car port, stables, a botanical garden, a pool, the manor and its three wings, a lookout point on a trail, and a greenhouse. I think I might have to lock in with AutoCAD and rhino or get into revit…😭 (Or just hope that TwistedMexi finishes their Create A World mod soon enough. I'm so excited for it)

I haven’t read any Tim Drake comics or anything about his origins but I checked Reddit and apparently his parents are alive so…that’s confusing. Anyways, I made his parents rich assholes who never wanted a kid but didn’t abort because it’s against their values so Tim has sort of emotionally latched onto Bruce. I feel like it's an explanation that makes sense but doesn't force them into witness protection, yk? Also Cass is older than she probably would've been when taken in by bruce because I needed her to stay closer in age to Jason than Tim. Comics say she would've been 8 when going to bruce but it confused my timeline too much.

texts between y/n + beckett

liked by beckettsennecke_, _willsmith2, and 5.6M others

ynuser new single “hey stephen” is out now!!! cannot wait for you guys to hear it, it’s one of those songs that makes me so happy and want to dance in my living room! please look out for my new album coming out sooooonnn 💛💐

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beckettsennecke_ you are awesome

➥ ynuser BECK 💋💋

➥ user8 are they dating?

➥ user9 don’t think so! they are very close friends tho

user10 the people’s princess

sabrinacarpenter LOVEE

gabeperreault44 i can picture u dancing in the living room

➥ ynuser gabe you could’ve worded this any other way

➥ user11 LMFAO i love their friendship

inlovewithyn guys.. let’s talk about y/n’s new single because i am so obsessed!! we barley see her write super lovey dovey songs so this was so refreshing like LOOK AT THE LYRICS C’MON

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user12 i loveeed it so much it was so cute

user13 did yall see her new album cover? it’s her in hockey gear!!

➥ user14 YESS i think the song is about a hockey player

user15 ok wait.. new album cover is her in hockey gear, she has a lot of hockey friends & a hockey player recently went to her concert.. she definitely wrote this about that player

➥ user16 who was the hockey player?

➥ user17 it was _willsmith2

user18 could it be about beckett or gabe?

➥ user19 i highly doubt it because they’ve been close friends for so long and im pretty sure it’s platonic!

user20 _willsmith2 has been in her likes so it tracks

y/n’s interview

Louis is practically vibrating beside you, his stride quick and proud, like a man walking a prize-winning racehorse into the show ring. “Number one in her class,” he’s saying to no one in particular, though he’s loud enough for half the bullpen to hear. “Harvard. My Harvard. Full ride. Recruited by half the firms in the city, but she chose us. Chose me.”

You resist the urge to shrink under the weight of so many eyes. Associates glance up from their monitors, partners peer over the rims of their reading glasses, and you can feel the quiet ripple of appraisal following you through the room. You know what they’re thinking: fresh out of law school, bright-eyed, top of your class—how long until the grind of this place dulls the shine? You lift your chin and keep your pace steady. Let them watch.

Louis slows as you approach the corner office—the corner office—and your pulse ticks up. Through the glass, you see him: Harvey Specter. The Harvey Specter. Leaning back in his chair like the world spins because he lets it, a pen balanced between his fingers, the faintest curve of a smirk tugging at his mouth. The city skyline sprawls behind him, impossibly bright for this early in the morning.

Louis pushes the door open without knocking, voice pitched in that particular way that’s half-boast, half-plea for validation. “Harvey, meet my new associate. Number one at Harvard Law.”

Harvey’s gaze flicks from Louis to you, and it’s like being under a spotlight—sharp, assessing, the kind of look that takes in everything and gives nothing back. Up close, you catch the faint scent of his cologne: something warm and expensive, threaded with a hint of spice. It settles under your skin in a way you weren’t prepared for.

“You plan on keeping her in the bullpen?” Harvey asks, his tone lazy but edged with amusement. “Seems like a waste.”

Louis bristles. “She’s with me. And she’s going to be the best associate this firm has ever seen.”

Harvey’s smirk widens by a fraction, like he knows something neither of you do yet. His eyes stay on you as he says, “We’ll see about that.”

The words shouldn’t make your stomach flip. They do anyway.

The next several weeks blur into a series of long nights and longer days. You prove quickly that you aren’t just book-smart—you’re fast, adaptable, and unshakable under pressure. You file airtight motions with minutes to spare, dismantle opposing arguments in conference calls, and pull case law from thin air like you’ve been practicing for years. Whispers start to follow you down the hallway—not just about being Louis’ Harvard golden girl, but about the way you leave no loose ends. The way you can smile at someone while tearing their argument to shreds.

You drink your coffee black, keep your bullpen desk unnervingly tidy, and dress like every meeting could make or break your career. When someone tries to pass their grunt work onto you, you hand it back with corrections. Associates either want to be you or avoid you entirely. Partners are starting to remember your name.

One afternoon, the tap of Louis’ shoes announces him before he even rounds the corner to your desk. He’s clutching a thick file to his chest like it’s a newborn. “Clear your schedule,” he says, practically bouncing in place.

You slide your pen into your notepad and arch a brow. “That’s a big ask, considering I actually do work around here.”

“Cute,” he says flatly, though there’s the ghost of a smirk on his face. He sets the file down on your desk with a heavy thud. “I’m bringing you in on a case. High stakes. Big client. One wrong move and we’re toast.”

You flip open the file, scanning the first few pages, your brain already sifting through strategies. “And you’re trusting me with this because…?”

“Because,” Louis says, drawing out the word, “you’re the best associate this firm has seen in years. And because I want Harvey Specter to choke on the fact that my protégé just outshined him.”

You glance up, meeting his eyes. “So no pressure, then.”

Louis grins. “Exactly. Now, read up. We meet the client tomorrow morning.”

Two days later, Harvey’s on his way back from a meeting when he hears raised voices echoing down the hall. Not angry, exactly—sharp. Heated. Curious, he follows the sound until it leads him to one of the glass-walled conference rooms.

Inside, Louis sits stiffly at the table, arms crossed, eyes trained on you. You’re standing, posture straight, expression cool, facing down a red-faced client who’s clearly in the middle of a tirade. Harvey lingers in the doorway, unnoticed.

The client jabs a finger at you. “I don’t care what the law says—this deal is garbage, and I’m not signing it.”

You tilt your head, the faintest smile tugging at your mouth. “With respect, you hired us to get you the best possible outcome. This is it. The other side folds if you take this now, but if you walk out that door, you’ll spend the next six months bleeding money in litigation you won’t win.”

The client starts to interrupt, but you press on, voice razor-sharp. “You’re emotional. I get it. But emotions don’t win cases. Facts do. And the fact is, if you reject this offer, you lose. And when you lose, you’ll wish you’d listened to me.”

A long silence follows. Then, with a muttered curse, the client sits down and signs.

Harvey watches as you slide the paperwork across the table, your smile polite but victorious. Louis beams. Harvey, still in the doorway, can’t help the slow grin spreading across his face.

It’s late by the time the bullpen empties, the steady hum of the office replaced by the low whir of the air system. Your desk lamp casts a warm halo over the neat stacks of files, and you’re buried deep in a deposition transcript when a voice cuts through the quiet.

“Planning on sleeping here, Rookie?”

You look up, startled, to find Harvey leaning against the edge of your desk, hands in his pockets, smirk firmly in place. “Some of us don’t clock out at five,” you say, reaching for a highlighter.

“Some of us know when to call it a night.” He nods toward the file. “That the case from this morning?”

You nod. “I like to be thorough.”

“Thorough’s good,” he says, studying you in that sharp, unreadable way. “But you keep this up, and you’ll burn out before your first year’s up.”

You arch a brow. “Is this a lecture?”

“An invitation,” he corrects smoothly. “There’s a bar two blocks over. Come on.”

You hesitate, and his smile widens. “Mentorship, not a date. Unless you want it to be.”

Rolling your eyes, you close the file and stand. “One drink.”

“Then let’s go,” he says, pushing away from your desk, his smirk softening just enough to make you wonder what exactly you’ve agreed to.

The air outside is crisp, the city alive with the hum of traffic and the distant wail of sirens. Harvey walks beside you, his long stride unhurried, hands still in his pockets like the night belongs to him. The bar is low-lit and sleek, all dark wood and leather, the kind of place that feels private even when it’s busy.

You slide into a booth, and he orders without asking—scotch for him, gin and tonic for you. When the drinks arrive, he lifts his glass toward you. “To surviving Louis Litt.”

You smirk. “I think I’m doing more than surviving.”

“That’s what worries me,” he says, eyes glinting in the dim light. “You’re good—too good for your first few months here. Which means you’ve got a target on your back.”

You take a slow sip, watching him over the rim of your glass. God, he really is exactly as handsome as everyone says he is. The cut of his suit, the way his hair catches the light, the easy confidence in every movement—it’s almost distracting.

“So what, you’re here to protect me?”

He leans back, smiling like he knows exactly what you’re doing. “I’m here because I like to keep an eye on talent. And because you were impressive today.”

“Impressive enough to get a drink with Harvey Specter?”

“Let’s just say,” he drawls, “I don’t make a habit of taking rookies out for drinks. You’re an exception.”

The conversation drifts—cases, courtroom tactics, the unspoken rules of Pearson Hardman. Every so often, his gaze lingers a fraction too long, like he’s measuring you in ways that have nothing to do with work.

When the drinks are gone, he stands and shrugs into his coat, waiting for you to follow. Outside, the night air is cooler, the streets quieter. You walk together toward the firm, and there’s an ease between you now that wasn’t there a few hours ago.

At the front of the building, he pauses. “Get some sleep tonight. Tomorrow, you get to do it all over again.”

You smirk. “Was that encouragement?”

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but there’s a glint in his eyes that makes it feel like a promise.

You watch him walk away into the night, realizing you’re already looking forward to the next time you’re in his orbit.

The weeks that follow pull you into his world almost without you realizing it. A case you’re on overlaps with one of his, and suddenly you’re in his office more than your own desk—sprawled on the leather couch near the window, heels discarded on the floor, legal pads and files spread out beside you. Harvey’s jacket, vest, and tie are draped over the back of his chair, sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of low glasses of scotch from his office bar sit on the coffee table, the amber liquid catching the glow from the city lights beyond the glass.

He’s pacing, file in hand, rattling off points with that easy confidence. You volley back without missing a beat, chin propped in your hand, eyes following him. “That’s your strategy?” you tease. “Bold move, Specter. Risky. I give it a week before it blows up in your face.”

He smirks, setting the file down. “Funny, because I was thinking the same thing about your opening statement.”

“Mine is bulletproof.”

“Yours is overconfident.”

“Yours is lazy.”

“Yours is trying too hard.”

“Yours—”

“Careful,” he warns, but there’s amusement in his voice.

You grin. “—is exactly what I’d expect from a man whose solution to everything is intimidation and a tailored suit.”

He settles into the armchair across from you, one arm draped casually over the side. “And yet, somehow, that ‘man’ wins. Every. Single. Time.”

You tap your pen against the edge of your glass. “Maybe you just haven’t had me on the other side of the table yet.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“Sounds like it, doesn’t it?”

He studies you for a beat, the smirk fading into something sharper, more curious. The city light cuts across his face, and for just a moment, the banter gives way to silence thick enough to feel. “Careful what you wish for, Rookie,” he says at last, voice low. “You might just get it.”

You smile, leaning back into the couch. He takes a sip of scotch, eyes still on you. Then, with a subtle tilt of his head, he says, “Go home. Get some rest. We’ll pick this up tomorrow.”

You roll your eyes but start gathering your files, slipping your heels back on. “Don’t miss me too much.”

He smirks. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

You’re halfway out the door when you toss over your shoulder, “You’d be lost without me.”

“Debatable,” he calls after you, but there’s a warmth under the word that lingers after you’re gone.

When the door clicks shut, Harvey exhales, collapsing into his chair. He stares at the empty couch, then downs the rest of his scotch in one swallow. Leaning back, he scrubs a hand over his face, the word slipping out under his breath, low and rough: “Goddamnit.”

The weeks that follow aren’t explosive—they’re a slow, deliberate creep toward something neither of you says out loud. Harvey keeps the banter quick and the praise understated, but you notice the shift anyway. He starts asking for your input on cases you’re not staffed on. He waves you into his office after meetings that technically ended fifteen minutes ago, just to “pick your brain.” You’re not sure if it’s because you’re good at your job or because he likes watching you tear apart an argument, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left standing.

In return, you’ve gotten bolder. You let your heels slip off the moment you hit the couch in his office. You steal the pens from his desk when yours run out. You lean over his shoulder when he’s scrolling through a contract, close enough that you can smell his cologne under the faint warmth of scotch. And every time, he doesn’t move away.

Donna starts raising her eyebrows at how often she sees you in his glass-walled office. Louis makes a snide comment about “Harvey poaching talent” when he catches you two laughing over something that has nothing to do with law. You shrug it off—out loud, at least. Privately, you can feel the current under every exchange, the way his gaze lingers a beat too long, the way yours drops to his mouth when he smirks.

Nights are the most dangerous. When the bullpen is dark and the hum of the city filters in through the floor-to-ceiling windows, you’re still in his office, your jacket draped over the back of a chair, files spread across the table between you. Sometimes you talk strategy. Sometimes the conversation veers into stories about Harvard, his early days at the firm, or your first big case win. The laughter comes easier then—so does the silence.

And when you finally stand to leave, there’s always that pause. His eyes on you as you collect your things. Yours on him as he leans back in his chair, watching.

Neither of you has crossed the line yet. But you’re both standing at the edge, looking down.

It happens on a Thursday. The case had been brutal, the kind that drags the whole week down with it, and Harvey suggests—too casually—to “get a drink before we both lose what’s left of our sanity.” You don’t even pretend to hesitate.

The bar is quieter this time, tucked away from the usual finance crowd. Dark wood, low lighting, jazz bleeding through the speakers. You take the booth across from him, but it doesn’t stay that way for long. Half an hour and two rounds in, you’re both leaning in, elbows on the table, trading war stories about the worst clients you’ve ever had.

“You still think you’re the reason I win?” he asks, that smirk cutting through the dim light.

“Absolutely,” you say, swirling your glass. “Without me, you’d be—”

“Careful.” His voice dips, low enough to blur the line between warning and invitation.

You hold his gaze, unflinching. “—bored.”

It should end there. It doesn’t. His hand finds the table between you, fingers brushing yours in a way that can’t be written off as accidental. You don’t move. The noise of the bar fades to the sound of your own pulse.

For a second, you think he’s going to close the distance—his eyes drop, just barely, to your mouth.

And then he leans back, pulling his hand away like nothing happened. “Another round?”

The air between you is different now. Charged. Dangerous. And neither of you mentions it on the walk back to the firm.

The next day, you can’t focus. The numbers on the page blur, the clauses in the contract don’t stick, and your mind keeps replaying the brush of his fingers like it’s on loop. You’re halfway through the same paragraph for the third time when Louis’s hand is slamming down on the wall of your desk.

“My office. Now.”

You blink, realizing half the bullpen is already looking at you. “Uh—sure, Louis.”

Inside, he shuts the door with unnecessary force. “You’re off your game.”

“I’m fine,” you say, stacking your papers just to have something to do with your hands.

“No, you’re not. I’ve been watching you all morning. You’ve missed details you wouldn’t normally miss. And you know what missing details leads to? Mistakes. Which leads to the other side winning. And you know what that leads to?”

“An angry Louis?”

He stares at you like you’ve just confessed to a felony. “This isn’t a joke.”

You soften your tone, even if you can’t help the flicker of a smirk. “I said I’m fine. It won’t happen again.”

He huffs, still unconvinced, but lets you go. Back at your desk, you catch yourself glancing at Harvey’s office, glass walls gleaming under the morning sun. He’s inside, jacket off, leaning over a file—but you’d swear his eyes flick up to meet yours for a split second before he goes back to work.

It’s late when he finds you. The bullpen’s nearly empty—just the soft hum of the copier somewhere down the hall, the city glow bleeding in through the windows. You’re so deep in your file that you don’t notice him until the reflection of his suit fills your peripheral.

“You’ve been distracted,” he says, voice low enough that it feels like it’s meant only for you.

You look up, leaning back in your chair, trying to hide the fact that your pulse just spiked. “You been talking to Louis?”

“Don’t need to.” His eyes flick over your desk like he’s taking in the evidence. “I see it.”

You sit up straighter, defensive without meaning to be. “I’m still delivering results.”

“Not the point.” He studies you for a beat too long, the way he does in court when he’s already won but wants to watch the other side squirm. Then his mouth twitches—not quite a smile. “Come out with me tonight.”

You blink, caught off guard. “The usual bar?”

“Not tonight.” There’s a pause, calculated. “My place.”

For a second, you wonder if you misheard him. His place. The words land heavier than they should, dragging a hundred questions behind them. Is this still work? Is this mentorship? Is this something else entirely? You search his face for a tell, but he’s giving you nothing.

“That’s… different,” you say finally, trying to keep your tone light.

“You afraid I’m going to make you work through dinner?” His smirk is there, but it doesn’t hide the way his gaze lingers.

You take your time closing your file, sliding it into your bag. Your mind’s racing ahead, weighing all the things this could mean. “I’m afraid of what your definition of dinner is.”

His smirk deepens. “Guess you’ll have to find out.”

You stand, slipping into your jacket, and even then there’s a moment—a beat—where neither of you moves. Then you step past him, the quiet sound of your heels on the tile filling the space between words.

The ride is short, quiet in a way that doesn’t feel uncomfortable but still sits heavy. You thank Ray when you step out, the city air colder here, cleaner somehow. Harvey leads the way without a word, unlocking the door to a high-rise apartment that looks exactly like you’d imagine it would—sleek lines, warm lighting, the kind of view that makes you pause on the threshold.

It smells faintly like leather and whatever cologne he wears, the one you’ve only ever caught in passing before. Here, it’s stronger. More personal.

He drops his keys in a dish near the door, loosens his tie, and gestures toward the living room. “Make yourself at home.”

You step in, eyes catching on the floor-to-ceiling windows spilling city lights across polished hardwood, the low hum of jazz floating from somewhere unseen. It’s not staged—no carefully curated backdrop like the conference rooms at work. It’s lived-in, but not messy. Comfortable, but still him.

You toe off your heels without thinking, padding further inside. “Nice place.”

He glances over his shoulder with the faintest hint of a smirk. “I’ve been told it’s not bad.”

There’s a moment where you just stand there, him watching you take it all in, the air between you thick with something that has nothing to do with work.

He heads to a bar cart tucked into the corner, pulling out two heavy crystal tumblers and a bottle of Macallan. “Scotch okay?”

You nod, dropping your bag onto the end of the couch. “You keep the good stuff here, huh?”

“I keep the good stuff everywhere.” The faint clink of ice follows his words. He hands you a glass, his fingers brushing yours—brief, but enough to send heat crawling up your spine.

You take a sip, the burn settling in your chest. “So, this is what you do when you’re not closing billion-dollar deals?”

“This is me taking a night off,” he says, settling onto the couch, tie discarded, top buttons undone. The relaxed version of Harvey is disarming, and you can’t decide if that’s better or worse for your nerves.

“Feels like I should be taking notes,” you say.

“Please. You’d have your own style. Different from mine, but just as lethal.” His gaze is steady, the kind that feels like it’s peeling you apart layer by layer.

“Lethal’s a big word,” you murmur.

“It’s the right one.” He takes a slow sip, not breaking eye contact. “You’ve got an instinct most people spend decades faking.”

It’s the kind of praise that should feel purely professional, but the way he says it—low, deliberate—makes your chest feel tight.

You set your glass down, leaning back into the couch, pretending to be more at ease than you are. “Careful, Harvey. Sounds like you’re complimenting me.”

His smirk is slow, almost dangerous. “Maybe I am.”

You swirl the amber in your glass, watching the way the light catches it. “You’re different out of the office.”

“How so?”

“Less… sharp edges. Still sharp, just—” You pause, eyes flicking over him. “—not in a way that’s designed to cut.”

One brow arches. “And here I thought you liked the sharp edges.”

“I do,” you admit before you can stop yourself.

The quiet that follows is heavier than before. He leans forward, resting his forearms on his knees, the space between you suddenly feeling a lot smaller.

“You know,” he says, voice low enough that you feel it more than hear it, “most people in your position would be trying to impress me.”

“Maybe I already have.”

That earns you a smile—slower, warmer than the ones he flashes in court. “Maybe you have,” he repeats, like he’s turning the idea over in his mind.

His gaze drops briefly to your mouth, and that’s when you realize how close you’ve both leaned in. The air feels charged, like the city outside is holding its breath.

"This is a dumb idea," you almost immediately breathe out, your eyes dropping to his mouth all the same. You can feel his breath against your lips, just teetering on the edge of giving into weeks worth of tension.

"Really stupid," Harvey echoes. "But I want to. Do you want to?"

Your eyes lock with his. A single, slow nod. You really, really want to.

Your nod barely has time to settle between you before his mouth is on yours—slow, deliberate, like he’s tasting the answer. His lips are warm and soft, the faintest graze of stubble scratching your skin when he tilts his head. The scent of his cologne is stronger here, wrapping around you with the low hum of the city beyond the glass. His thumb brushes the curve of your jaw, not pushing, just holding you there, making the kiss feel even more inevitable.

When he pulls back, it’s only by an inch, his breath mingling with yours in the quiet. His eyes search yours, unreadable, the kind of silence that hums louder than words.

And then he’s kissing you again—harder this time, with a heat that steals the air from your lungs. The angle shifts, his hand sliding into your hair, his body leaning in like he’s finally stopped caring about lines. The taste of scotch and something entirely him blooms on your tongue. You feel the press of his chest through the crisp fabric of his shirt, the way his fingers flex against the back of your neck like he’s anchoring you to him.

The kiss deepens until you’re both moving without thought, mouths opening, finding a rhythm that’s all heat and want. His hand drags from your neck to your waist, pulling you closer until your knees bump his. You can feel the solid weight of him, the warmth radiating through his shirt, and it sends your mind racing ahead of your body.

Your fingers hover at the edge of his collar, unsure for a beat before you touch him—just grazing the smooth silk of his tie, then curling it loosely in your hand like you’re testing how far you can go. He doesn’t notice the pause; or if he does, he hides it well, leaning in to kiss you again, deeper.

The faint taste of scotch, the scrape of his stubble, the slow drag of his thumb along your hip—it’s all too much and not enough. You shift forward, knees brushing his thigh, and your breath catches before you can stop it.

“Mm,” he hums into your mouth, like he’s pleased with himself.

You try to kiss him back the way he’s kissing you—sure, practiced—but there’s a stutter in your movements, a slight awkwardness in where to put your hands. You end up smoothing them over his chest, feeling the firm planes beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, before hesitating again.

He doesn’t slow. One hand fists gently in the fabric at your lower back, the other sliding up your spine, fingertips pressing lightly through the layers of your blouse. Your jacket slips off your shoulders without you meaning it to, pooling on the couch beside you.

When his fingers brush the first button of your blouse, your stomach flips—not with fear, but with the dizzy awareness that you’ve never let anyone this close before. You’re not sure if you’re doing this right, but Harvey… Harvey kisses you like you are.

His fingers work at the buttons slowly, like he’s giving you a chance to stop him. One by one, they come undone, the fabric parting until it sits on your shoulders. The air hits your skin, cooler than his hands, and then he’s leaning back just enough to look at you.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, eyes sweeping over you in a way that makes your pulse hammer. “You’re beautiful.”

The words land heavier than you expect, heating your face instantly. You look away, not because you don’t want to hear it, but because you don’t know what to do with it.

A smirk tugs at his mouth. “You can tear opposing counsel to shreds without blinking, but tell you you’re beautiful and you go all quiet?”

You huff out a laugh, but it’s softer than usual, your fingers fidgeting with the cuff of his shirt. “It’s… different.”

He tips his head, curiosity cutting through the heat in his gaze. “Different how?”

You hesitate, weighing whether to tell him. The moment stretches, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your side, and suddenly it feels worse to not say it.

“I’ve never…” You swallow, meeting his eyes for half a second before looking away again. “I’ve never done this before.”

For the first time tonight, he goes still. His thumb pauses against your side, and that sharp, assessing gaze fixes on you like you’ve just thrown him a curveball.

“You’re telling me…” his voice dips, incredulous but amused, “…no one’s ever closed this deal before?”

You groan quietly, covering your face with one hand. “God, don’t say it like that.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “What? I’m just clarifying the terms.” His hand finds your wrist, gently pulling it from your face so he can look at you. “You’ve never—”

You shake your head, cheeks hot. “Never. And I wasn’t exactly… planning for it to happen like this, but—” your eyes flick to his, steady now— “I want to.”

For a second, his smirk lingers, like he’s savoring the surprise. Then it eases into something slower, warmer. “You know, most people don’t drop that on me after I’ve got their shirt off.”

“Sorry to ruin your usual flow.”

“Ruin?” He leans back just enough to look you over, head tilted. “Rookie, you just made my night a hell of a lot more interesting.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“Yeah,” he says, leaning in again, that smirk back in place, “but I’m also very, very good.”

His voice drops lower on the last word, and he shifts closer, one hand sliding to your shoulder to gently push your blouse the rest of the way open. The fabric parts easily under his fingers, cool air brushing your skin before the warmth of him replaces it.

He lowers himself, slow enough that you feel the anticipation crawl up your spine, his mouth finding the curve of your neck. The first kiss there is soft—barely more than a press of lips—but it sends a shiver through you all the same. He follows it with another, lower this time, the faint scrape of stubble dragging heat in its wake.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs against your skin, lips brushing your collarbone before trailing back up, “what you’re in for.”

He brings his lips back up to yours after that, but this time, when he kisses you, there's so much more behind it. You can feel his earnestness, his promise in the way his lips move against yours, the softness of them mirroring the almost uncharacteristic gentleness with which he's treating you. He pulls back slowly, a hint of a smirk on his face as his hand wraps with yours, pulling you to your feet.

"What? You think I'd let you have your first time on a couch? Please. I'm Harvey Fucking Specter. Luxury, baby."

If it were any other moment, you would have rolled your eyes at him and thrown a smack at his arrogance, but in this moment, you were grateful. Despite the cockiness he was presenting, it was obvious it was all just because he was trying to make this the best experience possible for you. Luxury, indeed.

"Holy shit."

You have to take a moment to look around in awe once you get to his bedroom. It’s everything you imagined: floor-to-ceiling windows spilling the city in gold and silver, a bed big enough to swallow you whole, sheets so crisp you could swear they’ve never been slept in. He stops just inside the doorway, turning back to you, and for a second the usual cocky mask slips.

He watches you take it in—the skyline, the impossibly crisp sheets, the sheer Harvey-ness of it all—and for a moment there’s no smirk, no performance. Just his eyes on you, softer than you’ve ever seen them.

“You sure about this?” he asks, voice quieter now. Not hesitant, but deliberate, like he wants you to hear the weight of the choice.

You nod, throat suddenly dry. “I’m sure.”

That earns a grin, but it doesn’t carry the same courtroom bite. It’s warmer, more private. “Good,” he murmurs, stepping in to kiss you again. This one is slow, thorough, his hand cupping your jaw while the other tugs at the hem of your blouse. He peels it away inch by inch, lips never leaving yours until the fabric falls.

When you shiver, he pulls back just enough to smirk. “Relax, Rookie. You think I’d leave you feeling anything but perfect? Not a chance.”

The banter helps. It steadies your nerves, makes the way his hands trail over your skin feel less like exposure and more like discovery. By the time he’s stripped you down to nothing but your underwear, you’re flushed but no longer frozen.

He steps back, unbuttoning his shirt easily. The fabric falls off of him, cufflinks clinking softly against the nightstand, and then he’s just Harvey in all his sharp, lean confidence, bathed in city light.

Your breath catches. “Damn.”

He chuckles, low and smug. “Don’t worry, that’s a normal reaction.”

You swat at him weakly, but he catches your wrist, tugging you forward until you’re against his chest. His stubble grazes your temple when he murmurs, “Lie down.”

The sheets are cool under your back, his weight warm as he follows. He takes his time with you, kissing down your throat, hands mapping every inch, until your nerves fray into need. His fingers slip between your thighs, stroking over the thin cotton of your panties.

“Already wet,” he mutters, more to himself than you, but the smugness is there. His eyes flick up to yours. “You trust me?”

You nod.

“Then let me get you ready.”

The panties slide away, his mouth replacing his fingers, coaxing gasps from you until your hips lift helplessly into his hand. One finger, then two, sliding in slow, deliberate, curling just enough to have your nails digging into the sheets. He keeps his eyes on you, studying every twitch and breath.

"Like that?" He asks, fingers still gently working in and out of you as he pulls his mouth away, his lips glistening with the wetness of yours.

"Not bad, yeah," you pant out, poorly feigning nonchalance.

He grins widely. "Not bad, huh? We'll see."

His mouth returns to its place, his lips wrapping over your clit, sucking it gently. His chuckles vibrate against you when your hips arch into his face, your breathing growing hot with the sensations.

His fingers continue to scissor inside of you, stretching you open in preparation for him. With one final kiss to your clit, his lips make their way back up your body, slow and wet, until his face is hovering over yours.

"How do you feel?" He asks. "Feeling good? Think you're ready?"

"Think you're ready?" You counter, your smirk settling over the expression of pleasure he had plastered on your face.

A slow grin makes its way onto his lips. "Yeah. I'm ready."

“Good,” you say, and he kisses you like a seal on the decision—slow first, then deeper until your mouth is warm and slick with him. When he breaks away, he reaches to the nightstand without looking, rips foil with a clean flick. Watching him roll the condom on does something to your pulse—clinical and intimate at once, like the moment before a verdict.

“Legs,” he murmurs, tapping your knee. You open for him. He drags his palms up the backs of your thighs, thumbs pressing into muscle, easing you higher until your heels hook behind his waist. The city lays bands of white-gold across his shoulders; his skin is hot where it touches yours, the callouses on his hands providing a layer to his touch that makes this all that much more... enticing.

“Eyes on me,” he says, not a command so much as a place to put your focus. You give him your eyes.

The blunt heat of him nudges where his fingers were, a careful pressure that makes your breath climb your throat. He doesn’t push, yet. He just rests there, letting your body understand the weight and width of him. His hand slides up your side and settles just under your ribs, steadying your breath with his thumb.

“Breathe in,” he says softly. You do. “Now out.”

On the exhale he eases in a little. The stretch bites—new, bright—and you clutch at his shoulders. He stops immediately, thumb stroking your rib again, mouth close enough that his breath warms your cheek.

“Talk to me.”

“It… burns a little,” you admit, the truth small and honest.

“A bit of a stretch,” he murmurs. “It'll fade. We go at your pace.” He kisses the corner of your mouth. “You’re doing perfect.”

Another breath. Your grip eases. He sinks another inch, barely, reading your face with the same precision he uses on opposing counsel—every twitch a sentence. You let your knees fall wider over his hips; he groans, quiet and needy, like the sound was dragged out of him. It makes heat pool low in your belly in a way his fingers didn’t.

“Okay?” he asks.

“Yeah. Keep—” You swallow. “Keep going.”

“You're doing great.” The praise lands low and heavy. He presses forward in small, patient glides, pausing each time your breath hitches until the hot edge blurs into a deep, aching fullness. When he’s all the way in, his forehead drops to yours, both of you breathing hard. You feel every line of him—thick, deep, seated—your body stretched around him and quickly adjusting.

“Jesus,” he says against your mouth, voice frayed. “You’re going to ruin me for everyone.”

You huff a shaky laugh. “You say that to all the rookies?”

He snorts, first. "You know that would be a massive conflict of interest and a terrible scandal," but then he smiles, real and warm. “But you also know there aren’t any others.”

He pulls out an inch and slides back, just testing the line. The first drag is strange—pressure and pull—and then his angle changes a hair and something sparks. Your mouth opens on an unplanned sound; his gaze flashes with satisfaction.

“There,” he says, like he’s marked the clause he needs. He does it again—same angle, same depth—until the strange becomes good and the good becomes heat winding tight in your spine. He keeps his hips slow, deliberate, letting you rise to meet him, letting you learn the map of him inside you. The slick sound where you’re joined is obscene in the quiet; his breath roughens and you feel it against your throat.

“Better?” he asks, and when you nod too fast he laughs softly, breathless. “Yeah. Better.”

Your hands, useless until now, find places to live—one at the back of his neck, fingers in his hair; the other sliding down to the flex of his back where muscle moves under skin with every stroke. You drag your nails lightly; the way he stutters tells you he felt it.

“Touch me,” he says, not needy, just guiding. “Anywhere you want.” It flips something in your chest—the generosity of it—and you let your palm map him: shoulder, bicep, the hard ladder of his ribs, the snap of his hip as he rolls deeper again.

The sting is gone. It’s just full and good. He knows the second that happens; his rhythm shifts, smooths, a little more weight behind each thrust. He braces your knee higher with his forearm and hits that same sweet place with merciless precision. Your head tips back; he kisses your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse kicks against his mouth.

“Look at me,” he reminds, and when your eyes find his, the cockiness is there, yes, but it’s softened by something like pride. “That’s it. Stay with me.”

You’re panting now, the edge building fast and unfamiliar. “Harvey—”

“I’ve got you.” He laces your fingers and pins them above your head, his other hand slotting under your lower back to pull you up onto him, to take him deeper. The friction at your clit is perfect now—each push drags just right. Your thighs tremble around his waist; you feel yourself start to go weightless.

“Close?” he asks, voice gone low and broken in the best way.

You nod, helpless. “Don’t—don’t stop.”

“Not stopping.” His mouth takes yours again, swallowing the sounds you make as he rides you right to the edge, steady.... steady... steady. “Come for me.”

It hits hot and bright, a coil snapping, pleasure running out to your fingertips. Your body clamps around him hard; he grunts, loses his smooth for a second, driving deep and holding there while you shatter under him. He doesn’t chase ahead of you; he stays, letting you feel every aftershock, kissing you through it like he’s keeping you anchored to the bed, to him, to the room with the city pouring light across the sheets.

When you finally breathe again, he moves—two more thrusts, rougher now, a quiet curse against your mouth—and then he goes, heat stuttering through him, his body tightening above you. He buries a groan in your throat like he doesn’t trust the walls not to listen.

Silence after—your breath and his; the low hum of jazz from the living room; the city’s distant siren song. He’s heavy on you in a way that feels protective more than crushing. He stays there, softening, then pulls out, slowly, carefully, as if your body is something expensive he’s responsible for. He slips away, disposes of the condom, returns with a warm, damp cloth. The heat of it is a luxury you didn’t realize you needed; he’s gentle, efficient, and annoyingly thorough, like he can’t turn off the part of his brain that insists on perfection.

“Feeling okay?” he asks quietly while he wipes you clean—checking in without making a production of it.

“Good,” you say, floating. “Really good.”

“Yeah,” he says, like he knew but wanted to hear it. He tosses the cloth, pulls the covers down with one arm and you with the other, settling you against his chest. His skin smells like soap and scotch and you, the rise and fall of his breathing already dragging you toward sleep.

You trace a slow line over his sternum, nail catching on a scatter of hair. “Luxury, huh?”

His mouth tips against your temple. “Told you I don’t half-ass.” A beat. “Also, for the record? You were impossible to concentrate around for weeks.”

You smile into his skin. “You? Distracted? I should put that on a plaque.”

He huffs a laugh, then goes quiet. His hand coasts up and down your spine in long, even passes, the kind of touch that settles rather than sparks. When you shift—some small after-echo of tenderness—he notices instantly.

“Sore?”

“Not entirely, just... different.” You’re honest now that the edge is gone.

He slides a hand to your thigh and starts a slow, grounding massage, easing the muscle where it trembles. “Tomorrow it’ll feel like a good workout,” he says, voice a lazy drag. “I’ll allow you to blame me in the office. Quietly.”

“Generous,” you murmur, sleep tugging. “Are you always like this?”

“Infuriatingly competent?” he offers.

“Careful,” you counter, softer.

He’s quiet for a long second, then: “With you? Yeah.”

You let that sit between you, warm as the sheets. The skyline throws a silver line across his jaw; his thumb finds the hollow beneath your ear and rests there like a promise.

“Stay,” he says, not quite a question.

You nod against his chest. “I wasn’t going anywhere.”

“Good.” The word is satisfied and strangely gentle. He presses one more kiss into your hair. “Tell me you enjoyed it.”

“Was that not apparent?” You ask, already drifting.

"Of course it was," he replies. "But I want to hear you say it."

You pop an eye open, glancing up to him. "I'm not going to let you walk directly into a 'best closer in New York' joke, Harvey. You did adequate," you grin, closing your eyes and nuzzling back into his chest.

"Adequate?" he scoffs, though there's no malice in his tone. "I'm telling Louis to put you on scut work tomorrow."

"Mmm... you wouldn't. You wouldn't be able to make excuses to pull me into your office."

He sighs, playfully, fingers gently carding through your hair. "Accurate assessment, Counselor."

"Shut up."

There's a silence for a moment, supplemented only by your mingling breaths. Then, he speaks. “Donna’s going to read this all over me.”

You snort, too drowsy to open your eyes. “She’ll probably send flowers.”

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