#dc drabbles

BRUCE WAYNE ─── PROUD PURSE CARRIER !

!! Bruce Wayne, billionaire of Gotham City with an aura of intimidation no one can compete with, will absolutely hold your clutch. Whether it's for a brief moment while you adjust your heels, or if he's left to hold it for the entire shopping trip.. he will do it like it's a priceless artifact. One hand tucked into his pocket, the other gripping your small beaded bag that he treated you to for your birthday. His face entirely serious and normal, acting as if it's not a big deal because to him? It isn't. One time, you left a charity event with baby Damian tucked against your hip, one hand securing him and the other shielding his face from the cameras. Two busy hands meant that Bruce took responsibility for your pearly bag, holding it on his shoulder with his other hand on the small of your back while the cameras snapped pictures. That night, after the manor went quiet, you showed your husband the screen of your phone while biting back a cheeky smile.

"Bruce Wayne, a man among the wealthiest in the world, seen carrying a pink, pearled bag monday night."

To which, he raised an eyebrow and simply shrugged, "It matches my suit, what can I say."

CLARK KENT ─── REMEMBERS THE LITTLE THINGS !

!! You once mentioned, very casually in passing, that you loved the smell of Cat's perfume. Two days later, you returned to your shared apartment with the weight of the world on your shoulders, and once you trudged into the kitchen to get a drink, something caught your eye. On the counter sat a light yellow box, with a delicate bow and a note tucked into it. "Love you <3 - Clark" And inside the box, was the perfume that you hadn't even known the name of in it's glossy bottle with a flower cap.

One night, while you and Clark were just a mess of tangled limbs and warmth, your eyes were fixated on the flashing TV screen. "I've always wanted to see a meteor shower." You hummed as the stars lit up in the movie. Then, weeks later, and after a lot of research and tracking, Clark invited you out to the rooftop of your building, where a blanket laid with binoculars and snacks. And when you stared at him in surprise, he just smiled shyly.

"I have good hearing, what can I say" He muttered sheepishly, like it has nothing to do with the fact that he listens to you like your words are the most important sound in the world

HAL JORDAN ─── WILL LOOK RIDICULOUS FOR YOU !

!! Hal will happily wear the ugly matching sweaters that you wanted to wear to your office christmas party. In fact, he'll own it. He will pull up after a Justice League meeting, with a reindeer headband in his hair, and the light-up snowman sweater shining like a damn lighthouse. He'll do all of that just so he can cherish that quick moment of your big, ear-to-ear smile when you see him in the lobby.

You asked him, only a few months into dating, if you could paint his nails with this new color changing polish you found. He didn't ask why, he just grinned and held out his hands. You, expecting him to decline like you assumed most men would, couldn't help the way your face lit up at the sight. And he couldn't help the lazy smile that came to his face when he watched you practically run to go get the polish, and that smile didn't disappear the entire time you were sitting on his lap painting his nails.

HARVEY DENT ─── DOESN'T FLINCH FOR HIS PHONE !

!! Surprisingly, 'two face' has nothing to hide on his phone. Unlike some men you've dated, he has never once flinched for his phone when you reach for it. On a night out, your phone had died (which he had warned you about when you left with only 15%) and despite assuming you'd be fine without it, the two of you ended up passing what you deemed 'the perfect backdrop.' After quickly reaching for your own phone, only to be met by the depleted battery, you gave your boyfriend the sweetest smile you could muster before slipping your hand in his pocket. He didn't even bat an eye, and simply texted the pictures you took to you after you were done.

The most shocking time, however, was when the two of you were at some dinner with some client whose name you didn't remember. You were speaking to the man, making polite small talk, when favorite vacation destinations came up in conversation. You quickly asked Harvey to unlock his phone, which he obliged, and you scrolled through his photos to find the pictures from your trip to Italy.

Harvey may be a sneaky man in some people's eyes, but his phone has nothing to hide.

You're sitting up in bed, shoulders hunched over your head, shivering despite the July heat. Tears run down your face, pupils blown wide and shaking fingers roughly thread through your hair, pulling at the roots while you mumble something he can't hear.

Immediately, Dick comes into your space. First, he carefully takes your hands away from your head, then he forces you to look at him rather than your locked knees.

You're shaken to the core, downright hysterical, and Dick's brain scrambles to think of all the psychological tricks and techniques he's learned.

"You're okay, you're safe. I'm here, I never left", he rambles fast, but each word is punctuated with factual emphasis. The hazy look in your eyes scares him so bad that he starts to repeat himself louder with an occasional squeeze to your shoulders.

As you whimper, he feels bad for using so much force, but he shoves the regret away when you finally look at him with recognition in your expression.

"Dick?", you call out, voice small and lips trembling.

His hand brushes the stray, messy hair from your face, and presses a chaste kiss on your wet cheek. The tears don't stop.

"It's me. I never left, baby".

Your face crumbles with relief, but your shoulders shake, and a cry escapes you. Dick pulls you in, nestles your crying self into his warmth, forcing your senses to feel him, understand that whatever you saw can't hurt you anymore.

Dick's big arms wrap around your body, and you bury your face deeper into his neck. His shirt is wet, but he couldn't care less. He starts to rub your back with firm and quick strokes, gently hushing your cries. He presses his nose into your hair, kissing wherever he can.

"We're safe. We're safe", he whispers and feels you nod.

"I won't let anything or anyone hurt you", he promises.

🦇 Cassandra Cain:

Fluorescent lights pierce her eyes, and she squints to force the harshness away. Cass studies your face for discomfort, and it's glaringly evident. Your brows are furrowed, lip caught between your teeth. A telltale sign that you're seconds away from crying.

Cass shifts her chair closer, and it squeaks in the small room. Your eyes flicker to the movement. She offers a small smile, "Sorry, Love".

You take in a deep breath, settling your nerves, then look ahead at the wall, ignoring the nurse prepping next to you.

"I'm okay", you lie confidently.

The nurse rips open a packet, and you respond with an aggressive flinch. Cass looks at you tenderly, softness in her brown eyes. Her right arm wraps around your shoulders, fingers press into the fabric of your rolled-up sweater.

"You're great", Cass says, and the nurse nods, agreeing with her, "so brave".

You feel pathetic, somehow worse than a child. At least children have reasons to be afraid of needles and hospitals. You're a grown woman with Batgirl comforting you. There are pros, though, like her reassuring touches and whispers of praise, but it doesn't matter when violence, knives and blood are daily work for her. She's used to so much more; your behaviour should annoy her. Yet, she gazes at you like you're the strongest person she knows.

The numbness of an alcohol pad brings you back into your awful reality, and you have to quickly blink tears blurring your vision. The nurse and the colours of her light blue uniform blend and clear with each blink.

When the familiar needle comes into view, you whimper, eyes immediately squeeze shut. Your grip on Cass's hands turns white, and she presses back even harder. The prick would have you jumping from your skin if it wasn't for Cass's rigid arm weight on you.

Silent tears drop and trail on your cheeks, and Cass feels her heart pull. "A few more minutes".

You nod, biting your lip hard enough to bleed. Cass tsks lowly and moves the hand that's enclosed in yours onto her lap.

After what feels like forever, the nurse speaks up. "Got it. I think one sample will be enough. Good job". She ignores the snot and tears on your face, and you pray she gets a bonus soon. After discarding the trash and packing up, she leaves you two alone to finalise the papers.

Cass gazes at you with so much love it hurts to look at her. Her face crinkles with joy, and she brushes hair off your forehead, then plucks out a tissue to wipe your face with careful hands.

"Proud of you. We did it".

You choke out a soft, muddled laugh.

🦇 Jason Todd:

When he finally returns home, the house is draped in darkness. Blindly, he traces his usual steps, discarding the helmet in the locked drawer and throwing his jacket where the sofa-probably-is. He's just relieved to call it a night and wrap his arms around your body.

Though Jason slides under the covers and senses immediately that something is wrong. Your frame is curled into itself, as if you're trying to swallow yourself whole. The room is deathly silent and cold, Jason feels the chill in his bones, and it worsens when he realises how the comforter on your shoulders shakes.

You're so entrapped in your bubble that a gasp escapes you as Jason's hand trails over your shoulder. The flinch does not go unnoticed by him; his lips pull into a taunt line. He's never seen you cry before; now he understands why.

Glossy eyes stare at him, wide with worry and what he places as anxiety. One of your hands is wrapped around your stomach, and the other is outstretched, as if an instinct calls to touch him, but you're afraid to follow through.

Jason's body finds yours, his long fingers slip into your palm easily, and he pretends he doesn't hear your hitched breath.

"You're home early", you whisper and take in his expression. He seems real, not a mirage. Your Jason leans closer to you, inch by inch. The blend of green and blue in his eyes grounds you; never break contact.

His soft voice is raspy, "Yeah". His thumb trails a stray tear on your cheek, tenderly grasping the curve of your cheek.

"You're not alone. I'm here". With each promise, he comes closer and closer, bodies tangling until they appear as one. "You don't have to cry alone. I want to see all of you". Jason's never been more intimate about his thoughts.

Fresh tears fall without warning, and despite the burden being stripped away, your chest heaves and shoulders tremble with an onslaught of emotions.

Jason moves to bury your face into his chest and rests his hand at the back of your neck. His chest vibrates with warmth when he speaks.

"You're not alone anymore. I'll carry it with you".

🦇 Stephanie Brown:

"It's so bad, Steph," you cry out, hands splayed over your scribbled notes, "I don't know what I'm doing anymore".

She stands next to your study chair, her blonde hair is dark in the warm lighting of your room. Her glossy lips are pulled into a thin line.

"How long have you been up?" she asks quietly, unwilling to break the thinning peace of your room.

You glance at the clock, and it's almost midnight. 5 hours. You've been at the same equation for 5 hours that could have been spent somewhere productive; you could have finished the chapter. If only you could understand it. You take a shaky breath, at the edge of sanity, head thundering and eyes turning watery after hours of dryness.

Your silence is enough to answer her question. Stephanie moves behind your chair and leans over you to stack up the scattered notes, books and papers.

"Stop that!" you croak out, but there's no real fire. Somehow, you're relieved at her intervention, but the underlying tension doesn't leave. A voice in your mind calls out to you.

Stephanie could have answered the questions with ease. You're too stupid for her.

A muffled sob escapes you, and you bury your face in your hands in embarrassment.

"Hey, hey, now," Stephanie calls out as if she's tending to a scared animal, hands massaging your shoulders, and she's all up in your space. You can smell the citrus of her perfume through your soon-to-clog nose.

"You've been at it since I left for class. Didn't take any break either". Her voice is so gentle, like dew on a leaf; it hums louder than your wracked sobs. She places her hands on your collarbone, pressing your body into her chest. As she looks down at you, her hair pools in your vision, and all you can see is her.

A slight twist in her expression, the pink tint of her lipgloss, worry clear in her crystal eyes that never leave yours. You inhale deeply, giving yourself a moment to actually breathe through the tears, then swallow deeply, trying to regain yourself.

She never lets go, and you never stop staring.

Stephanie's fingers play with your hair, nails scrape your scalp, and you don't even realise she's already shifted her body, angling both of you in the direction of the bed. "Do you wanna take a break?"

You glance at the table, notes stare back at you.

Stephanie catches the movement. "I can nap with you". You nod and slowly get up.

She quickly grasps your hand, giving you a wink.

"We're having ice cream when we wake up".

🦇 Tim Drake:

Tim, or rather Red Robin, has never seen you without your mask. He knows Batgirl has, but that's different. Usually, you're more protective of your civilian identity than Batman himself, but right now, there is no other option than revealing the face underneath. 

"I need to take it off", he grumbles and tries to yank his wrists free from your grip on him. 

You push him backwards, but the action presses on your bleeding wound on your stomach, and you cough, the taste of iron fills your mouth. It's bad. It's never this bad. You blame your temporary partner and glare at him, though it's useless because he can't see your expressions. You chose a full cover mask to match the theme of your suit, but it's not similar to the Robins. A red mask covers your entire face with black lines that accentuate it to match your suit and shadowed holes for sight.

"Easy for you to say when you're not the one stripping", you wheeze. "Pervert".

The white blanks of his mask squint as he sneers at you. "Don't be disgusting. I need to assess your state, and unfortunately, your eyes would tell me a lot about your concussion". 

He snaps your loosening grip off to press against the makeshift gauze as red bleeds through. He had torn a section of his cape to wrap around you; it's oddly intimate. You ignore the thought.

You tsk at him wordlessly. There's blood dripping from your forehead, baby hairs cling desperately to your skin, but it's not about privacy anymore. You, unfortunately, trust Red Robin with your life. 

But if he sees the steady stream of tears cascading down your face, he's never going to let it go, and there are only a few bruises your ego can bear.

His gloved hand trails behind your head, scanning for bumps and the buckle of your mask. You can hear static erupting from his ear-com, but he ignores it. 

One final attempt claws at you, and you gather your bearings to speak up, but it hurts so much. You end up wheezing out a small, "Please".

His touch pauses, his own mask creases with how hard he frowns. Then he whispers, and your heart breaks.

"I'm sorry".

Your mask falls slack on your lap, and slowly your eyes come up to look at him, for the first time. Tim feels his breath hitch, and you wait for the laughter. A snicker or a wink of a smile. 

"Oh", he says softly. 

He pulls back his hand to press at his ear, "Oracle, back up stat". Then, he leans closer to you, sees his reflection in your wet eyes. 

You sniff and turn away.

"Hey, it's okay. You fell from a whole building. I'd be sobbing too", he comforts.

"I'm just crying", you wail out through your choked sobs. He puts his hands up in surrender. 

Then one hand slides into yours, and you squeeze it. He settles next to you, and you exploit it by shifting your weight on him, head pressed against his shoulder, and sigh softly. The pain feels less intense with his stable demeanour by your side.

You feel vibrations as he speaks.

"I still have to check for ya know".

"Shut up for now".

🦇 Damian Wayne:

When he sees tears slipping from your eyes, he's not sure of what to do, but he knows it's imperative to do something. Anything that would soothe the frown on your face.

His hand trails across the bed and slips into yours, interwining the fingers, then squeezing them to urge you to speak between the hiccups.

"It doesn't make sense", you speak softly, choking back on tears, "I never told you because you won't understand".

The confession makes your chest ache and forces a shuddering cough out of you.

Damian moves closer and ignores how much your words hurt. It's his fault for not disclosing his past to you. He thought he was protecting you from his familial trauma, unaware that you were suffering through something similar.

The bed creaks as his face leans towards yours. His dark hair brushes against your forehead, and you can't find the strength to look into those honest eyes.

Damian has never felt more useless.

He pulls back slightly to place a tender kiss on your forehead, and his free hand reaches upwards to caress under your eyes.

"Help me understand", he pleads, voice rough with longing.

His green eyes never leave you; they scan your rapidly shifting expressions and the shake in your shoulders.

"Take a deep breath", Damian urges. Slowly, he inhales deeply and exhales. You force yourself to mimic his movements, and he continues the action for several minutes until the hiccups and shaking cease.

His warm thumb rubs your palm, grounding you in the moment, and your head falls onto his shoulder.

"She's so awful, Dami", you whimper.

Damian shifts to accommodate you and pulls you closer so you can properly nestle into his neck, and he places a chaste kiss on your satly cheek.

"Mothers are often...", he trails off, attempting to search for an appropriate word, "difficult to understand. Their actions are fiercely unpredictable, even if they come out of affection, we struggle to see how they reflect it".

He feels you nod based on your movement and sighs at how you're finally reacting and speaking up. If he has to reveal his past to console you, so be it. Damian realises that to be a part of your world, he has to share his with you.

"I'm here, Love. Let me in".

Clark Kent? The man who always seemed to make his way over to your desk in need of something throughout the day. His hair always curled perfectly, he’d flash a kind smile while asking yet another favor- “You know best.” became his catch phrase. He was clumsy, spilling coffee on your desk or his clothes, tripping, or breaking your stapler somehow.

It was so easy to hate him. Yet, everyone in the office seemed to like him in a way. But they didn’t have him interrupting their work about every five minutes. But somehow this guy had so many interviews with Superman? So you rolled your eyes and threw some backhanded insults but tried not to get to round up. You had work to do—he had work to do. You had to be professional, couldn’t just hide his glasses and hope he falls down the staircase. 

Not only does Clark Kent have a thing for you. Your pointed glare or how his name sounds from your frowning lips. He was incredibly in love you with, it was sick and twisted. He liked the attention even when you hated his guts. Sure, you hated most everyone in the place but you gave him special treatment.

But Superman watched you.

Clark talked, he annoyed and was playful because you were near. You had to be here, he had to be there, so he made sure to get his fill. But Superman watched and wait. He stalked you like prey.

Every night he’d watch from the shadows while you walk from place to place, he watched in your apartment— he looked through buildings just to make sure you were safe. He kept track of everything. How each time you go to the store you take a route only you could follow, how you pick each outfit on how you feel that day, well thought out or whatever is clean. Watched the shows through your widow and how’d you react just to have conversations the next day.

And Clark noticed you didn’t want Superman. You did swoon over him, didn’t gawk at the screen in the office or even praise him once. It was like you only cared about Superman for the papers, like he was just another person to annoy you.

“Superman, huh?” He raised an eyebrow at you while you make the title bigger on your screen. “Big fan?” He teased knowing you’d scruff at his remark.

“Sure.” You replied. Never stopped working at your title page to look up at him. Never seeing his puppy eyes.

“Seriously, what’s your deal? I mean do you hate him or something. You can tell me, we aren’t besties dispute what you might have heard.”

“He saves the city. I respect his commitment, but he fails, doesn’t mean I hate or love him,” you lean back and print out the first hard copy to examine it, “I don’t know him personally. I just write what I see or hear, he doesn’t need my permission or attention.” You finally look up and point at the fans screaming on the big tv.

“He has enough support as it. He’s just another guy.”

Maybe it’s time to introduce you to Superman? Yeah, it’s him but it feels different. He could make you see just how important you opinion is— how much you mean to him. Maybe he could show you the pictures he has of you and the notes, like you do him!

“It’s everyone else I don’t trust,” Tim grumbled. Why would he? Tim knew he was punching well above his weight when you had somehow agreed to go on a date with him. When that one date had turned into many more over the following months, Tim felt like the luckiest guy alive. He still did. You were, without a doubt, the greatest thing to ever happen to him. 

You’d never cheat on him; he trusted you implicitly, but that didn’t mean he had to like the way Garth was looking at you. 

Bart tries to hide an amused snort at Tim’s behaviour, and it's his final straw. He stands, the chair scraping obnoxiously against the floor as he rapidly closes the distance. You hear his approach, turning to smile at him, only to gasp when he slips a firm hand around your waist as he pulls you in and kisses you.

His free hand cups your face gently, directly opposing how he kisses you: hard, passionate, possessive.  

You gasped against his mouth, surprised, but a second later, you melted into him, your fingers curling into the fabric of his hero suit. Your conversation with Garth is long forgotten, the world narrowing down to your boyfriend’s lips on yours and his strong hands gripping you tightly. 

Tim rarely does this—rarely lets his emotions leak through the cracks. But the kiss he presses to your mouth is anything but careful. It’s intense, searing, like he needs to remind you, and everyone else watching, that you’re his. 

You feel his fingers tighten slightly at your waist, not enough to hurt, just enough to anchor you. To claim you as his for the audience watching, whom you can’t find it in yourself to care about.

Garth clears his throat awkwardly from a few feet away, but Tim doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t break the kiss until he absolutely has to, and even then, he leans in just enough that his forehead rests against yours, his breath brushing your lips.

“You okay?” you whisper in amusement, eyes searching his as you try to distinguish what brought on this sudden behaviour.

“I’m fine,” he replies, voice low and a little hoarse. “Just... didn’t like the way he was looking at you.”

You glance past him at Bart, who is poorly disguising his laughter behind a hand. “He wasn’t the only one looking,” you murmur teasingly.

Tim groans softly, but the corner of his mouth quirks. “I’m not sorry.”

You reach up and toy with his collar. “Good. I kinda liked it.”

Methodically, you start scrubbing away traces of scrambled eggs and ketchup from the porcelain. 

You sigh softly, “And it’s just… like, I don’t understand why he feels he should paint over something so bright and fun like that—maybe I’m just sentimental to the blue—but to paint it such a dull colour, oh!”

Your arm drops, sponge and plate stilling mid-scrub. “Did I mention he’s painting it red? But like, a really dull red, almost brown—” 

“You told me that already,” is Jason’s monotonous reply.  

You suck in a sharp inhale, head snapping to the side. Jason heaves out a breath, seafoam gaze still stuck on his phone with a certain weariness—the kind that seems indirectly aimed at you. You watch with hurt sliding between your ribs like a knife as Jason brings a hand to roughly rub at his jaw, settling there like an act of repressed agitation. 

“Oh, okay,” you murmur, head dipping back to the milky water lapping at your hands. A burn settles inside your throat, something akin to shame trapezing over your head.

I really need to stop rambling so much. He’s probably tired. 

You don’t usually reign yourself in when it comes down to talking, not unless you’re speaking to people you don’t know on a personal or intimate level—but Jason are those things and more. Sometimes it feels like you know each other like the moon knows the stars, or the tides know the shore. You are so fundamentally connected to each other that it doesn’t occur to you to hold yourself back.

I should, you scold mentally, hands going through the motion of cleaning the dishes. You’re so focused on how you rotate the sponge around the rim of the plate and the way a painful weight is beginning to sit on your chest, that you don’t notice in your peripheral how Jason’s lifted his head from his phone, creased eyes combing across the side of your face.

“Doll?” Jason’s voice cuts through the static that’s enveloped you, and you can’t bring yourself to look at him, afraid that you’ll find confirmation for what you think is true. 

You hum in a small acknowledgement. 

Silence only greets you, and the weight of it is even more stifling than your critical scolding. Hesitantly, you glance to your right. 

Jason watches you with thinly-veiled confusion, brows pinched tightly as he watches the way your lips thin, jaw going tight. He quickly shoves his phone into the pocket of his sweatpants, arms crossing over his chest.

He says your name, “... what’s wrong?” 

You avert your gaze—not doe-like or timidly, but out of a necessary need to grovel in your embarrassment without it showing. Eyes are the windows to the soul, are they not?

“Nothing,” you answer dismissively.

A drawn out pause stretches between the two of you, slow and heavy like syrup, but like anything too sweet, it leaves behind a burn that continues to grow hotter inside your throat. You don’t catch the way Jason’s face splits open with realisation, brows lifting and eyelids pulling back before sliding shut again in regret. 

“No, no,” Jason sighs, shaking his head while pushing himself away from the counter. You watch with parted lips as he snatches the drying-towel hanging over the oven’s handle, sliding up to you. His skin pulses heat from his recent shower, and you lose all the breath in your lungs as Jason pulls your hands from the sink and swaddles them in the drying-cloth, dabbing away the wetness.

“Don’t do that,” Jason murmurs, and this time you’re the one frowning. Confused, you let Jason pat your hands dry completely before guiding you away from the sink, the drying-cloth discarded onto the counter. “Don’t go quiet on me like that.”

You swallow hard, “I didn’t—”

“Nuh-uh,” Jason tuts sharply, shaking his head. His eyes hold yours insistently, before they soften like molten lead. “You went quiet on me. What’s wrong?” 

You don’t want to meet his gaze, but you sag under his touch like you always do, neck craned to look up at him.

“I was talking too much… wasn’t I?” you say it softly, and Jason’s shoulders lose their tension, dropping like weights.

“No—Doll,” he tilts his head down, eyes the colour of blue-tinted glass pinning you in place. “You were not talking too much, you never do—” 

“You seemed annoyed,” you interject, weakly gesturing to him, as if to convey that his entire being had screamed it to you. 

“Not at you,” Jason corrects immediately, and his fingers wrap gently around your wrists. “Tim was being a little b—” 

You give him a pointed look, and Jason’s words still on his tongue.  

“... a little infuriating. He was being cryptic and vague over text, holding this stupid case over me. He’s trying to be funny and it was getting on my nerves. I was not upset at you. I promise.” 

You draw in a deep breath through your nose, tuned into the slow caress of Jason’s thumb against your pulse point. He’s watching you, dark hair streaked almost grey from the kitchen’s dim light, and pale eyes flickering across your face. 

Jason, with regret coiled inside his gut, watches as you sag further into him, nodding your head softly. 

"Yeah… okay,” you relent, slowly opening up to his explanation like a blooming flower, petals falling open to accept the sun.

“Hey,” Jason pulls you closer to him, pressing a firm kiss to your temple. “I’m not lying. I wasn’t annoyed with you—and even with Tim bugging me, I was listening.” 

Giddiness sprouts inside your chest. “Yeah?” 

Jason hums, pressing a softer kiss to your cheek. “Yeah, I was. You were talking about Mr. Perry wanting to change the colour of the door from blue to red, an ugly red. But when I said you had already said that before when you mentioned it twice, I didn’t mean to sound…” 

“Annoyed?” you offer, and a smile spreads across your face. 

Jason smirks, shaking his head. “Mhm-hm. Annoyed.”  

Strong arms gather you into Jason's broad chest, one hand pressed to the back of your head. You melt into him, his shirt crisp and smelling of lavender scented fabric-softener. He’s warm, and his skin shares that heat with you readily, almost desperately.

But it doesn’t compare to the warmth slipping between your ribs to settle comfortably.

“Thank you for saying that,” you murmur quietly, and Jason squeezes you fondly, laying another kiss to your scalp.

thank you for reading, God bless <3

taglist: @/kitkatlover015 @/batslilwhore

Bruce had been called many things in his life, too many awful and offensive things he had quickly learned not to pay attention to. Caring gave them meaning, he was told so early on, caring gave them significance. Now, he really couldn’t care less.

Throughout the course of his life, throughout all the tragedy and grief, Bruce had learned to ignore it all; the names, the judgments, the looks, the labels. His indifference had become second nature, an innate response to anybody trying to provoke him.

He didn’t really have a choice anyway. There were too many people praying on his downfall since his birth, too many people biting at the fruits of his labor to see if they were ripe enough for the taking. Selfish, greedy, money hungry men desperate for his demise.

Sharks lurking in untamed depths ready to snatch him up if he swam too far, hiding in the black shores with their sharp teeth bared and beady eyes hungry.

Despite what many people believed, Bruce didn’t have it so easy in the sense of work and spirit. When you were rich like he was, famous like he was, as powerful as he was, everyone believed you couldn’t possibly be burdened by anything.

That he was too spoiled by the grandness of life that it had gradually bled into a lack of work ethic, that it was his last name that gave him any status at all, that it was his reputation that gave him everything he had without him having to ask for it.

He had the money to fix any problem, the influence to hide any scandal, the face to get him out of any situation he needed to get out of.

He was CEO of Wayne Enterprises for gods sake, son to Thomas Wayne, a man that was great and beloved all in his own right. Yes, people had doubted Bruce’s ability to lead, to run a business after so long of being away from it, but then he came back and proved them all wrong as he usually did.

Being someone so honorably renowned in Gotham City, someone that carried the Wayne name at that, it came with its own barrel of familial obligation and responsibility outside of his own personal commitments. He couldn’t disappoint anyone, could never fathom disappointing his late father.

Working by day a normal man with a bullet on his back, a price on his head to any hungry buisness man willing to do whatever it took to get to the top. Then working by night as Batman with the bruises and scars to show for it. Someone every criminal and lowlife in Gotham City wanted dead.

Batman, not so much a label as he was a separate being entirely. It was Bruce, but he couldn’t find any similarities between the polite buisness man wearing a suit by day and the other man wearing a blood stained mask by night. One was forced to coerce with society in the manner of business and passive aggressive smiles, another undertaking the grueling task of removing the grime from it.

Bruce Wayne was all expensive cologne and hand shake deals, money hungry tabloids and self absorbed white collars. It was a life always on display, always the center of attention, always everyone else’s focus.

Batman was purely mystery and intrigue. Hidden from sight yet found in every shadow, heard in the trembled whisper of every breath. No one knew who he was yet he had somehow gotten all of their attention. Everyone eager to know who was behind the mask but no one ready to answer for why he existed in the first place.

The only similarities they shared were the cause for conspiracy. Whether it was Bruce or Batman they stole every headline — always someone trying to figure them out, bring their true identity to light and spread more moral quandary about whether they were right or wrong for every choice they made.

Pure opposite lives he juggled in the same two hands.

No, he did not have it easy. Always more enemies than friends and more snakes than family. Every hour, every minute, every second he spent left exposed there was always someone right behind him ready to push him if he faltered.

He had to be careful; always be passive and nice, diplomatic and respectful to those he knew wanted him gone, to the people who wanted his seat at the head of the table and the money in his bank. Bruce had to be the CEO his father wanted him to be, the one he was destined to be, the one etched into his history before he was even born.

He had a reputation to uphold, a legacy to live, a job to do.

But no, it was not always easy.

Being rich and handsome like he was did have its downsides, as meager as they may seem to less fortunate individuals. Many people hated Bruce Wayne just for those simple, superficial things alone. His looks, his status, his job he was so rightfully given. Apparently this made him an asshole, arrogant, narcissist.

It was looks of hatred and envy from men he’d never even met, women he’d abandoned after a steamy two hour hookup (not that he did those anymore but women loved to hold a grudge), businessmen who cursed him to hell and back for his amount of wealth and fame he had no control over.

He didn’t care about these people anyway. These rambunctious, single minded people who preyed on the weak and ate the hopeless. They were all self centered, arrogant, narcissistic. Self absorbed scum unwilling to put in the hard work necessary to be as successful as he was.

On the opposite side of the spectrum, Bruce was often regarded as someone lonely, someone lost, someone desolate and pitiful. He was a coward, hiding in his soulless black mansion under thick piles of money ever since the fatal death of his parents. So sad, an orphan, just depressing.

That was hushed whispers behind his back and somber stares, awkward, harrowing smiles from coworkers and the front pages of newspapers. Bruce Wayne back from hiding after all this time… living on his father’s name… will he fail or carry on the legacy of the great Wayne fortune… yada yada yada.

Just more words. Pointless and purposeless, written to appease the swill of Gotham with no real substance behind them. Gossip, false news, attention grabbing headlines that were purely speculation.

However, as much as he hated labels — more so his — whatever names he got called behind his back, Bruce couldn’t find it in sensible reason to argue that they weren’t pieces of who he really was. Fabrics of his character torn out thread by thread and poked and needled at by societies curious hands.

They were just pieces, stretched and torn so far from the truth but yet the original strings were still there, hanging on in remembrance of what he truly was chaotically intertwined in the lies and deception of what people thought him to be. Too shredded to be properly understood but still thriving in the undercurrents of whatever he was now being labeled as and people were now foolishly believing him to be.

Yes, they were just labels. But labels that were not so far from factual truths.

However again, none of those words mattered to him as much as this did, as much as the one label that he truly cared about.

Husband.

Your husband.

The only title he held in the same esteem as Batman and Wayne Enterprises CEO, perhaps even higher. It was one of the only labels that carried a semblance of true meaning, one he didn’t shy from.

Husband. It was the only honorific that mattered to him, one of the only sentiments that made him feel actual pride in who he was. Husband was something real, concrete, not some anonymous opinion in a paper or a cruel murmur in a hallway.

It was the label that pierced him through and through especially in moments like this, moments when your hips were rolling deeply on top of his and he was buried balls deep inside your warmth.

He couldn’t think about anything in this moment. Nothing and everything at the same time as your finger nails, freshly manicured and glittering, gripped into his shoulder blades as you rolled your hips once again.

Bruce winced pleasantly, jaw clenching as his head leaned back into the softness of his black silken pillows. Brown hair frazzled and stringy, his smooth skin alight with a soft, lovesick glow.

You rolled your hips once more in a soft soothing motion, nothing too rough and nothing too fast; the evening had called for something more sensual in the delicacy of Bruce’s touch and the softness of his words just an hour prior.

“Oh Bruce…” You sighed dreamily, hands pressing into his bulky arms as he sighed out a trembled breath from his nose.

Your thighs tightened around his waist, his heavy hands squeezing your hips but not as to pressure you, only to keep you connected to him at the hilt so he was never too far out of you.

“That’s good, sweetheart, get it just like that… mmhmm.” Bruce swallowed heavily, voice low and raw as his eyebrows furrowed over darkened hazel eyes. Fingers thrumming on your skin as you pulsed around him, wetness seeping out of your full entrance and gliding down his length until it could leave a memorable darkened patch on the sheets.

You whined quietly, voice high pitched and greedy as the length of him filled you up and pressed into every soft wall surrounding him. He was always thick, always perfect, always felt so fucking good it made your muscles tense and spasm.

You rolled your body in that delectable way he liked once more, barely moving yet every part of him felt the sparks of pleasure thrum through his skin and make his thighs lock up.

Bruce groaned hotly at the action, eyes flickering down to the wet mess of where your pussy was sucking him in. It was messy, glistening, shared arousal in white strings of mutual attraction. His fingers dug into the flesh of your ass from where it sat perched on his strong thighs.

“Mm, fuck, honey.” Bruce breathed out gruffly more to himself than you when the sight of your wetness smeared all over him made his heart spike.

You didn’t respond, chin down to your chest and eyes closed as you focused on the pleasure in your own lower regions, the fullness and heaviness that filled you up and refused to part.

“Ohhh, feels so good-“ You gasped as a heavy spurt of pure pleasure sparked up your tummy, hole clenching around him tightly as an obscene gush of wetness leaked down his cock and onto his thighs.

Bruce licked his dry lips, eyes staring up at you heatedly; at the tightness of your shut eyes, the sweet moans gasping out of parted lips — lips, lips that were glossy and plush from all the needy kisses you shared with him just a mere moments ago.

He was enraptured by you, by your naked physique all soft and sweaty on top of him but he didn’t care. You were just so beautiful, pussy so perfect wrapped around him, squeezing his cock so good it made his mind fog up with indescribable pleasure.

“Yes, sweetheart, god, yesss…” Bruce agreed huskily, his head resting back on his pillow once more as you bucked your hips. His thighs tensed, toes curled, a grunt sounding in his throat as his hips rose to further dig himself inside you.

He couldn’t help it; like a soul to a light he sought you out, your warmth and tightness so snug and comforting around him he didn’t ever want to be apart from you.

You whimpered at the intrusion, nails digging into his skin in a painful sting that Bruce was too fucked out to really notice.

He swallowed hazily below you, eyes closing then opening to look down at the way your pussy molded into one with his hard cock as you rocked gently against him. Deep inside you where he was meant to be, stomach and pelvis and thick thighs soaked with your gushing arousal.

Fire shooting down his legs and tummy with every soft bounce back down on him, illicit wet noises sounding in the room with every desperate grind.

He loved that sound, your wetness mashing with his thick base. But not nearly as much as your melodic sounds gasping out every so often because his cock made you feel that good.

His mouth was terribly dry from his own grunts and moans, handsome face and muscular chest flushed pink, the air so so hot he could feel his own dark hair sticking to the dew on his fevered head.

His hands, big and clammy, dug into the soft fat of your hips to help you dig into him in that way you both liked, the one that had you both gasping hotly into each others mouths as you leaned down to give him another sloppy kiss.

You couldn’t quite get it right though, too distracted by the feel of him so deep inside you that your lips stuttered on his. Moving messily against him as you whined into his mouth once more, the tip of his cock so high up inside you it almost hurt.

He was always so big, so round and tall that the stretch alone always seemed to ache pleasurably with every short thrust he made inside you.

“That’s good, sweetheart… that’s it… just how you know I like it…”

Bruce breathed heavily against your lips from where you were leaned on top of him, naked breasts mashed to his chiseled chest and hands gripping onto the headboard now.

You needed something sturdy, something unbreakable to tether you back to him when you felt the pleasure making you float too far.

His breath was hot against your sore lips, mingled with your low moans and spoken just above the subtle creaks of the bed; sounding every time you moved above him in a sensually quickened pace that had your toes curling and thighs tensing.

“So beautiful, sweetheart, so good…”

Bruce couldn’t help but compliment you even in the most nasty of times, voice clenched yet breathy, spoken through hot breaths and pressed teeth as your wetness dripped down his length once more.

You moaned sweetly at his doting words, his voice cracked and low in that gravelly salacious tone you loved so much.

You clenched around him in response, his fingers tightening on you as he let out a handsome groan from the feeling. You watched as his head sunk into the pillow beneath him, eyes clenched shut and a heavy grunt leaving his chest.

The sight was attractive, seeing him so wrecked from just a few simple back and forth motions you were carefully orchestrating.

You felt a wave of stinging pleasure spike up your thighs and down your legs, up your tummy and into your head until your whole body was tingling. Your eyes brimming with unshed tears as sweat prickled at your skin and your legs burned from sitting for so long.

You didn’t care about the pain, too drunk on the sensations of his thickness rubbing inside the most intimate part of you, your hips rolling in desperate circular motions so he was never completely apart from you. You liked keeping him inside as much as possible, to feel that fullness and that dull burn to remind you of just how big he was.

Bruce loved it too, resting inside your warmth, comfortable, letting you take him however you wanted in whatever way you needed. He was always a giver, always a good husband when you needed him to be.

“F-fuck, Bruce, you feel so good.” You gasped wantonly, voice quiet yet fragmented, needy and breathless as your nails dug into his skin.

“Yeah, honey? It feels good?” Bruce replied just as quietly, being sure to thrust up into you just a little bit harder so you’d gasp some more for him.

It was lewd, lovely, his dirty words spoken onto your quivering lips and his meaty hands gripping your thighs to help aid in your eager movements.

It felt so good, so right, being there with him in the darkness of his room with only the sound of your shared panting and moans filling the silence.

It was hot and perfect; his hands on your thighs gripping hard enough to show you he doesn’t want you to stop, your mouths ever so often pecking together in a sweet kiss you couldn’t continue, fond gazes in darkened irises.

“Feels so good, Bruce, I can’t—“ You whimpered out all cutely, sliding up from his chest until you were sitting straight up once more. You could feel him shift inside of you, hardness still prominent and throbbing. He pressed against your walls, invading every nerve point as your clit rubbed against his naval in the new position.

Bruce gripped the flesh of your ass between his hands, helping your soft rocking motions against him as he spoke, “Yes you can, pretty girl, you always do for me. You’re doing so good, sweetheart, you have no idea…”

The praise made you smile brokenly. Your skin so hot it felt burning yet every grind against your husbands hard cock made your legs go numb. You whined and bucked above him as a tightness started to stretch in your tummy.

“Always for you, baby…” You managed to mumble shakily, lovingly, hands sliding over the abs on his stomach as you sat back on his lap so not a single inch of him wasn’t inside you.

Bruce clenched his jaw at that, hands digging into your hips as he thrust his own up to meet your soft grinds. Sparks, electricity, all of the cliche metaphors for how good he was feeling shooting down his cock and into his legs as his knees tensed up.

He felt lightheaded yet completely grounded, here to his mattress. Floating in the skies yet simultaneously stuck on earth with you, his gorgeous wife who always made him feel sane and normal.

Your hair was tangled around your shoulders and falling over your flushed cheeks as you stared down at him with a fond glimmer in your eyes, bright and burning under the lust so boldly wanting.

The stretch of him inside you was so good, his gravelly moans so good, the way he was making you feel so so good.

You exhaled as you settled your weight down on his pelvis, pussy sore yet eager as you squeezed around him once more. Love struck eyes looking down at him passionately as the moon cascaded a light gray glow behind you.

Bruce felt the air escape his lungs, lips parted as he stared up at you in utter devotion; you were so beautiful, so sweet, felt so fucking good around him he couldn’t even think straight. Brain numb and thoughtless, only you and your perfect pussy, you, you, you.

You took a moment to stare back at him. Unspoken love was whispered in the shadows of your eyes bright and glittering as your movements picked up into polite, subtle bounces that had Bruce digging his hands into you, breathy sounds escaping his lips.

“Ah, Bruce…” You mumbled weakly, voice soft and needy as you tossed your head back and moved your hips up and down so his cock was hitting that sweet spot inside you he usually loved to tease.

“Such a good job, sweetheart, so beautiful like this…” Bruce spoke huskily, staring at your heaving breasts as they jiggled and beckoned him forth, beautiful and pure as you rode him to high heaven in your most organic form.

You hummed into a delicate moan, a smile quirked on your lips at his praise as you felt his hands slowly start crawling up the exposed expanse of your waist.

Warm and big and tender as they moved up, up, gentle fingers tracing over your ribcage as your flesh prickled at the touch. He was delicate, always intent on your pleasure over his as he admired your form above him, the feel of your skin under his textured hands that had hurt so many.

You trusted him, your husband, enough to see you like this. Trusted him enough to have you like this, to allow his bloodstained hands to wash over you like he himself was something pure and untainted, bestowing him your presence like a merciful deity to their promised worshipper.

You bit your lip as his palms enveloped the fat of your breasts into them, molded perfectly into his larger hands as he squeezed and admired them in a fashion so familiar for him; he always loved your breasts, enamored with the softness and weight of them in his greedy hands.

You stared down at him with a heated tenderness, the look of a wife irrevocably in love with their husband as he stared up at you with the same fervor.

When he was here, with you, there were no labels, no obligations and no judgments. With you he was just yours, another body made of flesh and blood and bone melded to yours in the conjunction of where his body ended and yours began.

He was no one but he was your everything, hands on skin and lips on collarbones, sweat amongst sweat and heady moans breathed in the gasps of kisses shared between two lovesick spouses.

In this space, in this moment, with you on top of him and his hands all over you any remnants of shame and Wayne inspired obligation was vacant. All he needed to do was sit and let you take him, sit there and be of use when you wanted to use him.

He was a good husband, the best husband to you, his perfect and lovely wife who never addressed him as anything more than yours. He wasn’t this, he wasn’t that, he was just everything and more in the confines of silken sheets under the safety of his mansion.

No cameras, no gossip, no press and no watchful eyes. Serene, tranquil, just you and him and the great love you shared that transcended any label or common sense humanity could fathom.

Yes, he was Bruce Wayne. Eccentric billionaire, former eligible bachelor, orphan boy, son, rich playboy. But those things did not define him, did not set his reality in stone so easily as your love did. He was all those things but he was so much more.

You never judged him, looked at him as anything more than the most important thing. You regarded him with love no matter his past, his present, and hopefully and most likely your shared future.

You didn’t care for labels or surface value lies like everyone else did. You ripped him at his seams, tore him apart to see what was inside and he was ever so grateful for it, for that loving animosity that bared his soul to yours. You were straightforward, heart to heart or nothing at all because then what was the point?

There was no purpose without pain, without pleasure, without love. You suffered, you loved, and you were most definitely bringing him pleasure. All blunt and raw emotions too passionate and loud to ever try and hide or make lies about. No secrets, no deception, no labels.

This night, every night just like this one — nights spent in your arms deep inside where he needed to be most, were nights where his mind was bare and he was just yours. Nights when he didn’t have to put up a face or make up a lie or tell a tall tale.

He was Bruce, he was yours, he was just this. And most importantly, he was just your husband. The only label that really mattered and the only one he ever really cared about. ₊˚⊹♡