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Family Vocabulary <3

!! Batfam x Batsis!Reader

Summary: Terms of endearment they use (Platonic)

CW: Swearing

A/N: Based off me and my family (who is surprised)

Bruce has always believed names carry weight.

When you're little, it's almost exclusively sweetheart and darling. That's what Martha always called him. As you get older, they never disappear, they just become quieter and he rarely thinks before saying them, you're his daughter after all.

If he calls you by your full first name you're either seriously injured or seriously in trouble.

Otherwise, it's always one of his softer names.

•18+ Adults Only

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pomegranatelifethis

The Gravity of a Sun

The Batcave was never truly silent. It breathed. The distant drip of water from stalactites older than Gotham, the subsonic hum of the supercomputer, the chittering of bats far above in the endless dark. But tonight, the silence was a living thing, a predator that had devoured all other sound. It was a silence of absence.

The Batcomputer’s main screen was dark, but a single, smaller monitor on the desk glowed with a frozen image: a girl, mid-laugh, flour on her nose. Her eyes were squeezed shut in joy, a streak of purple in her hair. The cursor hovered over the play button, trembling as if the hand guiding it was caught in an earthquake.

Bruce Wayne, stripped of the cowl but still wearing the armor, sat in the chair. He wasn’t Batman. He wasn’t Bruce. He was just a man made of fractured bones and a heart pumping pure, unadulterated agony. He hadn’t slept in seventy-two hours. He hadn’t spoken in twenty-four. On the floor, slumped against the base of the massive computer, was Dick Grayson. The first Robin. The golden boy. Now, his eyes were red-rimmed craters in a face the color of old ash. He held a small, silly-looking stuffed bat you’d won at a rigged carnival game. The one he’d complained about buying, but secretly loved seeing you clutch when you watched scary movies.

In the shadows, beyond the circle of light, Jason Todd stood with his arms crossed, a statue of rage barely contained. The white streak in his hair seemed to glow with its own furious light. He refused to sit. Sitting meant accepting this, and he would burn the world down before he accepted this. Tim Drake was curled in a chair, a laptop with a cracked screen open but ignored on his knees. He was looking at nothing, his brilliant, tactical mind having finally found an equation he couldn't solve: a world without you.

And Damian. Damian Wayne, the son of the Bat, the heir to the Demon’s Head, was sitting cross-legged on the cold stone floor directly in front of the monitor. His katana lay across his lap, unsheathed, his small, calloused hands resting on the blade. His eyes, usually so sharp and defiant, were glassy and vacant, fixed on your frozen, laughing face. A single tear, perfectly formed, traced a path through the grime on his cheek, but he made no move to wipe it away. He was waiting. They all were.

You, Y/N, had been the sun. And suns, by their nature, make everything orbit them. They didn't realize it until you were gone, collapsing into a black hole of your own making, and their orbits were failing. You were only sixteen. And you were the only one who ever insisted on making these stupid videos. The videos Bruce was now, with a breath that sounded like a death rattle, about to play.

///

Your life with them wasn’t normal. “Normal” was a fairytale told to children who didn’t have to check their Christmas presents for Joker toxin. You’d been taken in by Bruce Wayne after a mission gone sideways, a dark night where your own family’s lawlessness—a small-time crew who’d tried to pull a job on a Falcone shipment—had put you in the crossfire. You were twelve, a feral, observant thing who could pick a pocket faster than a starving raccoon and lie to a cop with a cherub’s smile. You weren’t a sidekick, not in the traditional sense. You were… you. The glue, as Alfred would later, with trembling hands, call you.

Breakfast at Wayne Manor was a warzone before you. Bruce, silent behind the newspaper, a specter of exhaustion. Dick, glaring at his cereal for the crime of being in the same room as Bruce. Jason, provoking Damian, who would respond with threats of unspeakable violence. Tim, trying to mediate while simultaneously reading a case file on his tablet, his coffee growing cold. It was a cacophony of clashing egos, a collection of broken, brilliant individuals sharing a roof but not a life.

You changed the physics of the house. You didn't do it with grand gestures, but with a gravitational pull that was uniquely your own. A lawless, chaotic, loving gravity.

It started with you stealing Bruce’s newspaper.

“You’re not even reading it,” you’d said at thirteen, sliding it across the mahogany table. “You’re hiding. Your brooding has a physical presence, you know. It’s like a seventh person at the table, and it’s very rude. It never passes the salt.”

Jason had choked on his orange juice. Damian had stared, aghast at your audacity. But Bruce, after a stunned moment, had let out a low chuckle, a sound so unfamiliar it made Alfred pause in the doorway, a silver platter tilting precariously.

“And what do you suggest?” Bruce had asked, his voice a low gravel.

“We start a tradition,” you declared, ignoring Tim’s wide-eyed look of warning. “Tell me something about your patrol. Something weird. Not dark, not gruesome. Weird. Like… did you know Condiment King has a carefully curated collection of vintage mustard jars? I saw it when I was hacking the traffic cams for you last night.”

A new ritual was born that day. Weird Patrol Stories became the morning anchor.

That was your genius. You understood that a family of lawless, traumatized vigilantes couldn't be stitched together with heartfelt conversations. They needed a shared language, and your language was beautiful, calculated, affectionate chaos. You were the only one who could touch Jason when he was in a pit-madness haze, not with fear or pity, but with a blunt, “You’re being a theatrical ass. The brooding corner is taken. Bruce is already there, communing with the shadows. Go brood in the library, you’ll clash.” He’d be so offended he’d snap out of it just to argue with you.

You were the only one who could get Damian to be a child. Not by forcing him, but by challenging him to a rooftop parkour race, the loser having to groom Titus with a glittery pink brush. You’d lost on purpose half the time, not that he ever knew. You’d sit for an hour, carefully brushing purple glitter from a massive Great Dane, while Damian lectured you on proper stance and the disgrace of your defeat. The video was your idea. “We need to document this, Dami! Proof you’re not a total gremlin!” He’d grumbled, called you an imbecile, but he’d sat perfectly still as you both, faces covered in dog glitter, smiled for the camera.

You were Tim’s anchor to reality. When he’d go three days without sleep, chasing a digital ghost through the dark web, you wouldn’t plead or lecture. You’d simply sit on the floor of his room, back against his desk, and start reading aloud from the trashiest, most absurd romance novel you could find in the manor’s vast library. The sheer, weaponized cringe of the prose would eventually break through his hyper-focus. He’d uncurl from his screen, a faint, exhausted smile on his face. “You’re a menace, Y/N.” “And you need to drink this,” you’d say, pushing a glass of water into his hand, the video camera on your phone already recording the rare sight of a caffeine-free Tim Drake. “Tell the camera the title of the chapter. ‘Pirates of the Pleasure Lagoon.’ Say it, Tim. This is blackmail material.”

And for Dick, you were the little sister who saw past the performance. You saw the pressure of being the first, the gold standard, the emotional caretaker who had no one to take care of him. You’d find him on the roof of the manor after a bitter argument with Bruce, staring at Bludhaven’s distant skyline. You’d just sit with him. Then, you’d bump your shoulder against his. “For a guy made of elastic, you’re really bad at bouncing back from feelings, Grayson.” You’d always use his last name, like a teammate. He’d sling an arm around you, his sadness a tangible weight you’d willingly share. “Let’s take a video,” you’d say, pulling out your phone. “A message for future-us. What’s one good thing from today?” It was your thing. One Good Thing. A video diary for a family that forgot to remember the light.

You were Bruce’s unexpected mirror. You, with your lawless past and your sharp, thieving instincts, understood the darkness he was afraid to show. You never flinched. You called it like you saw it. “You’re not their general, you’re their father. The Bat may command, but Bruce has to love. Those are different operating systems, and you keep using the wrong one.” He’d look at you, this small sixteen-year-old who had broken into his heart as easily as you used to break into safes, and he’d feel a terrifying, unfamiliar hope. You’d pull him into the videos too. “Smile, Dad-Man. It’s not a toxin, it’s a facial expression.” You’d forced him to wear a party hat on his birthday, a video Jason still cackled about.

You were the gravitational center of their entire universe, the sun they orbited. And the sun, on a rainy Tuesday in October, went out. The Joker, in his relentless, nihilistic war against Batman, finally understood a truth the Dark Knight himself had missed: to break the Bat, you didn't target his body, or even his Robins. You targeted the one who held the broken pieces together. The laugh, the videos, the glitter, the lawless little ghost who’d stolen their hearts—you were the single, irreplaceable point of failure.

///

The alert didn’t come through the usual channels. It erupted on every screen in the Batcave simultaneously, a hacking so invasive it felt like a hand reaching into their sanctuary. The feed was grainy, saturated in a sickly yellow that bled the world of color, transforming it into a jaundiced nightmare. Rain slanted through the frame in silver needles, striking a lone bulb that swung on a bare wire, making the shadows lurch and sway like drunken mourners. And there, in the center of the frame, was you.

You were tied to a rusted metal chair, the kind pulled from a derelict warehouse, its paint peeling in leprous curls. Your reinforced jacket was torn at the shoulder, the dark fabric glistening wetly. Blood traced a slow, deliberate path from your hairline down the plane of your cheek, diluting in the rain before dripping from your jaw. Your domino mask was cracked, a jagged fissure bisecting the left lens, but your eyes behind it were not wide with fear. They burned with a quiet, furious contempt. Your chin was lifted, not in defiance for the camera, but as if the monster holding it was too boring to merit your full attention. You looked not like a victim, but like a captured sun, still radiating heat in the face of an endless, hungry void.

Bruce’s hand stopped an inch from the console, his body turned to stone. The cave’s ambient hum became a roar in his ears, the sound of blood rushing, a tidal wave of dread. He couldn’t look away. Dick was already moving, his chair clattering to the floor behind him, but his eyes were nailed to the screen, his pupils blown wide. Tim’s fingers flew across a secondary keyboard, his lips moving in a silent, frantic prayer of code, tracing the signal. Jason, who had been cleaning his guns in the corner, stood so abruptly the table overturned. He didn’t make a sound. He just stared, the color draining from his face until the white streak in his hair seemed to glow against a mask of ash. Damian, small and rigid in the doorway, had come to deliver a report and instead walked into a mausoleum.

The Joker’s voice oozed from the speakers, a sing-song, intimate poison. “Saaay cheese for the birdie, little sunbeam! No, wait, you’re not the sun. You’re just a black hole pretending. Let’s see if the big bad Bat can find you before the punchline lands!”

A crowbar, slick with rain and something darker, swung lazily into the frame, held by a gloved hand with theatrical nonchalance. It tapped your cheek once, a mockery of a caress. You didn’t flinch. You spat at the lens. The feed dissolved into static with a high, keening laugh that seemed to claw its way into their skulls and refuse to leave.

The cave erupted. Not into chaos, but into a perfectly orchestrated nightmare ballet. Bruce was in the Batmobile before the static cleared, the engine’s roar a primal scream. Jason was already gone, the squeal of his motorcycle tires leaving burnt rubber ghosts on the stone floor. Dick launched himself upward into the dark, grappling through the manor’s clock entrance, his body a projectile of pure terror. Tim stayed, his face illuminated by the cold blue of his screen, his voice a monotone crackling over the comms, feeding coordinates even as his hands shook violently enough to make typing a battle. Damian, ignored, forbidden, left behind by a single wordless glance from Bruce, waited exactly three seconds before mounting his own cycle and tearing into the night. No one would order him to stay. Not tonight. Not when his sun was in eclipse.

The alley was a wound in the city’s side, a narrow, forgotten artery tucked between condemned buildings that sagged toward each other like exhausted giants. The rain here fell harder, funneled by the brick walls into a deluge that filled the air with the sound of a hundred tiny drums. The scent of ozone, rust, and something coppery and warm clung to the shadows. A speaker, cheap plastic molded into a grinning face, was still mounted crookedly on the wall, spilling a looped, mechanical laugh into the storm. It was the first thing Jason saw. The second was the crowbar, lying abandoned in a puddle that was more crimson than water.

Then he saw you.

His world collapsed into a single, silent point. The laugh, the rain, the roar of the distant Batmobile—all of it fell away. There was only the stillness of your chest, the wrong angle of your body against the chair, your head tilted slightly to the side as if you were simply resting. But your eyes were open, half-lidded, and the fire that had blazed through the cracked lens was gone. You were no longer looking at the monster. You were looking at nothing.

Jason Todd, , the man who had crawled out of his own grave and taught his heart to beat again through sheer, bloody-minded rage, walked forward on legs that felt like fractured stone. He didn’t run. Running meant there was hope, and the pit of his stomach had already filled with an ice so absolute it froze every nerve. When he reached you, he sank down—not a controlled kneel, but a collapse, his knees hitting the flooded asphalt with a splash that sent ripples through the blood-tinged water. His hands, the hands that had held guns and thrown punches and rebuilt himself from shattered bone, reached for the ropes that bound your wrists. His fingers were clumsy, thick with a tremor that made the simple act of untying a knot an impossibility.

“Come on, kid,” he muttered, his voice a ragged, unfamiliar thing. “Joke’s over. You win. You always win, you little menace. Get up.”

The ropes fell away. Your arm slid limply into the water. He caught it, cradling it as if it were made of glass, and pulled you against his chest. Your head lolled against his shoulder, the purple streak in your hair plastered to his jacket. The cold of your skin was a physical blow, a truth his mind refused to parse. He rocked forward, his forehead touching your temple, his massive frame curling around you as if he could shield you from a threat that had already passed, as if his body heat could reignite the sun.

“Don’t do this,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I’m the one who dies. That’s the deal. You’re the one who drags me back. Remember? On the roof. ‘One good thing.’ You said it. You promised. You don’t get to break the promise.”

The laugh from the speaker jeered on, a relentless, tinny soundtrack. Jason’s head snapped up, and the grief that had softened his features an instant before twisted into something monstrous. A sound tore from him—not a word, not a roar, but a raw, guttural scream that scraped his throat bloody. It was the sound of a man who had already died once and now understood that resurrection was a curse, because he had survived only to bury the one person who made survival feel like something other than penance. The scream echoed off the wet brick, swallowed by the rain, and Jason held you tighter, his body shaking with sobs that seemed to originate from the very core of the earth.

Bruce arrived to that sound. He moved through the alley’s mouth like a specter, the rain sheeted off the angles of his cowl. He saw Jason on his knees, saw the slack, grey-white hand trailing in the water, and the world tilted on its axis. For one suspended heartbeat, the Batman disappeared. In his place was a father confronted with the unthinkable, a man whose every contingency, every protocol, every sleepless night spent planning for catastrophe had failed to account for the simplest, most devastating variable: the universe did not care for his preparation. It had taken you anyway.

He crossed the distance and crouched, his cape pooling in the bloodied water. His gauntleted hands closed gently but firmly over Jason’s shoulders. “Jason,” he said, and his voice was not Batman’s. It was Bruce’s, a low, broken gravel that had no authority left. “Let me see her. Please.”

Jason wrenched away, his face a mask of grief and fury. “Don’t touch her. Don’t you dare touch her.” His arms tightened possessively, as if giving you over would make it real. But his strength was gone, hollowed out by a sorrow too vast for anger to fill. Bruce didn’t pull. He simply waited, his own hands trembling, until Jason’s resistance crumbled and he let go with a sound like a wounded animal. Bruce gathered you then, lifting you as if you weighed nothing, as if you were made of spent light. Your head fell back, rain washing the blood from your still face, and for a moment you looked peaceful—a cruel, unbearable illusion.

Dick landed on the fire escape above, his breath a ragged knife in his lungs. He had run across the city with his heart pounding a desperate mantra: Not her, not her, not her. He saw Bruce holding you, and the mantra died. His hand flew to his mouth, pressing hard against a sound he couldn’t allow to escape. His world narrowed to a single, impossible detail: your chest, which should have been rising and falling with that stubborn, chaotic life you carried everywhere, was still. Utterly, horrifyingly still. He slid down the brick wall, his suit scraping against the mortar, and sat in the pooling water, his legs refusing the command to stand. The Golden Boy, the acrobat who had laughed at gravity, had finally fallen.

Tim arrived not on his feet but doubled over, his stomach rejecting the reality before his mind could process it. He vomited into the gutter, his body wracked with spasms that had nothing to do with physical exertion. His mind, a cathedral of logic and pattern recognition, slammed against the walls of a problem it could not solve. There was no algorithm to rewind time. No code to rewrite this moment. He straightened, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand, and his eyes, usually sharp and calculating, were blank with a kind of intellectual horror. The data was in, and it was unacceptable.

And then there was Damian.

He came last, a small, dark figure slipping through the shadows that the rain couldn’t touch. He moved with a mechanical, deliberate gait, his katana already drawn, the blade gleaming wetly. He didn’t look at Bruce or Jason or the body. He walked past them all, his eyes fixed on the grinning speaker, the source of the laugh that still mocked them with its mindless, looping glee. He raised his sword. The blade sang through the rain, a high, keening note, and bisected the speaker in a single, perfect stroke. The laugh died with a pitiful electronic squeal, leaving only the drumming of the storm.

Damian turned. His face was a porcelain mask, utterly still, but his eyes—those sharp, defiant eyes that had learned to soften only for you—were swimming with a grief so immense it had no outlet. He saw you in Bruce’s arms, and the mask shattered.

“You cannot be dead.” His voice was small, a child’s voice stripped of all its armor. He took a step forward, then another, his sword lowering until the tip scraped the ground. “You are intolerably stubborn. You would not concede to this… this clown. Get up, Y/N. Get up right now.” The command wavered, cracking around the edges. “That is an order.”

Silence. Rain.

“Get up!” The word became a plea, the plea a sob that ripped from his ten-year-old chest with a force that doubled him over. The sword clattered from his fingers, splashing into the water, forgotten. He crumpled, not like a warrior, but like a little boy whose world had just been extinguished. Dick moved then, crossing the space in three staggering strides, and wrapped his arms around Damian, pulling the child against his chest. Damian fought him, small fists beating against Dick’s shoulders, his screams wordless and raw, the cries of a soul being forged into something harder and colder. Dick held on, his own tears mixing with the rain on Damian’s hair, and said nothing. There were no words for this.

There was no debriefing. No strategy. No stoic return. They brought you home through the secret passages of the manor, a silent procession of the shattered and the damned. Alfred was waiting in the medbay, his posture as impeccable as ever, but his face was the color of old parchment. When Bruce laid you on the examination table, the old butler’s hand went to his chest. He let out a single, choked sound—a dry, splintering gasp—and for a terrible moment, his knees buckled. He caught himself on the edge of the table, his gloved fingers inches from your cold, still hand. This was the child who called him Alfie. The one who stole biscuits and left clever, silly notes that made him laugh when no one was looking. He did not weep. His dignity would not permit such a display. He simply turned away, his shoulders quaking with a silent, ocean-deep grief, and began preparing the room for a vigil that would never end.

In the days that followed, the family did not simply grieve. They atomized. Bruce retreated into the cave and became a ghost of computation, replaying the Joker’s ten-second video on a loop, searching for a frame he had missed, a shadow, a sound—anything that could be transformed into a target. He did not eat. He did not sleep. The Bruce Wayne persona was abandoned like an outgrown skin; only the machine of vengeance remained, and it was calibrated to a single, blinding purpose: find the clown.

Jason shattered the armory. He smashed workbenches, threw a crowbar through a monitor, and screamed at Bruce with a fury that seemed to shake the stalactites. “Your rule! Your precious, stupid rule! He keeps coming back and he keeps taking—and you just put him in a box! This is your blood on the ground, Bruce! Yours!” Bruce absorbed it all in silence, each word a lash he believed he had earned a thousand times over.

Tim vanished into a digital necropolis. He didn’t hunt the Joker. He hunted the ghost of you, building a vast, sorrowful archive—every video, every text, every security frame of your face—feeding it into a post-cognition algorithm that, in his feverish logic, might reveal the single variable he could have changed to save you. He was trying to solve the unsolvable, to find an equation that would give his guilt a shape he could bear.

Dick stayed in Blüdhaven for two days before the silence became unbearable. He came back to the manor, but he didn’t stay in the common rooms. He couldn’t. He started finding his way to your room, sitting on the floor with his back against your bed, a bottle in his hand that he never seemed to finish and never let go of. He’d pull out his phone and stare at your contact photo—a silly selfie with flour on your nose—until the screen blurred. Then he’d type out a text he would never send: One good thing today? I need one, Y/N. Please. Every unsent message was a fresh, bleeding wound.

Damian stopped speaking. Words were inadequate; they belonged to a world where you existed. He took up residence in your room, which Alfred, with a reverence that bordered on sacrosanct, left untouched. The half-empty can of soda. The books on forensic science beside a worn copy of a romance novel Tim must have planted as a joke. The wall of printed photographs—snapshots of the videos you had made them film. Damian would sit in your desk chair, Alfred the Cat curled in his lap, and stare at the corkboard for hours. His rage had cooled into a cold, absolute nihilism, a planet-sized why that had no answer. What was honor? What was legacy? What was Robin, if the sun could be blotted out so easily and so senselessly?

The only thing they all shared, in their isolated, soundless orbits, was an unspoken, collective avoidance. The folder on the Batcomputer. The one with the string of emojis: a sun, a bat, a bird, a sparkle heart. Inside was a sub-folder labeled in your handwriting, recorded for the camera you’d propped up on the console: “FAMILY PROOF (watch together!!).”

It waited there, a repository of voices and laughter and a love so fierce it had once held their fractured solar system in perfect, golden alignment. They avoided it like a black hole. Because to open it was to hear your voice again, and to hear your voice was to admit that you were gone. And none of them, not a single one, was ready to admit that the light had truly and irrevocably gone out.

///

The cave had become a tomb.

Not in the physical sense—the stalactites still dripped, the bats still chittered in their distant perches, the supercomputer still hummed its endless, patient hum—but in the way a church becomes a tomb when the god it worshipped has abandoned it. The air was thick with a stillness that felt deliberate, as if the cave itself understood that something sacred had been extinguished and was holding its breath in deference.

Three weeks had passed since the alley. Three weeks of silence that was not silence but a cacophony of absences. The absence of your footsteps on the metal grating. The absence of your voice calling up the stairs for someone to taste-test a recipe you'd stolen from Alfred's private collection. The absence of your laugh, which had always seemed to find the cracks in their armor and slip through, warm and unexpected as sunlight through cloud cover.

Bruce had not left the cave in seventy-two hours. He sat at the console like a gargoyle misplaced from its cathedral, the glow of the monitors carving hollows beneath his cheekbones, turning his face into a landscape of exhaustion and grief. He had stopped reviewing the Joker's video. That particular form of self-flagellation had yielded nothing but a deeper, more intimate acquaintance with madness. Now he simply sat, his hands motionless on the armrests, staring at a screen that displayed nothing but the Manor's security feeds. Your room. Your door. Closed. Unchanged. A shrine of pixels.

Dick had returned to the Manor two days ago, though "returned" was a generous word. He had washed up like flotsam, deposited on the Manor's doorstep by tides he could no longer navigate. He stood now at the edge of the cave's main platform, one hand resting on a stalagmite as if he needed its cold, mineral certainty to keep himself upright. His eyes were bloodshot, the kind of red that came from too little sleep and too much of the whiskey he thought no one noticed. He hadn't changed out of his civilian clothes in two days. The fabric smelled stale, a faint note of bar smoke and something sourer beneath—the scent of a man slowly dissolving.

Jason was a statue of contained violence in the shadows beyond the computer's light. He had refused to come closer, refused to sit, refused to acknowledge that this gathering was happening at all. His arms were crossed over his chest, the muscles beneath his jacket coiled with a tension that had not released since he'd held your body in the rain. The split knuckles from punching the cave wall had scabbed over and been split again, a cycle of wounding and re-wounding that he pursued with almost liturgical dedication. He spoke to no one. He looked at no one. He was a planet that had been flung from its orbit and now drifted through an endless, freezing void, burning with a cold fire that illuminated nothing.

Tim was already seated, but the word "seated" implied a degree of voluntary presence. He had been welded to that chair for hours, maybe longer—time had become a foreign concept, a measurement system from a universe that no longer existed. His laptop was open before him, but its screen was dark. This was unprecedented. Tim Drake did not sit before dark screens. Tim Drake filled dark screens with light and data and purpose. But the purpose had drained out of him, leaving behind only the shell of a boy genius who had finally encountered a problem that could not be optimized, only endured.

And Damian.

Damian sat on the floor directly before the main monitor, his katana laid across his knees like an offering. He had not spoken a single word in six days. Alfred had attempted to coax him with tea, with food, with the quiet, dignified presence that had soothed so many broken birds before. Damian had looked through him as if he were made of glass. The boy who had once declared himself the heir to empires now sat with the hollow, distant gaze of a child who had discovered that empires were built on sand and blood, and neither substance could bring back the dead.

It was Tim who broke first.

Not with words. Tim had no words left. But his hand moved—an involuntary spasm of muscle memory—and touched the trackpad of his laptop. The screen blazed to life, and there it was. The folder. The one he had found three days ago in the depths of his search for your digital ghost, the search that had consumed him so completely he had forgotten to eat, forgotten to sleep, forgotten that the ghost he was chasing was not a puzzle to be solved but a wound to be survived. He had opened the folder then, seen the thumbnail of you and Bruce covered in flour, and slammed the laptop shut with a violence that had cracked the screen. But he had not closed the folder. He had left it there, a bright, toxic sun burning in the cold digital architecture of the Batcomputer, waiting to be noticed.

Dick noticed.

He had drifted toward the console not out of curiosity but out of the gravitational pull of old habits—the big brother checking in, the caretaker making his rounds. His eyes skimmed the open folder, the string of emojis that you had chosen with such deliberate, ridiculous care, and his breath stopped in his chest. A sun. A bat. A bird. A sparkle heart. He understood instantly, the way a man understands he is about to be shot the moment before the trigger is pulled. These were not files. These were your memories. Your voice. Your laugh. The sound he had been trying and failing to recall with perfect clarity for three weeks, the sound that slipped away every time he reached for it like water through desperate fingers.

He stumbled backward, one hand flying to his mouth, the other grasping for something solid and finding only air. The nausea hit him in a wave—not the nausea of disgust but the nausea of standing at the edge of an abyss and feeling it call to you, whisper to you, promise you that falling would be so much easier than standing.

"Bruce." His voice cracked on the single syllable. He swallowed, tried again. "Bruce, you need to see this."

Bruce turned his head with the slow, mechanical precision of a man who had forgotten how to move his body and was re-learning the process through sheer will. His eyes—those dark, hollowed eyes that had seen cities burn and friends fall—flicked to the screen, and something in him that had been frozen solid for three weeks began, horribly, to thaw.

Within the hour, they were all assembled.

It was the first time since the alley that they had been in the same space without the buffer of a mission, without the excuse of strategy or the anesthesia of violence. They did not look at each other. They looked at the screen, at the folder, at the sub-folder labeled in your voice, your cadence, your impossible, irreverent joy: "FAMILY PROOF (watch together!!)."

Bruce's hand moved to the mouse. It was trembling again—not the tremor of age or exhaustion but the tremor of a man holding his own heart in his hands and preparing to squeeze. The cursor hovered over the first thumbnail. You, beaming, your arm slung around a stiff, furious Damian. "Dami's Glittery Defeat (Feat. Titus)."

He clicked.

Your voice filled the cave like light flooding a catacomb.

"Okay, for the record, this is not my fault."

Damian flinched. It was a small movement, barely perceptible—the tightening of his fingers on the katana's sheath, the sharp intake of breath that he immediately suppressed. But it was the first sign of life he had shown in days. Your voice was a key turning in a lock he had welded shut, and the door was beginning to open whether he willed it or not.

On screen, you were alive. Your face filled the frame, your eyes gleaming with that particular mischievousness that always brought Damian to the brink of murderous rage and back again. You were explaining the terms of the race, your voice mingling with barely suppressed glee, and then the camera turned and showed Damian—small, angry, self-important—sitting on the library floor with Titus's enormous head in his lap and a pink glittery brush in his hand.

"You cheated, L/N," the Damian on the screen snarled.

Your laugh answered him—a bell-like, cascading sound that seemed to resonate in the cave's vast darkness, finding every corner, every shadow, every heart.

The Damian on the floor did not move. But his eyes—those sharp, hawkish eyes that had learned to see threats in every shadow—were fixed on the screen with an intensity that bordered on violence. He was watching himself. The self that had existed in a universe where you were still alive. The self that had scowled and complained and secretly, desperately, treasured every moment of your attention. The self that had not yet learned what it meant to lose something irreplaceable.

"See?" your voice came again, soft now, gentle in the way you always were when you'd finished teasing and wanted to make sure the joke hadn't drawn blood. "Good things come in weird packages. This is a good thing, Dami. One Good Thing."

A sound escaped Dick's throat—not a sob, not yet, but the precursor to one, the tectonic shift that heralds an earthquake. One Good Thing. The ritual you had built, day by day, video by video, until it had become the foundation upon which this fractured family had learned to stand. You had given them a language for hope, and they had not realized until this moment that they had forgotten how to speak it.

Damian's tear was silent. It traced a path from the corner of his eye to the line of his jaw, a single silver thread in the blue glow of the monitor. He did not wipe it away. He did not acknowledge it. He simply watched, and remembered the feel of glitter on his fingers, the weight of Titus's head on his knee, the infuriating, irreplaceable sound of your laugh. He wanted to crawl into the video. He wanted to live inside that moment forever, a bug trapped in amber, frozen at the exact instant before the world ended.

Bruce did not pause. He could not pause. To pause was to feel, and to feel was to drown. He clicked the next video with the mechanical precision of a surgeon, or an executioner.

"Tim vs. The Pleasure Lagoon."

The thumbnail was absurd—Tim, bleary-eyed and horrified, holding a romance novel with a cover so lurid it seemed to glow. On the screen, the Tim of the past was hunched over his computer, lost in the labyrinth of code, while your voice, disembodied and theatrical, began to read prose so purple it was practically ultraviolet.

"Chapter fourteen. Rodrigo's cutlass was not the only hard thing pressing against Lady Seraphina's—"

"STOP!" the on-screen Tim shrieked, spinning with an expression of pure, primal terror.

The Tim in the cave did not smile. The Tim in the cave had buried his face in his hands the moment the video began, his cracked laptop forgotten on the floor, his shoulders hunched as if bracing for a blow. But the blow was not external. It came from within—the memory of that night, the exhaustion that had felt so monumental and now seemed so trivial, the way you had weaponized absurdity to pull him back from the brink. The parrot joke. God, the parrot joke. It was theirs, a secret stupid beautiful thing, and he would never hear you tell it again.

"It's the filth I'm subjected to," your recorded voice declared, "in order to get you to look away from a screen for five seconds. What's it gonna be? Sleep and a glass of water, or do I read the part with the parrot? Trust me, nobody wants the parrot part."

The video ended on your villainous cackle. The cave was silent. Tim's shoulders were shaking with a grief he could not voice—a grief that had no algorithm, no solution, no elegant code that could make it run cleanly and terminate. The failure, he understood now, was not in the data. The failure was in the world. The world that had allowed this. The world that had taken a girl who weaponized bad romance novels and left behind a silence that no amount of brilliance could fill.

Bruce clicked the next file. His hand was steadier now, but it was the steadiness of a man who had moved beyond feeling into a realm of pure, mechanical endurance. He was a diver descending into the wreckage of his own heart, and he would not stop until he reached the bottom.

"Jay and the Shakespearean Brood."

The setting was the Manor roof at dusk. Gotham's skyline jutted against a sky the color of a bruise, and you were leaning your head on Jason's shoulder, your legs dangling over the edge. Jason was smoking. The tip of his cigarette flared orange, a tiny sun in the gathering dark.

"So," your voice was gentle, stripped of the chaotic energy you brought to the other videos. "You've been in the brooding corner for three days. Bruce is getting worried his spot's been stolen."

Jason, the Jason on the screen, took a long drag. The silence stretched like a wound. "He's not worried, kid. He's just pissed I went too far with those dealers in the Narrows."

"Did you go too far?"

Another pause. Then, quietly: "Probably." He looked at you—the real you, the you who was holding the camera and asking questions no one else dared to ask—and his eyes, even through the screen, were full of a pain he had never learned to name. "Why do you do this? These videos."

You were quiet for a moment, and the quality of your silence was different from his—not a wound, but a lullaby waiting to begin. "Because… one day, it might all go to shit. It always does, doesn't it? We're the Wayne family. Chaos is in the job description. And I just… I want proof. Proof that we weren't just a war council. That we were… this." You gestured, a small, sweeping motion that encompassed the sunset, the skyline, the two of you. "A grumpy crime lord and a reformed pickpocket, watching a sunset and not killing anyone. That's a Good Thing, Jason. A really big one."

On the screen, Jason didn't answer. He just ashed his cigarette and put his arm around you, pulling you closer, and kissed the top of your head with a tenderness that seemed almost furtive, as if affection were a language he was still learning to speak. "You're a sap, Y/N," he murmured into your hair.

"One of us has to be," you whispered back. "It's a hard job, but someone's gotta do it."

The video ended on that image: the two of you, small and dark against the dying sky, holding on.

The sound that came from the shadows was not human.

Jason had not cried when he found you. He had screamed, a raw animal sound that had torn through the rain and echoed off the brick and offered no comfort, no release. But now, in the darkness of the cave, watching the ghost of a sunset he would never see again, he broke. It was not a quiet breaking. It was a rupture, a cataclysm, a sound that seemed to originate from somewhere deeper than his body—the sound of a soul that had already died once and now understood, with terrible clarity, that the second death was so much worse.

He turned and drove his fist into the wall. The rock split his knuckles, fresh blood welling over the half-healed scars, but the pain was a distant star, a pinprick of light in a void of agony. He struck the wall again. And again. And then his strength gave out, and he slumped against the cold stone, his forehead pressed to the rock, his shoulders heaving.

. The video had ended, and your ghost had receded into the machine, leaving behind only the echo of your words and the unbearable silence that followed.

Bruce had not moved. He had absorbed Jason's words the way he absorbed everything—in silence, without deflection, without defense. But something in him was shifting. The mask of the stoic general, the armor he had worn for so long it had fused to his skin, was cracking. His hand moved to the mouse with a deliberation that was almost ceremonial.

The final video. "Brucie's Birthday."

He clicked.

The sitting room at Wayne Manor. Firelight. Alfred behind the camera, his dignified presence steadying the frame. And you—you, alive, radiant, your purple streak catching the firelight, a pointy party hat in your hands—wrestling it onto Bruce's head while he sat in his sweater, looking for all the world like a man who had faced down gods and monsters but was utterly defenseless against a sixteen-year-old girl with a party hat.

"Y/N, this is undignified."

"It's a party hat, not a tiara, you big baby! See? He looks human!"

Alfred's laugh was a soft jiggle of the camera. You produced a cupcake, a single candle flickering in the dim room.

"Okay, Dad-Man. Make a wish. And don't say 'for a quiet night in Gotham.' The universe will laugh at you. You have to wish for something… good. For you."

The Bruce on the screen looked at you. The firelight caught the purple in your hair, the earnest command in your eyes. He closed his eyes. He wished. He opened them again, and the look he gave you was not Batman's. It was not the general's. It was a father's—raw, unguarded, full of a desperate, hopeful gratitude he had never been able to articulate. He blew out the candle. You whooped and lunged forward to smear frosting on his nose, and his laughter—his rare, full-bodied, human laughter—rumbled through the speakers like a benediction.

The video ended.

The cave was silent.

And then Bruce Wayne, the Dark Knight, the man who had built an empire on the unshakable foundation of his own will, placed his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders began to shake. The sobs that came were silent at first—great, heaving convulsions that he tried to suppress, tried to contain, tried to armor against. But there was no armor for this. There was no protocol, no contingency, no strategy. There was only a father who had lost his child, and a wish made on a birthday candle that the universe had answered with the Joker's laugh.

Dick moved first. He crossed the space between them and placed a hand on Bruce's back—not as a soldier, not as a protégé, but as a son who understood, finally, that his father was not a monument. He was a man, and he was breaking.

Tim looked up from his hands. His face was wet, his eyes red, but something in the rigid architecture of his grief had shifted. He did not move toward Bruce—he was not ready for that, might never be ready for that—but he did not retreat either. He stayed. In the rubble of his shattered equations, he stayed.

Damian had not taken his eyes from the screen. The video was over, but your face was still there—frozen in the final frame, mid-laugh, frosting on your thumb. He reached out, slowly, and touched the screen with his fingertips. The glass was cold. Of course it was cold. What had he expected? Warmth? Life? You?

"Tt." The sound was barely audible, a ghost of his old disdain. But his voice, when he spoke, was not disdainful. It was empty. "You told me to find the good thing. But you took it with you. How am I supposed to find what you took?"

No one answered. The bats chittered in the distant dark. The stalactites dripped their slow, mineral tears.

Jason did not leave the shadows. He stood with his back against the wall, his bloody knuckles dripping onto the stone floor, his eyes fixed on the frozen image of your face. He had stopped crying. The well was dry, and what remained was a cold, adamantine fury that had no target and no outlet. You had told him not to let this send him back to the pit. You had told him to avenge you by remembering. But memory was a blade, and every moment of it cut.

The folder remained open on the Batcomputer. A sun, a bat, a bird, a sparkle heart. FAMILY PROOF. You had built it for them, a digital testament, a time capsule of light to be opened in the event of darkness. You had known—of course you had known, you had always seen more clearly than any of them—that the darkness would come. You had prepared for it. You had left them a map back to themselves.

But a map is only useful if the travelers are willing to follow it.

The Bat Family sat in their separate silences, bathed in the blue glow of a screen that held the last, fading echoes of your voice. They had come together to honor you. They had come together to find you. But grief is not a reunion; it is an archipelago. Each of them was an island, and the sea between them was rising.

Somewhere in the depths of the cave, a single bat detached itself from the ceiling and flew into the dark. The sound of its wings was soft, rhythmic, a heartbeat fading into silence.

And the sun did not rise.

///

When the sun goes out, the planets orbiting it continue to hurtle forward for a while, unaware of its absence. But the light does not return. The warmth does not return. And what was once a system turns into a graveyard; each planet in its own darkness, its own silence, its own endless winter. When you died, you left them a map. But maps only work for those who have the courage to follow them. You had loved them. You had understood them. You had reminded them of one another. But remembering is not living. Remembering is a ghost. And ghosts cannot embrace, cannot comfort, cannot hold a family together. The Gotham sky was as gray as ever. Wayne Manor was as silent as ever. Alfred was waiting in the kitchen, just as he always did. But the breakfast table was empty. The chairs were empty. And a world waiting for the sun to rise was frozen in an eternal twilight. You had once told them to find "one good thing." But some darknesses are too deep to harbor even a single star. And some families, unfortunately, are too fragile to be saved. All that remained was your voice in the videos, your laughter echoing in a dark cave, and a question that would never be answered again: "What was today's good thing?" The answer, forever, was silence.

/// The sun went out. The planets were lost. And the constellation never came together again.

purplespiritimagines

pomegrante son - damian wayne & jon kent

content damian wayne & jon kent & wonder boy! reader, ftm! reader, m! reader, legacy, identity insecurity, brief dysphoria, emotional vulnerability, blood/injury, magical trial, references to damian’s league upbringing, pressure of being superman’s son, hurt/comfort, magical trial, blood/minor injury, cursed water, brief peril, references to damian being raised as a weapon, pressure of being batman’s son, pressure of being superman’s son, emotional distress

masterlist

word count 6.5k

author's note guys i actually love fics with like being trapped by mystical forces and being forced to confront your worst fears/insecurities. does this trope have a specific name??? also this fic made me incredibly sad as i was writing jon's part ;(

Damian Wayne did not believe in fate.

He believed in training. He believed in preparation, discipline, precision, surveillance, sharpened steel, escape routes, and the obvious fact that most people used the word fate when they meant poor planning.

The gods, in his opinion, were simply powerful beings with a branding problem.

You had told him this was a blasphemous thing to say on Themysciran soil.

punksnotdeadbutiam

THIS IS SO AMAZING I AM CRYING IN THE CLUB

#dc imagines #dc x reader #dc x you #dc x reader imagines #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x you #damian wayne imagine #damian wayne fic #damian wayne #damian al ghul fic

multifandomlover01

With The Lights On

Jack Abbot x fem!S/O!reader

Summary: Jack takes the time to relax his gal so she’s comfortable with him seeing her in light and naked for the first time

WC: ~5.2k

Warnings: contraception mentioned (condom and birth control), body worship, insecurities, anxiety, poor body image/self esteem, body dysmorphia if you'd like to read that into it, he talks you through it, praise kink, fingering, penetrative sex, accidentally ruined orgasm, poor attempts at comedy, brief mention (in jest) of Langdon getting Jack’s sloppy seconds and how strong his swimmers must be

Note: I tried to keep his disability in mind when writing the positions. It’s probably not perfect by any means.

@bookwyrmsposts

multifandomlover01

Is It Me?

Pope Cody x fem!chubby/plus sized!reader (isn't super descriptive, only mentions she's not a size two, has stretch marks)

Summary: you don’t think any man would want you, Andrew Cody proves you wrong

WC: ~2.3k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI - fingering and cunnilingus, obsessed!pope, very inexperienced/virgin!reader, insecure!reader, pubic hair, thoughts of inadequacy, self worth and self esteem issues, very self indulgent, don’t like, don’t read

•18+ Adults Only

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pencil-n-pen

—the cure

jack abbot x people pleaser! reader

"All because my head is full of poison And my heart is full of doubt I got toxins in my bloodstream You tried so hard to suck out —the cure, Olivia Rodrigo

summary: you’re the ray of sunshine and overly dependable smiling intern the night shift crew has been needing. But a certain attending begins noticing you might need more help than you let on.

wc: 11.7k (a short one sorry guys)

warnings: crippling perfectionism, high-key people pleasing, reader is bright and bubbly to compensate for how awful she feels day to day, one vomiting scene, service dom jack, santos is on nightshift bc i love her and i wanted her in this fic. trinity and dennis and reader r basically siblings, jack’s characterization in this is DEF andrew pope cody-esque panic attacks, mental health struggles, reader is an intern again but i swear it’s just cause i watch a lot of greys and interns r the only stage of medical career i know enough about to write semi-well T-T

acknowledgments: once again a round of applause for @wesandresons for the lovely gif, and @uzmacchiato and @cursed-carmine for the dividers!

a/n: i’m not rlly sure i like how this turned out but oh well @leeknowpegger i hope this keeps you company

masterlist

blueaxolote

Based on my old prompt

A neglected reader raised by the old ladies of Gotham.

The appearance of Bruce Wayne’s daughter was quite a scandal. She was born from a flimsy woman, an unknown who was quick to sign her parental rights away and get out of the picture with a big check.

His daughter made her debut and lost public interest in a month. Her name was not heard again until her twelfth birthday. She was not the youngest, just a middle and forgettable child, a touch too shy to ask for help when a vapid man pestered her while her siblings and father were busy making connections.

Mirna could still remember dear Martha comforting her after a hard beating, keeping quiet in her shame while using her nursing degree to patch Mirna up. Martha was famous for her tea dates, where women would come “pressured” by their husbands to make a good impression on the Waynes.

All a lie. Martha would spot a woman in trouble and send an invitation.

Times have changed; fewer women are ready to endure a bad egg. But when it was almost a miracle to have a decent husband—one who would only shame you with whores—it was sweet Martha who stood up to help in silence, even when most of them envied her.

Thomas was a jewel, too much in love with Martha to hurt her in any way. The perfect marriage, a dream that ended too soon in a dirty alley. They had endured their tears at the funeral, afraid to show their love for Martha, knowing that their husbands had only allowed their interaction with the understanding that it was more a chore than a joyous time.

Their grief was quiet, but the women that Martha had saved grew up to stand by themselves, to honor her friend in a tight group who would help other wives in need.

The bad eggs were fewer with each generation, but they still stayed vigilant behind snarky and bitter masks. If they could raise the ire of a man in less than five minutes, they would mark him on the blacklist. If he was single, he would find no wife in all of Gotham.

They were old, nosy, and worse... committed.

So, seeing Martha’s granddaughter by herself, and quite obviously forgotten by her father and siblings, made Mirna’s heart ache. Mirna, of course, disposed of the man as soon as she got near, but didn’t stay to chat with the young girl. Still, she told her niece to keep an eye on her. She wanted to believe that this was the mistake of just one night; dear Brucie was sometimes forgetful, but she had seen how much he loved his kids, defending them with fierceness.

More galas came, and each time they saw her alone. What made them move was her smile, that cursed smile full of brightness that concealed the weight of a broken family behind it.

They had worked so hard in honor of Martha, then seeing her granddaughter, who mirrored her in all her beauty, made them seethe in rage.

They may be trapped in their marriages, but Martha’s granddaughter will not be.

The first thing was showing her how to find the secluded room that guarded their little club at each gala. Gaining her trust was not easy work, but experience came to hand more times than not.

“I don’t need pity,” she would reply with anger.

“Don’t be silly, girl,” Olivia would snap. “Needing help doesn’t make you less.”

Olivia was a widow, a lucky widow whose spouse had left a big fortune and no hidden debts. She was the prime benefactor of the tea club, mocked for it. Those outside their circle would only consider it an expensive way to gossip, where old crones would throw venom at each other.

There was gossip and venom; they needed to have their own fun. But they were not heartless, bitter old bitches.

Nosy, maybe.

“I’m not my grandmother either.”

“Oh honey, we can see it,” Olivia laughed. “Dear Martha didn’t need anyone to defend her.”

“Olivia!” reprimanded Esther at her rude words.

“But she was a grown woman; you are just a girl,” continued Olivia. “So, if you are smart enough, you would see this as an opportunity.”

The anger stayed in her eyes, but curiosity was born.

“What for?”

“To seek a life of your choice, be free of your golden cage,” Mirna said. “Let us train you, so one day you become a shining star above everyone else.”

A single tear fell upon her cheek.

“They are never going to love me, are they?”

“I don’t have the answer, but don’t chase love, dear.” Mirna cleaned her face. “The only one who you must seek to love is yourself. Those that come after must give you affection freely, not with conditions.”

Things changed for the better. While Bruce and his children remained quite ignorant of her affairs, Alfred spotted the sudden bond between her and the old ladies of Gotham and chose to say nothing. He had seen her loneliness, so the change on her lips, where a sincere smile adorned, was a nice sight.

After school, she would go to Olivia’s mansion, take lessons, and hear old anecdotes. They would encourage her to take piano lessons, wear clothes even if she separated from her family’s usual trend, and not care about her calorie intake.

Even if not all the days were good, they stayed. Through her tears and laughs, a bond forged deep in their hearts: no longer only Martha’s granddaughter, but theirs. A precious girl who grew up to be a breathtaking lady, one who could command a room with kindness, but be just as stubborn as her grandmother when seeing someone in need of help.

Being a socialite was way different with social media, but their knowledge was put to good use. Their darling would show them her Instagram account; the millions on it made them proud as peacocks. The photos were carefully selected, but what melted them was the way she was proud to show her “Fierce grandmas,” as she titled the shot with all of them in the middle of a Sunday brunch.

The care they had given her: every day, she paid it forward.

So, while their dear girl didn’t need a man... they lived to see her fall in love.

A good man; they made sure of it.

So, with their go-ahead, Charles proposed. When the call came in the middle of the night, the congratulations came as quickly as tears appeared.

And how late Bruce saw his daughter. Too late to rectify his neglect, but in time to see her form her own family.

“Father,” she called, arriving in the morning. “Sorry to interrupt your breakfast. I know you’ve got a busy schedule, but I think a year is enough notice.” She spoke kindly, but not affectionately. “My wedding is next spring; could you take three days to be in Monaco?”

The answer doesn’t come, so she continues to talk.

“Maybe two days? You can skip the rehearsal, but if you don’t come to the wedding, everyone is going to talk more about it than about my big day,” she explains.

Bruce exhales.

“W-wedding?” he asks. “With who?”

Shock is so overwhelming that his mind doesn’t register at first how his daughter negotiates the days just to make him come—the way she only wants him there to evade gossip, not from a need to have her father there.

“Charles. I presented you to him two years ago, at the charity gala for Women’s Empowerment.” She sends him a resigned look. “Last week, we took our engagement photos in the mansion. I left you a note in your office.”

He didn’t remember Charles or the note.

“Maybe he could come to dinner today?”

He needed to text the kids to know if they knew of this.

“Really?” She arches an eyebrow, annoyed. “I have invited you and the rest plenty of times to come to dinner with us; you always ghost us.” She tells him, “I thank you for the invitation, but we are taking a plane tonight, so we can’t come.”

She goes after that, without getting an apology or an explanation. Just leaving a white-and-golden invitation that smells faintly like cinnamon.

He finds the note she mentions. The thing is that the office is more a facade; he is more comfortable in the Batcave. His kids know to leave a note there if they require his attention... just not her.

His only child out of familiar vigilantism. And he finds that this runs deeper than a moment of forgetfulness; at best, he has been absent. Stacked in one of the desk drawers, he finds more notes.

There were plenty of them from her childhood; they became shorter, colder, and fewer after she turned thirteen. He read glimpses of her life that he ignored... neglected.

It was hard to find that he had not been her father at all.

Alfred finds him in the middle of his unveiling.

“I think I lost hope that one day you would read them when the young miss was ten.”

“You never mentioned the notes to me,” Bruce’s voice is barely a whisper.

“I did, at the beginning,” he says. “But Gotham was turbulent, and your focus—Master Wayne—kept slipping back to the city.”

“And I give her nothing from me.” Dread has made a home in his chest. “I think the birthdays that I attended were barely because I stepped in by mistake,” he confesses. “I handle the rest of the kids’ gifts, but I can’t remember picking hers.”

“Mrs. Wilson had done it every year, just like the Christmas gift,” Alfred told him. “You should give a bonus to your secretary; she has fine taste.”

A bitter laugh left his lips.

“Did she even know I’m Batman?” he asks.

“If she does, she has never mentioned it.”

Even if she knew, after all these years it was barely an excuse to have lost most of her life.

“She is going to marry some guy called Charles.”

“I know. She called when he proposed; she was delighted.” Alfred sighs. “Master Bruce, this is not fixable, but the least you can do is make her wedding the best day. Spare her the sorrow of the media pointing out your absences; they have done it before, and she has denied it with a smile, even if it was painful to lie.”

He nods.

Night comes, and before the kids leave, he asks his children if they know that their sister is getting married.

“Cassandra?” Dick asks, confused. “With who?”

“Can’t be married if we disappear the groom,” says Jason.

That their assumption goes straight to Cassandra just shows Bruce how she is barely part of their lives.

“No, idiots,” Tim calls out. “The princess is marrying; it’s all over her social media.”

“You knew?” Bruce questions, hopeful that one of his children had formed a bond with their sister.

“Hard to miss when it’s all over the news,” he says, still putting his weapon in place. “It’s good she’s leaving; she’s quite delicate for the city.”

“I don’t know how that weakling has kept herself alive all this time,” mentions Damian without cruelty, just stating a fact.

It hurts Bruce more than words can express, the way they dismiss her like gossip. But how can he demand their care when even he ignored her whole life?

He realized that she had lived her whole life being a stranger in her own home.

No father and no siblings... and now, upon her marriage, for the first time all his thoughts focus on her.

Too late to reach her, to show her he loves her, even when he has not cared for her. So, he does more than the least she expected from him.

When next spring comes, he takes the whole week to concentrate on the wedding. Seeing her surprise and relief is enough. He can’t condense years of apology into a single week, but he tries his best to make this week special.

He is there every morning during her bride meetings, even if he stands out like a sore thumb between her friends and the three older ladies who check every corner of the venue like it is a war field.

“Charles is taking his car to race; you can go if you want, Father.”

“I’m okay here, sweetheart.”

She smiles at him, even if not fully convinced.

He had investigated, but observing the life she had made by herself was quite different from seeing it from a screen.

She has inherited the title of “Princess of Gotham” that the media once threw at him, but while he wore it scandalously, she uses it with grace. Her life is gentle, but she has worked hard for it, with the help of the older ladies that he once marked as exhausting.

They are not the harpy he made up in his mind, not if they care so deeply for his daughter. Now he sees it was a facade, just like his Brucie persona.

Walking her to the altar is agonizing. But he supports it with a smile. She smiles shyly at her soon-to-be husband, and he looks at her, full of devotion... In a single second, he can almost see his parents in them.

The rare love he thought he would never see again. He finds himself crying in silence for the girl he failed, for the woman who has found happiness, and for the daughter he never saw.

Alfred silently extends a handkerchief.

He has no right to feel like he is losing her when he never took her hand. Apologies don’t come out of his mouth, but when the dance arrives, he embraces his daughter tenderly.

“I wish your happiness lasts all your life, my dear daughter.” His voice chokes a little with emotion.

There were not enough apologies to reverse what he had done. His daughter observed him for a long time in silence; tears glinted in her eyes, but some storm in her heart calmed at his words. She didn’t forgive him, but she laid her head on his chest.

For the first time, she stops being defensive in his presence. He treasures the moment and the photo.

Three years later, in winter, he travels for the birth of his first grandchild.

He shared happiness that he didn’t deserve, barely holding back a sob when his daughter presented his grandchild in a Batman blanket.

They share a knowing look while Charles coos at the newborn.

“You were not a father at all,” his daughter confesses years later, “but you are a wonderful grandpa.”

Extra scene.

They were quite conscious that she would move with her husband to Monaco, and while keeping in touch was easy nowadays... they had always been nosy! So it must not have been a surprise when the three old goats decided to retire to Monaco too.

Someone had to keep the fort safe when Charles went to race for Ferrari in the season. And, of course, their darling traveled with him as much as she could, so they were always preparing her a suitcase with outfits for the next country.

So, it came as a shock when suddenly a book called “Gotham’s Tea Club” was published.

Martha’s altruism was well known, but the depth of it revealed a tale of how kindness could surpass death and travel through time. Decades after her death, her good heart had even touched her granddaughter.

A lot of women, even if some in anonymity, shared their testimony. Kindness had not stayed only with the wealthy; it had reached even the lowest neighborhoods of Gotham.

Esther reads with tears how her old housekeeper remembers her acting quite bratty about how she needed to stay in the mansion during Christmas, even if she “must” bring her children with her. That winter they were homeless after her husband died and left her with three little children; she described how her old boss acted cold-hearted but was all warm and fuzzy at her core. The kids and she stayed for a whole year, always under the excuse of how Esther could “endure” them just to keep the house working. They got a new place with cash her youngest child found inside her teddy bear.

No word was shared, and there was no surprise when Carmen told her boss she had found a place. She worked for Esther till the kids graduated college, never telling her how she had replicated the tea club in her own neighborhood.

Carmen was not the only maid who learned to run a tight group of women helping each other. The tea club kept strong for years to come, no longer a silent secret, but a movement.

utsumeow

hello everynyan look at my new ao3 skin

sugoi right 😳

i borrowed the code from sm1 else and only tweaked a few things so technically i didn't made this

but the link's here if u wanna use

melmycherrycola

the perks of being roommates

dennis whitaker x fem!chubby!R1!reader

18+ mdni

original ask <3 | ao3

summary: dennis is not only your boyfriend, but your roommate, and your destressor. shenanigans ensue.

word count: 3k

contains: fluff & smut. trinity/dennis/reader roommate agenda. stress & upset from a bad day at the pitt. softdom!dennis, whiny!reader. *fingering/fingers in mouth, kitchen sex, getting caught. *no use of y/n

a/n: here you go anon 💝 ;) ignore me using plotlines from ER to storybuild i was doug rossing the reader and exodusing the hospital HA

—————————— ˚₊‧꒰ა❤︎໒꒱ ‧₊——————————

Living with Trinity and Dennis used to be difficult before Garcia came into the picture. Now you practically lived in an apartment with your boyfriend and kept Trinity’s stuff for safe keeping. But you couldn’t complain– at least you got time alone. That was really all you wanted anyway.

fawnindawn

beg you to stay.

summary: you had always adored damian… till you overheard his complaints to his brothers on your clinginess. so why was it that when you decide to give him what he desires, he is the one trying to close the gap he desperately wanted?

pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader

content: hurt-comfort, angst+fluff, hea, grovelling+yearning, desperate damian who bites his own words that make him go through it, reader with boundaries

“She’s clingy.”

Damian’s voice is unmistakable. Cut-throat, swift in its delivering blow. Even with his back turned to you, you could recognise it in a heartbeat.

“C'mon, Dames.” Dick teases. “You enjoy her company.”

A cold, scathing scoff echoes. “Her smothering can barely be considered company. Consuming my entire week—then coming along to the gala just to torment me further? You're mistaken.”

Pressing the gap of the door shut, your numb fingers dig into the wood. His bitter admission parted from his lips so easily. His harshly thrown words didn’t just shatter your heart physically into pieces—no, there isn't a harsher tidal wave crashing over you than the realisation that whatever bond you shared with Damian was a complete, utter lie.

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

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✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions

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redsakura101

Rinse & Repeat Series Masterlist 🩺

The Pitt x Reader x Batfam, Dr Robby x Wayne!Reader

This is my Masterlist for my crossover series between the Pitt and the Batfamily (and by extension a few other DC superheroes and villains) - it's a little bit of a slow burn romance

The reader is the sister of Bruce Wayne, she works in the ER, wading through the slough of patients. But maybe she finds a little bit of balance in the form of her attending. The catch is, no one at the Pitt knows who she really is or who she was? How long will that last?

Chapter 1: Day In , Day Out

Chapter 2: Just One of Those Days

Chapter 3: The Day It All Started (for him)

Chapter 4: The Day It All Started (for her)

Chapter 5: Days of the Past

Chapter 6: The Day That Just Won't End

Chapter 7: Just A Few Days

Chapter 8: When the Days Just Feels that Bit Heavier

Mini Chapter 8.5: Shark Has A Heart

Chapter 9: Going to Remember This Day ♥️

Chapter 10: Days of Newfound Bliss

Chapter 11: Crash My Day

Chapter 12: What A Day

Mini Chapter 12.5: The Daily Scoop from Supes

Chapter 13: A Day Without You Feels Like Forever

Chapter 14: Days Apart

Chapter 15: Take a Day Off, They Said, It'll Be Fun, They Said.

Chapter 16: Today of All Days

Chapter 17: When the Day Bleeds into the Night

Chapter 18: Training Day

Chapter 19: Do You Ever Regret That Day?

Chapter 20: Please, Not Now, Not Today 💔

Chapter 21: This Day Was Bound to Happen

Chapter 22: Hollowness of the Day

Chapter 23: The Early Light of Day

Chapter 24:Let Me Spend My Days With You ❤️‍🩹

Chapter 25: Discharge Day

Chapter 26: Days Spent With You

Chapter 27: First Day Back On Shift

Chapter 28: You Learn Something New Everyday

Mini Chapter 28.5: Shut Up and Breathe

Chapter 29: Days In The Manor

Chapter 30: Made My Day

Chapter 31: Tomorrow is Another Day

Mini Chapter 31.5: Don't Worry Hun

Chapter 32: That'll Be The Day

Mini Chapter 32.5: I Had A Little Help

Chapter 33: For The Rest Of My Days 💖

Chapter 34: The Start Of A Beautiful Day

Chapter 35: Day Of Surprises

Chapter 36: Day After Day

Chapter 37: The Day I Found Home 💍

Chapter 38: Dreaming of Sunnier Days

Chapter 39: One Day At A Time

Chapter 40: Days Wrapped Up In Your Embrace...

Below are a few chapters following their lives after Chapter 40, exploring little snippets of their family life! 💖 (I just couldn't resist!)

Mini Chapter: Bring Your Daughter(s) To Work Day

Mini Chapter: Gentle Mornings

Some Mini Chapters Still Incoming. But Overall the Story is Complete!! 💖 THANK YOU TO EVERYONE FOR ENJOYING MY STORY!

Find my Main Masterlist Here

*I’ve left the reader’s age as vague, but as she is Bruce’s younger sister I’ve sort of written it in mind of being about early to mid 40s around about. While it is an x reader, using the last name Austen as a cover. (I promise there is a good reason for this) You can imagine her appearance however you wish, as an adopted or blood sister of Bruce. I’ve tried to keep any description as open for interpretation.

*I’m not basing the batfam off of one strict thing (but am using a fair few images from WFA just cause I like the consistency and their visual portrayal) 🤷‍♀️

(I've also posted this onto my ao3 under RedSakura101)

Likes, Comments and Reblogs are always welcomed and appreciated ♥️ and thank you to those enjoying my little fic! I am lowkey freaking out at how many people are reading and liking this 🥹

Feel free to let me know if you’d like to be tagged 😊

punksnotdeadbutiam

Absolute banger of a series— the DC X The Pitt crossover I desperately have been craving plus a side (main course?) of Michael Robinavitch 😼🙏

I felt like this evil fly meme every update

#the pitt x reader crossover #the pitt x wayne!reader #bruce wayne x sister!reader #batfam x reader crossover #batfam x reader #batfam x aunt!reader #michael robinavitch x reader #dr michael robinavitch #dr robby x reader #dc x reader

onlyasteelmancanbealover

wish granted

clark kent x fem!chubby!reader

18+ mdni, ao3 link

original asks <3

summary: by accident, you help clark slip on his old class ring– and slip into the skin of a man you’ve never met… but don’t hate.

word count: 6.1k

contains: fluff, angst & smut. redk!clark & farmboy clark, banter, drinking, nightclubbing. jealousy. reader gets groped by stranger, clark gets angry and mean because his baby feelings are hurt. *unprotected piv, slight exhibitionism, dirty talk (& use of slut as a petname), rough but consensual (bruising, drooling, etc). remorse & makeup. *no use of y/n

a/n: oh my god

————————————͙͘͡★———————————

You knew the ring was a bad idea because it was ugly, but you didn’t think it would crack tile or leave bruises. It was all an accident, really. A… very big accident.

It all started when you were going through Clark’s old boxes in the Kent Farm attic.

gragrace

Just Some Guy

Summary: In The Pitt, an ER admin worker becomes the only person unafraid to banter with the intimidating Dr. Jack Abbot. While the residents fear him, the reader treats him like a normal person — forcing him to eat, teasing him constantly, and becoming the quiet place he keeps returning to after brutal shifts.

Wc: 1.4k

Gender neutral, fluff, angst

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

The emergency department never really slept.

It only changed moods.

At three in the morning, the bright fluorescent lights of The Pitt’s ER took on a strange, exhausted haze — quieter than daytime chaos but somehow more unhinged. The waiting room television murmured lowly to itself. Someone was crying behind curtain seven. A monitor shrieked briefly before being silenced.

And at the admin desk, you were fighting for your life against the printer jam from hell.

“You hit it yet?”

Without looking up, you answered flatly, “Three times.”

“Try four.”

You finally looked over.

Dr. Jack Abbot stood on the opposite side of the desk with two residents trailing behind him like nervous ducklings. His scrub cap was shoved into one pocket, dark curls flattened from hours of wear. He looked exhausted enough to legally qualify as deceased.

“You know,” you said, “I usually charge for IT support.”

One resident looked horrified.

Jack looked vaguely amused.

“That explains why hospital administration never answers my emails.”

“That explains why nobody likes you.”

The younger resident made a tiny choking sound.

You ignored him and slammed the side of the printer again. It whirred violently back to life.

“There,” you announced. “Fixed.”

Jack stared at the machine.

“You literally assaulted it.”

“And yet unlike you, it responded well to constructive criticism.”

The resident beside him physically turned away to hide a smile.

Jack sighed through his nose, but you caught it — the smallest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

Progress.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said.

“Oh, deeply.”

“Good to know my suffering improves morale.”

“You being miserable is the closest thing this floor has to entertainment.”

One of the med students nearby dropped a clipboard.

Everyone looked at him.

“Sorry,” he squeaked.

Jack rubbed a hand down his face. “Can I get the trauma intake forms?”

“Can you say please?”

“No.”

“Then no.”

The silence that followed was catastrophic.

A nurse walking past slowed down.

The med student looked ready to witness your execution.

Jack stared at you for a long moment, visibly calculating whether homicide paperwork was worth the effort.

Then:

“…Please.”

You grinned triumphantly and handed him the forms.

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

The thing nobody understood about Jack Abbot was that he wasn’t actually intimidating all the time.

Only most of the time.

Yes, he barked orders during traumas. Yes, he could reduce residents to ash with one disappointed look. Yes, med students visibly scattered when he walked too fast down the hallway.

But underneath all that, there was just a man held together by caffeine, adrenaline, and spite.

You figured that out months ago.

Probably because you were one of the only people in the department who didn’t need anything from him.

You weren’t trying to impress him.

You weren’t terrified of him.

And unlike everyone else on the floor, your job did not depend on surviving his moods.

Which meant you treated him normally.

Or, as the residents called it: suicidally.

“You cannot keep calling him by his name,” one of them whispered to you later that week.

You blinked. “Why?”

“He’s an attending.”

“And?”

“And he’s—” the resident lowered her voice further, “—Dr. Abbot.”

You looked over at him across the ER.

Jack was currently arguing with radiology over the phone while drinking terrible coffee and glaring at a computer like it had insulted his family.

“He’s literally just some guy.”

The resident looked scandalized.

Unfortunately for her, Jack chose that exact moment to walk up behind you.

“Who’s just some guy?”

“You,” you answered immediately.

The resident nearly passed away on the spot.

Jack looked tired enough that he didn’t even react properly.

“Fantastic,” he deadpanned. “Years of medical training for that title.”

“I can make your badge say ‘some guy’ if you want.”

“I’d rather you fixed scheduling.”

“Let’s not ask for miracles.”

He leaned one forearm against the admin counter while you typed.

That had become another thing the staff noticed.

Hovering.

Jack Abbot hovered around your desk constantly now.

Not obviously.

Never enough to comment on.

But somehow he always ended up there between patients.

Leaning against the counter while reviewing charts.

Drinking coffee nearby.

Pretending to check emails while listening to your conversations with nurses.

Like the admin desk had become the only place in the ER where he could unclench for thirty seconds.

“You missed lunch again,” you said without looking up.

“I had trauma cases.”

“You’ve had trauma cases for nine hours.”

“That’s generally how emergency medicine works.”

You slid a granola bar across the desk.

He stared at it.

Then at you.

“You carry emergency snacks now?”

“You’re welcome.”

“You think I’m incapable of feeding myself?”

“I think if left unattended you’d dissolve into caffeine and resentment.”

A nurse snorted nearby.

Jack picked up the granola bar anyway.

Victory.

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

The bad night happened in late October.

Everyone remembered that shift afterward.

Multi-car pileup.

Three critical patients arriving simultaneously.

Not enough beds.

Not enough hands.

Not enough time.

The ER became chaos within minutes.

Phones rang endlessly.

Residents sprinted between rooms.

Blood streaked across tile floors.

Somebody yelled for respiratory.

And Jack—

Jack transformed.

Sharp.

Precise.

Terrifying.

He moved through the department like controlled destruction, issuing orders faster than anyone could process them.

“Get me another line in room four.”

“No, don’t wait on labs.”

“Page neuro again.”

“Move.”

Nobody hesitated.

Not even once.

You watched the entire thing from the admin desk while trying to keep incoming transfers organized and terrified family members from flooding the floor.

The atmosphere was brutal.

Tight.

Frantic.

One wrong move from collapse.

Then, somewhere around hour three, Jack snapped at a resident hard enough to make her eyes water.

“Think,” he barked. “I need you to think before you act.”

She swallowed hard and nodded quickly.

You saw the exact moment guilt hit him afterward.

Tiny.

Almost invisible.

But there.

By the end of the shift, everyone looked wrecked.

One patient coded.

Another crashed in CT.

A kid came in crying for his mother.

And when the adrenaline finally wore off sometime after two in the morning, the entire ER sagged under the weight of surviving it.

Jack disappeared into the staff hallway without a word.

You found him ten minutes later sitting alone on a supply room floor.

Not injured.

Not crying.

Just…empty.

His head rested against the wall, eyes closed, scrub top stained with someone else’s blood.

For a second, you considered leaving.

Then:

“You missed dinner too,” you said softly.

One eye opened.

“You tracking my meals now?”

“Somebody has to.”

“You’re annoying.”

“You say that like you don’t voluntarily stand at my desk for half your shift.”

His mouth twitched faintly.

You sat beside him on the floor.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

The muffled sounds of the ER carried through the walls — distant monitors, rolling carts, overhead pages.

Finally, Jack exhaled slowly.

“I hate nights like this.”

It was the first honest thing he’d ever said to you without sarcasm wrapped around it.

“You still saved people.”

“Not all of them.”

You looked at him then.

Really looked.

At the exhaustion carved into his face.

At the dark circles under his eyes.

At the weight he carried every single shift whether anyone noticed or not.

“You know,” you said quietly, “the residents are terrified of you.”

“That’s healthy.”

“But they also trust you.”

He didn’t answer.

“You make impossible decisions all night long,” you continued. “You hold this entire place together with caffeine and anger issues.”

“I don’t have anger issues.”

You gave him a look.

“…Severe anger issues,” he corrected.

“There it is.”

That earned a tired laugh.

You felt strangely proud of it.

Jack turned his head slightly toward you.

“You’re not scared of me at all, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

You shrugged.

“Because somebody around here has to remind you you’re human.”

Something in his expression shifted then.

The kind of look that suddenly made the tiny supply closet feel too small.

Your heartbeat stumbled embarrassingly hard.

Jack noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He was an ER doctor.

“You should go home,” he said quietly.

“Probably.”

Neither of you moved.

Then overhead paging shattered the moment.

“Dr. Abbot to trauma two. Dr. Abbot to trauma two.”

He closed his eyes briefly like the universe specifically hated him.

“Duty calls, some guy,” you murmured.

That got another laugh out of him.

Jack pushed himself to his feet, offering you a hand automatically.

You took it.

His grip was warm and steady despite the exhaustion.

For one second neither of you let go.

Then someone shouted his name again from down the hallway.

And just like that, the spell broke.

But as Jack turned to leave, he glanced back once.

“You know,” he said, “you’re the only person here who talks to me like this.”

You smiled lazily.

“Yeah. That’s why you keep coming back.”

⊹˚₊‧───────────‧₊˚⊹

An: Having glass of wine smiling stupidly while writing this. Hope you enjoyed, thanks for reading.

Mwah x

fromrory

𐔌 ⋮ ''Can I have...''

''Dami,love, can I have...'' ''COULD YOU STOP DOING THAT FOR GODSAKE!?'' feat. d.wayne x fem!reader wc:1171

✶— Masterlist

“This is the last time I let Tim surprise me with restaurant ideas.”

Across from me, Damian Wayne looked personally betrayed by the existence of the menu.

To be fair—the menu was insane.

Everything had unnecessary adjectives.

“Deconstructed truffle air.”

“Emotionally evocative risotto.”

“Seasonal foam.”

What season? What foam?

“This place serves sparkling water in wine glasses,” Damian muttered, glaring at the table like it had insulted his bloodline. “That is pretentious.”

“You own a sword collection.”

“That is unrelated.”

I bit back a smile and flipped another page.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “They have squid ink pasta.”

“That should remain in the squid.”

Before I could answer, the waiter approached.

Young. Polite. Slightly nervous in the way waiters always became around Damian’s resting expression.

“Good evening! Have you two decided?”

And suddenly—

An idea.

Terrible.

Beautiful.

Instantly, I straightened slightly and looked at Damian with carefully manufactured hesitation.

“…Can I have the ravioli?”

There was a pause.

Damian blinked once.

Slowly.

“…What.”

The waiter looked between us.

I lowered my eyes slightly, giving the performance of my life.

“The truffle ravioli,” I clarified softly. “It sounded good, but…”

“But what,” Damian asked cautiously.

I glanced at the waiter.

Then back at him.

“…Is that okay?”

Silence.

Immediate.

Violent.

I watched the exact moment Damian’s soul left his body.

The waiter’s expression shifted almost imperceptibly.

“Oh,” they said slowly. “Um… yeah. Of course you can.”

Damian sat up straighter.

“Yes,” he said immediately. “Obviously she can.”

I looked uncertain.

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t get upset?”

His eyes widened just slightly.

“I have never been upset over ravioli.”

The waiter was now staring at him with the subtle concern usually reserved for men who punch drywall.

“I’ll just give you guys another minute,” they said carefully.

“No,” Damian said instantly. “There is no need for—”

Too late.

The waiter fled.

I took a sip of water to hide my grin.

Across from me, Damian turned with terrifying slowness.

“…Explain yourself.”

“I asked about ravioli.”

“You implied I am controlling your dietary choices.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You asked permission.”

“I was being considerate.”

“That was not consideration. That was psychological warfare.”

I gasped softly. “Wow. That’s kind of a strong reaction.”

His eyes narrowed.

“You are enjoying this.”

“A little.”

“A little,” he repeated flatly.

“A medium amount.”

“Habibti.”

I smiled sweetly.

He immediately looked more suspicious.

“You have that expression.”

“What expression?”

“The one you wear before creating problems.”

“That’s hurtful.”

“It is accurate.”

Before I could respond, the waiter returned with bread.

Poor soul.

“Are we ready now?”

I nodded immediately.

“Yes! I’ll have the truffle ravioli…” Then, quieter: “…if that’s alright.”

The waiter froze.

Damian looked moments away from developing a stress-induced migraine.

“It is,” he said tightly.

I hesitated.

“Because I can get something cheaper.”

The waiter’s eyes snapped to him.

Damian stared at me in genuine disbelief.

“I am not restricting your financial autonomy.”

“Oh,” I said softly.

The waiter blinked.

“Oh my god,” Damian muttered under his breath.

“I’ll have the steak,” he said quickly, trying to salvage this. “And she will have the ravioli she independently selected using her own free will.”

The waiter scribbled that down with the careful energy of someone documenting evidence for court.

“Great,” they said weakly.

Then—to me specifically:

“And if you need anything, just let me know.”

Damian closed his eyes.

The waiter left.

I lasted exactly three seconds before bursting into laughter.

Not cute giggles.

Actual, painful laughter that made me fold over the table.

“Oh my god,” I wheezed. “Your face.”

Damian looked deeply betrayed.

“You are attempting to publicly defame me.”

“You looked HORRIFIED.”

“Because you were behaving bizarrely!”

I wiped tears from my eyes.

“You got so defensive.”

“Because now that waiter believes I monitor your spending and food intake like a controlling psychopath.”

I tilted my head innocently.

“Do you?”

“No.”

“You hesitated.”

“I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

“I paused because your behavior was irrational.”

“Mm. Sounds controlling.”

He stared at me.

Long.

Hard.

“You are a menace.”

“You love me.”

“That is unfortunately true.”

I grinned victoriously and reached for the bread basket.

Damian watched me carefully now.

Suspiciously.

Like a man diffusing a bomb.

I waited until I picked up a breadstick.

Then quietly:

“…Can I eat this?”

He actually looked offended.

“Habibti.”

“What?”

“You are not a hostage.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I am literally sitting here.”

“Exactly. Surveillance.”

His jaw twitched.

I saw it.

The twitch meant I was winning.

“You are deriving far too much amusement from this.”

“You’re so easy to fluster.”

“I am not flustered.”

At that exact moment, the waiter walked by again.

And I looked at Damian nervously.

“…I’m still kind of hungry.”

Damian inhaled sharply.

“You may consume as much bread as you desire.”

The waiter slowed down.

“Oh my god,” Damian whispered.

I bit the inside of my cheek so hard trying not to laugh.

“Really?” I asked softly.

“Yes.”

“Even two?”

“Yes, even two.”

The waiter looked one second away from sliding me a domestic violence hotline number.

“I hate you,” Damian muttered.

“No you don’t.”

“No,” he admitted grimly. “I do not.”

The food arrived a few minutes later.

The waiter placed my ravioli down with the gentleness of someone handling a rescue animal.

“There you go,” they said kindly.

I looked down at the plate.

Then at Damian.

His eyes widened immediately.

“No.”

“…Can I put parmesan on it?”

“YES.”

The waiter jumped.

A nearby couple looked over.

Damian visibly recalibrated himself.

“You can put as much parmesan as you wish,” he said in a terrifyingly calm voice.

“Okay,” I whispered.

The waiter looked at him like he belonged on a true crime documentary.

The second they left, Damian dropped his forehead into his hand.

“You are enjoying my suffering.”

“A lot.”

“You are evil.”

“I’m literally just a girl.”

“You are a tactical threat.”

I leaned forward conspiratorially.

“You know what the funniest part is?”

“There are multiple parts?”

“The waiter definitely thinks you’re some terrifying billionaire boyfriend who controls my every move.”

“…I am aware.”

“And you keep making it worse.”

“I am attempting damage control.”

“You shouted about parmesan.”

“Because you asked permission to use cheese!”

I dissolved into laughter again.

He stared at me for another long moment before finally—finally—something in his expression softened.

Tiny.

Barely there.

But real.

“You’re ridiculous,” he said quietly.

I grinned. “And you’re panicking.”

“I am adapting.”

“You looked like you were about to call your lawyer.”

“I was considering legal action against you.”

“That’s love.”

“That is harassment.”

I reached across the table and hooked my foot against his ankle under it.

His expression softened again despite himself.

Traitor.

“You know,” I said, smiling, “you’re kinda cute when you’re stressed.”

“I was not stressed.”

“The eye twitch says otherwise.”

“My eye did not twitch.”

“It did.”

“It did not.”

I leaned back smugly.

“Can I have dessert?”

Damian pointed at me slowly.

“Do not start.”

A/N: i want raviolis so bad

🔖 𓂃⋆.˚:: @simpingmyassoff @shootingstargirl2001 , @dreamerwhofell , @gothamwing , @amiratheangel , @virtaideen , @asterwriter221 , @1234ilikecowsthanyoumore , @supahnohvaa , @vivian-555 , @piatosniathenie , @sonyboos , @beanxiv , @animegamerfox , @desertwhisperer , @kh4dij7 , @rivv11 ,

(if you want to be added comment down below!!)

leesparksup

Don't Let Abbot Ruin You For Other Men

pairing: dr jack abbot x plus-size! santos' sister! reader

summary: pt 2 of don't ever let abbot think he's cool. the highly anticipated date <3

word count: 11 k ⚕♡

warning: SMUT-also a good amount of fluff but-SMUT. 18 + only, minors do not interact

a/n: guysss it's here!!! thank you all so much for the likes and the lovely comments and reblogs for pt 1, it means the world to me knowing y'all enjoyed it

part 1, part 2, part 3

ﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـ

At this rate, you would be going on your date in a robe with a towel on your head. Stubbornly, you were so sure that if you just stared at your closet for a bit longer, the answer would magically appear.

“You’re seriously overthinking this right now,” Trinity remarked from behind you. She had been lounging sideways on your bed for the last hour, silently judging. Well, not exactly silent, she’s taken to likening you to an anxious tornado bouncing back and forth between the closet and dresser, leaving destruction in your wake. If she had known you’d be panicking this much, she would have never ‘nudged’ Abbot yesterday.

•18+ Adults Only

Watch Anya Live on Cam

Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.

✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions

Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming

leesparksup

Don't Ever Let Abbot Think He's Cool

pairing: jack abbot x plus-size! santos' sister! reader

summary: trinity is in the middle of a double and is desperate enough to have her sister show up at her job to bring her food. (takes place between seasons 1 & 2)

word count: 5.1 k ⚕♡

warning: y'all this one got away from me, it was just supposed to be a cute abbot x reader but sibling angst got mixed in and now we have this. reader is 12 years older than trinity so age gap, no smut just fluff and angst but if y'all like it than there may be some more in the future!

PART 2 HERE

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You couldn’t be prouder of your baby sister. But if you were to ever tell her that to her face, she would probably punch you. The past week has been an inescapable nightmare for her; they were down a few staff members, which had her picking up the slack for the next month while replacements were found. That’s how you found yourself at the farthest entry of the ambulance bay, balancing a tray half-filled with two different types of lumpia and okoy, there was some chicken mixed in there as well.

“Dude, what the hell are you doing back there?” You looked towards the sliding doors and saw Trinity calling out to you.

“It didn’t feel right going all the way down!” It honestly felt wrong to even be this close to the hospital without going through the front entrance.

She waved her arms like she was directing air traffic. “Hurry up and get down here, I’m starving!” No way in hell were you running, you were carrying precious cargo, but you did pick up the pace for her sake. “What took you so long?”

You held up the tray, “Uh, I was finishing up the food.” The aluminum pan was handed over, and she almost dropped it from the unexpected weight.

#trinity does give off evil little sibling vibes #absolutely adore this fic #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #jack abbot x plus size reader #the pitt fanfiction #jack abbot fanfiction #plus size reader #shawn hatosy #jack abbot fluff #x reader #chubby reader #fat reader #x plus size reader

onlyasteelmancanbealover

puppy needs sleep

clark kent x fem!chubby!reader

18+ mdni

original asks <3

summary: with your recent stress levels, you haven’t been sleeping much. this is a problem, because if you don’t rest, clark doesn’t rest. put it this way: without you, clark is as helpless as a puppy. a puppy who needs his toy back.

word count: 2.2k

contains: fluff & smut. reader works at the daily planet, clark is literally a human dog. softdom!clark, slightly condescending but full of praise, smothering with love, somewhat bratty!clark also. reader has a tease streak (hot). *clitstim f!receiving, excessive use of pet names. *no use of y/n

a/n: never go to college if you want to write again (kidding, go to college if you want). sorry for being so slow with my updates. more to come, promise. enjoy this half-toothrot half-smut mishmash of requests- thank you requesters for the love. :D

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Clark couldn’t sleep without you. This was entirely your fault, obviously.

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