#fluff?

you’re sprawled across his dorm room floor, textbooks and notes scattered around you like academic shrapnel. your Organic Chemistry problem set is due tomorrow, and Peter's trying to explain electron orbital hybridization for the third time while you're trying not to notice the way his hands move when he talks.

"okay, so—wait, are you even listening?" he glances up from the molecular model he's been gesturing at, catching you staring.

"yes," you lie. "orbitals. hybridization. very sexy stuff."

Peter's ears go pink. they always do. "it’s actually kind of cool if you think about it. like, the atoms are literally reshaping themselves to form stronger bonds—"

"Peter."

"—which is sort of romantic in a way? no? okay, yeah, I hear how that sounds."

you grin, nudging his knee with your foot. "you’re such a nerd."

the contact makes him freeze for just a second—so brief you almost miss it. but you've been Peter's best friend since freshman orientation, when you found him eating lunch alone in the dining hall, and you've gotten good at reading him. the way his breath catches. how his eyes track the movement of your leg as you pull it back.

"takes one to know one," he manages, but his voice is slightly rough.

you’ve been noticing things like this more lately. the way he leans into your touch when you grab his arm. how he finds excuses to be close—sitting next to you even when there's a whole empty couch, walking you home when your dorm is barely three buildings away. the looks that last a fraction too long.

at first, you thought you were imagining it. Peter Parker, who spent freshman year obviously pining after someone he wouldn't talk about, who kept a careful distance from everyone like he was afraid of breaking something. but somewhere between late-night study sessions and 2 AM bodega runs and him falling asleep on your shoulder during movie nights, something shifted.

now he's watching you chew on your pen cap, and there's heat in his gaze that makes your stomach flip.

"we should take a break," you suggest. "my brain is melting."

"yeah, okay." Peter runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up adorably. "i’ve got—uh, i think there's some leftover pizza? and definitely Red Bull, which is probably not great to mix with the coffee we already had, but—"

"Peter."

"hmm?"

you’re not sure what you were going to say. something about how he's rambling, maybe, or how cute he looks when he's nervous. but you're sitting close enough now that you can see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, and the words dissolve on your tongue.

he swallows hard. "you’re looking at me weird."

"weird how?"

"i don't know! like..." he trails off, and you watch his gaze drop to your mouth before snapping back up. "never mind."

the air feels thick suddenly, charged with something that's been building for months. you think about all the almost-moments—hands brushing when passing coffee cups, the time he caught you when you slipped on ice and held on longer than necessary, the way he said your name last week, soft and wondering, like he was testing how it felt.

"Peter," you say again, and this time his name sounds different. heavier.

"yes?" it comes out barely above a whisper.

you lean in slowly, giving him time to pull away. he doesn't. instead, he tilts forward like you're gravity and he's been in orbit too long, and when your lips finally meet, the small sound he makes goes straight through you.

the kiss is soft for maybe two seconds before Peter's hand comes up to cup your face and it turns desperate. he kisses like he's starving, like you're air and he's been underwater for years. his other hand finds your waist, gripping tight enough that you can feel the tremor in his fingers.

"sorry," he gasps against your mouth. "sorry, i just—"

"don’t apologize." you thread your fingers through his hair and tug gently. the noise he makes is almost pained.

"i’ve wanted—" he breaks off, kissing you again, harder. "god, i’ve wanted this for so long."

you end up in his lap somehow, textbooks scattering as he pulls you closer. Peter's hands are everywhere—your hips, your back, sliding under the hem of your shirt to touch bare skin. when you roll your hips experimentally, he actually whimpers.

"fuck," he breathes. "fuck, you can't—i’m trying to—"

"trying to what?" you do it again, feeling him harden beneath you.

his head falls back against the bed frame. "be good. go slow. not just—" his hips buck up involuntarily. "not just maul you like some kind of—oh fuck, are you taking off your shirt?"

you are, in fact, pulling your shirt over your head. "is that okay?"

Peter's eyes go wide and dark. "is that—are you seriously asking if—yeah. yeah, it’s okay. are you kidding?" he reaches for you with shaking hands, then stops himself. "i need you to tell me this is real."

"it’s real." you guide his hands to your waist. "i’m real. touch me, Peter."

he surges up to kiss you, lifting you and gently laying you back against the bed, he follows you down—his weight pressing you into the mattress. he’s kissing the spot behind your ear now, your neck, your jawline, your collarbone, working his way down with single-minded focus. all he can think about is you. you, you you you you.

"you’re so soft," he murmurs against your skin. "so fucking soft, i can't get enough. so soft, and smooth.”

his hands shake as he reaches for your bra clasp. it takes him two tries, and he laughs breathlessly against your shoulder. "sorry, i’m—it's been a while.”

your heart clenches. you know Peter has secrets—everyone does—but sometimes he lets things slip that make you wonder what he's been through. "we can slow down if you want."

"no." it comes out fierce. "no, i don't want slow. i want—" he drags his hands down your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "i want to touch every part of you. want to taste you. want to—fuck, i want so many things."

he gets your bra off and just stares for a moment, reverent. when’s the last time he’s seen tits up close? then he's ducking his head to take your nipple in his mouth, and the feeling shoots straight between your legs. his tongue works in circles while his hand palms your other breast, and you arch into him with a gasp.

"Peter—"

he’s grinding against your thigh now, seemingly unconscious of it, completely focused on mapping your body with his mouth. when he kisses down your stomach, just above your navel, your muscles jump under his lips.

"can i?" his fingers are on the button of your shorts. "please. pleasepleaseplease."

"yes." you lift your hips to help him, and he drags your shorts and underwear down in one motion like he can't wait another second.

Peter sits back on his heels, just looking, and the expression on his face makes you feel like the most beautiful thing in the world. "holy shit," he breathes. "you’re so—i can't believe you're letting me—fuck.”

"Peter." you reach for him. "come here."

but he shakes his head, lowering himself between your thighs instead. "i need to taste you first. i’ve been thinking about this for months—i felt like a pervert but.. i just couldn’t stop thinking about you. shit, baby.”

the first broad lick of his tongue through your folds makes you both moan. Peter grips your thighs hard enough to bruise, spreading you open obscenely as he buries his face between your legs like a man starving. there’s no technique to it at first, just raw desperate hunger—he's licking and sucking messily, his tongue exploring every fold, every inch of you like he needs to memorize the taste.

"oh my god," you manage, watching him devour you. watching his messy curls between your legs. “Peter, that's—fuuuuck!”

he moans against your cunt, the vibration making your legs shake. his tongue finds your clit and circles it sloppily before dipping lower, the tip of his tongue pushing into your entrance. "fuck," he gasps, pulling back just enough to speak, his chin already shiny with your arousal. "jesus, you're so wet. you’re dripping—all for me?” he dives back in, licking into you deeper, his nose pressed against your clit as he tries to fuck you with his tongue.

you can feel how soaked you are, can hear the obscene wet sounds as he works you over. Peter's completely lost in it, grinding his hard cock against the mattress as he eats you out like it's the best thing he's ever tasted. because you are. if he knew, he would’ve confessed long ago.

"you taste so fucking good," he mumbles against your pussy, words muffled and desperate. "could do this forever. could just live between your legs—fuck, you're getting wetter. fuck, honey."

he slides two fingers into you without warning, and you cry out at the stretch. your walls clench around the intrusion, and Peter whimpers at the feeling. "oh god, you're so tight. so fucking tight and warm. holy fuck.” he curls his fingers, searching, and when he finds that spot inside you, your back arches off the bed.

“there!" you gasp. "right there, Peter, don't stop—"

"here?" he does it again, his fingers pumping in and out while his mouth seals around your clit. he sucks hard, tongue flicking rapidly, and the dual sensation has you climbing fast. you can see him grinding desperately against the mattress, seeking friction, his hips rolling in time with his fingers fucking into you.

"Peter, i’m gonna—"

"please," he begs against your clit, the word vibrating through you. "please cum for me, wanna feel your pussy squeeze my fingers, wanna taste you cumming on my tongue. please? will you cum for me, baby? please, i need it. i need you.”

his encouragements and the fullness combined with his mouth on your clit sends you over the edge. your orgasm crashes through you, and Peter moans like he's the one cumming as your walls clench rhythmically around his fingers. he works you through it, fingers still pumping, tongue still lapping at your clit until you're shaking and oversensitive and have to physically push his head away.

when he lifts his head, his face is a mess—lips swollen and shiny, chin glistening with your arousal, eyes absolutely blown black with lust. he kisses you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. “that was the hottest thing i’ve ever done," he says, voice completely wrecked. he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks them clean, moaning at the taste. "you’re the hottest thing i’ve ever seen. i can’t—i need to be inside you right now or i’m gonna lose my mind."

you reach for his shirt with shaking hands. "off. please."

he strips so fast he nearly falls over, hopping on one foot as he shoves his jeans and boxers down. it’s almost comical, if you weren’t so desperate right now. when he's finally naked, you take a moment to appreciate him—lean muscle, the cut of his hipbones, his cock hard and flushed, curving up toward his stomach. the head is already leaking precum, and as you watch, another bead forms at the tip.

"come here," you say, and he practically lunges back onto the bed.

the first touch of skin on skin makes him shudder violently. "oh shit," he breathes, his cock sliding against your wet pussy. "ah fuck, you feel so good. jesus. your skin. fuckfuckfuck.”

your wrap your hand around him, and his hips jerk forward involuntarily, fucking into your fist. he’s hot and hard and silky in your palm, and when you stroke him once, experimentally, precum leaks over your fingers. the sound he makes is almost pained. he bites his lip so hard, you’re afraid he’ll break skin.

"i’m not gonna last," he warns, voice breaking. "i’m already so close, i’ve been so close just from tasting you, from feeling you cum on my face.”

"it’s okay." you guide him to your entrance, notching the head of his cock against your opening. you’re so wet that he slides through your folds easily. "i want you inside me. want to feel you cum inside me.”

Peter’s hand shakes as he reaches between you, gripping his cock to line himself up properly. "i don't—do you have a—"

"pill," you manage. "i’m on the pill. clean. are you—

"of course i am. i—i mean. yes.”

you’d normally never do this raw. but right now, all you care about is the way he's looking at you like you're everything, as he slowly pushes inside.

the stretch is intense—he's thick and the angle is deep and you're so sensitive from your first orgasm that every inch feels like too much and not enough all at once. you both groan as he sinks in, and you can feel your walls fluttering around him, trying to accommodate the intrusion.

"oh my god," Peter gasps, his whole body trembling. "oh my god, you're so tight, i can feel—fuck, i can feel everything—" his arms are shaking with the effort of going slow, his face buried in your neck. "you’re squeezing me so tight, oh, fuuuuck.”

when he's fully seated, buried to the hilt inside you, he stops, breathing hard against your skin. you can feel him pulsing inside you, can feel how close he already is. "need a second," he pants. "just need a second or i’m gonna cum right now.”

you run your hands down his back, feeling the tension in his muscles, the way he's holding himself perfectly still. "it’s okay. take your time."

"don’t want it to be over." he lifts his head to look at you, and his eyes are almost desperate, pupils blown so wide there's barely any brown left. "feels too good. you feel too good. like—like you were made for me, like your pussy was made to take my cock.”

you rock your hips slightly, and his eyes nearly roll back. "Peter, you can move. please move. i need you to fuck me."

he does, pulling out slowly—agonizingly slowly—and you can feel everything. every ridge, every vein, the way his cock drags against your walls, the way you're stretched around him. the sensation is so intense it makes your toes curl, makes you whimper at the loss of fullness.

"oh, fuck," Peter breathes, watching where you're joined, watching himself slide out of you. "you look so good taking my cock. so fucking good.”

then he slides back in, just as slowly, and you both moan at the same time. the sound he makes is broken, almost pained, like it feels too good to bear. his whole body shudders as he bottoms out again, his forehead dropping to your shoulder. he does it again, pulling out painfully slow—before sliding back in. the feeling is so perfect. yet, your body craves more. he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, but you can feel him holding back, trying to maintain control, his jaw clenched with the effort.

"can’t—" he gasps. "can’t believe how good you feel. so tight and wet and warm. how are you so tight, baby? god.”

he sets a rhythm that's deep and steady, his cock plunging deep inside of your pussy, over and over. each thrust is deliberate, controlled, like he's trying to memorize every sensation. but you can see the effort it's taking him—his jaw is clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping, his arms trembling where they're braced on either side of you, sweat already beading on his forehead.

"ah—yes!" you encourage, running your hands up his back. "you feel so good inside me."

his hips stutter slightly at your words, the rhythm faltering for just a second before he regains control. "yeah? you like feeling me fuck you?"

"yes, pete! love it! love feeling you stretch me open—!”

"fuck—" his next thrust is slightly harder, slightly faster, and he immediately tries to slow down again. "sorry, sorry, i’m trying to—trying to go slow but you feel so fucking good.”

"let go," you tell him, wrapping your legs around his waist. "i want to feel you lose control. want you to fuck me like you've been dreaming about."

he groans as he feels your walls clench around him. “i’m sorry, honey. m’sorry. i’m too rough, aren’t i? m’so sorry.”

"don’t apologize." you roll your hips to meet his next thrust, and the angle makes him hit deeper. "want to feel you."

the pleasure is building steadily, a warm coil tightening in your belly with each stroke. Peter's breathing is getting heavier, his control visibly slipping. his thrusts are getting incrementally faster, harder, like his body is moving on instinct despite his attempts to hold back.

"you’re so—ah!—perfect," he pants against your neck, his hips snapping forward a little harder. "so fucking perfect, taking my cock so well—" another thrust, faster this time. "been dreaming about this, about being inside you, about feeling you on my cock.”

his rhythm is getting less controlled now, more erratic. you can feel him starting to lose it, his careful restraint crumbling with each thrust. he’s sweating more, his skin slick against yours, his breathing ragged and desperate.

"Peter—" you dig your nails into his back. "more. need more."

he shakes his head. “can’t—if i go harder i won't be able to stop—" but even as he says it, his hips are moving faster, driving into you with more force. "what are you doing to me? fuuuck, i can't—i’m trying to be gentle but you feel too good.”

“then don't be gentle." you wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper. "want you to fuck me harder."

he makes a sound that's almost a whimper, his hips stuttering before he slams into you harder than before. "like that? you want it like that?"

"yes!—fuck, yes—"

his control is slipping faster now. each thrust is harder, faster, more desperate. he tries to slow down, you can feel him trying, but his body won't listen. his hips keep moving, keep driving into you with increasing intensity.

"can’t stop," he gasps, his voice breaking. "can’t fucking stop, you feel too good, your pussy is so tight—" he’s babbling now, his face pressed into the curve of your neck. "want to fuck you so hard, want to make you feel so good, want to hear you scream my name.”

"m’trying to—trying to hold back—" but his hips are moving faster, pounding into you with a force that makes the bed shake. "don’t want to hurt you—"

"you won't. please, Peter, i need it.”

his next thrust makes you both cry out. he’s completely losing it now, his rhythm getting faster and more erratic, his body taking over despite his attempts at control. you can feel him shaking, trembling with the effort of holding himself back even as his hips betray him.

"i’ll hurt you—i’m stronger than i look—“

"shut up, Peter." you pull him deeper with your legs, and the angle makes you both gasp. "stop—fucking—ah!, stop apologizing. i want all of you. want you to use me, fuck me as hard as you need.”

his eyes roll back at the depth and his fragile restraint snaps. he eyes go dark and feral, and suddenly he's pounding into you, his hips snapping against yours with force that would probably hurt if you weren't so turned on. the bed frame slams against the wall with each thrust, and Peter's completely gone, his filter destroyed.

"fuckfuck, shit, your pussy feels so good," he babbles against your neck, his voice broken and desperate. he reaches up, his hand palming your breast, squeezing the weight in his hand. his thumb circling over your nipple as he moans into your neck. "so tight and wet and perfect—can't believe i get to have this, have you. been wanting to fuck you for so long..” he changes the angle slightly and hits that spot inside you that makes you see stars. "there? can you feel me there? can you feel how deep i am?"

"yes!" you’re clinging to him, nails digging into his back. "Peter, oh my god!”

"shit—! wanted to bend you over the library table," he confesses, words tumbling out in a rush as he fucks into you relentlessly. "wanted to pull you into the bathroom at that party last month and fuck you against the sink. wanted to wake up with my face between your legs, wanted to fall asleep with my cock still inside you—" he’s rambling now, completely unfiltered, telling you every desperate fantasy as his hips piston. "used to jerk off thinking about this, about how you'd feel, how you'd sound, what your pussy would look like stretched around my cock.”

the world outside his dorm room falls away, all you can feel is his cock pumping in and out of you. you can barely think, he’s barely giving you time to think. all you can hear is his moans, your own desperate cries and the wet slap! of his skin against yours.

you can feel another orgasm building, the angle hitting perfectly with every brutal thrust. your walls are fluttering around him, and you know he can feel it because he moans and somehow speeds up even more. like he’s superhuman.

"Peter, i’m close—"

"i know, sweet girl. i can feel it." he reaches between you, his thumb finding your swollen clit. the touch is almost too much on your oversensitive flesh, but then he's rubbing tight circles and you're flying. "cum on my cock. please baby, need to feel it, need to feel your pussy cumming on my cock. just like you did on my fingers.”

tne combination of his thumb and the relentless thrust of his hips and his desperate words sends you over the edge. your second orgasm hits even harder than the first, your whole body seizing as pleasure whites out your vision. you clench around him rhythmically, and Peter makes a sound like he's been punched, his rhythm faltering.

“oh shit, shitshitshit, you're squeezing me so tight, i can't—i’m gonna cum—where? tell me where. please.”

"inside," you gasp, still riding the waves. "cum inside me, Peter, want to feel it.”

he buries himself as deep as possible and comes with a broken moan of your name.

you can feel it immediately—the first hot pulse of cum flooding into you, but it doesn't stop. it keeps coming, wave after wave, his cock jerking violently inside you as he empties himself. there’s so much—more than should be possible—each pulse filling you fuller, the warmth spreading deep inside as he shakes apart above you.

"oh god, oh god.” his voice is completely destroyed, words slurring together as another massive wave hits him. "i’m sorry, baby. i know it’s a lot—fuuuuck. imsorryimsorryimsorry.”

another pulse, his hips jerking involuntarily, grinding deeper like he's trying to fuck his cum even further inside you.

his arms are shaking so badly he can barely hold himself up. you can see tears gathering at the corners of his eyes from the overwhelming intensity, his face twisted in almost painful pleasure.

when his orgasm finally, finally starts to subside, he collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress because he literally cannot hold himself up anymore. he’s shaking like a leaf, gasping against your neck, and you can feel the obscene amount of cum leaking out of you.

"holy shit," he finally says, voice absolutely destroyed. "that was—i mean, i knew it would be good, but that was—i think i saw the heavens. god, i feel like i’m gonna pass out.”

"that was so hot," you manage, because words are hard right now and your limbs feel like jelly.

he lifts his head to look at you, and his expression is soft and wondering and a little hungry. "i love you," he says. "i know that's probably too soon to say, and we should probably talk about what this means, but i love you. i’ve been in love with you for months, maybe longer, and i thought i’d never get over—someone else—but then you smiled at me in the dining hall freshman year and i just.. i don’t know. you definitely don’t have to say it back, because i sound insane, but i just want you to know that—“

you kiss him, cutting off the ramble. "i know. i think i love you too.”

his answering smile is bright enough to power the sun. "yeah?"

"yeah.”

he kisses you again, soft and sweet this time, and you can feel him starting to harden inside you again, his cock thickening and lengthening where it's still buried in your pussy.

"Peter," you say, mock-stern even as your body responds.

he grins, sheepish and hungry all at once, and rolls his hips experimentally. the slide is easy, slick with cum and arousal. "i have months to make up for. hope you didn't have plans tomorrow."

you definitely don't have plans. and when he starts moving again—slow and deep and perfect, his cum making obscene wet sounds as he fucks it back into you—you can't think of anywhere else you'd rather be than here, in his messy dorm room, with the boy who's been touch-starved for too long finally letting himself feel everything.

the Organic Chemistry homework can wait.

It's taken a bit of tense negotiation for Damian to admit what he was planning to do before Bruce had jumped on board and gotten the legal side of the business up and running.

They've given Dick the keys to his gym on his birthday, and Bruce was pretty sure he saw his boy cry when the "The Flying Grayson Gym" sign was revealed. It made his heart swell with pride when Dick's other siblings had each jumped at the chance to teach a class.

Cass is going to teach ballet. Duke was doing karate. Steph took up boxing. Damian offered fencing for children (no adult wanted to learn from the teen, which angered him). Tim was very eager to do the aquatics courses, while Jason surprised everyone with his Zumba instructor certification.

Even Alfred had joined in, claiming he would be teaching at least one yoga class. After much consideration, Bruce stepped up to do spin classes. It was the only one that he felt Brucie could get away with having teaching credentials in.

Yes, Dick's gym offered a variety of classes and sports. Damian was making noise about expanding the gym into a community center, wanting to add more crafts and art. Dick seemed to glow with the idea, but it was apparent his gym was his top priority, especially the gymnastic classes he personally ran.

With half the staff being family, it made things easier for their nighttime activities without Dick having to worry about explaining his absences or behavior. What made it harder, however, was that the other half were regular people, so sometimes Dick was scrambling for employees who actually wanted to do a job and not get close to the Waynes.

As it were, Dick had to fire his last receptionist because she kept trying to come on to Jason. Apparently, a rumor about Bruce's will circulated a few months back, claiming that Bruce would leave Jason his entire wealth after finding the young man alive again. Jason has been struggling with treasure hunters, flinging false promises of love at him for weeks.

Bruce is in the middle of answering some emails about the kids' classes when the front automatic door slides open. In walks two kids, a boy and a girl, obviously twins by their near-identical features, both approximately five years old, looking around in wonderment.

Bruce's lip curls up into a smile as the little boy spots a poster of ballerinas, and quickly sticks a similar- if sloppy- pose. His dance outfit gives away his dream of becoming a dancer himself as he wobbles in place, trying with all his might to keep the arabesque as perfect as the women in the photo.

His sister, who was dressed in a gi with a white belt, claps enthusiastically for him.

She has a lovely British accent curling around some of her words, which tells Bruce she was either raised in Britain or her guardians are from there. Her American accent showed in the rise and fall of her words, though, and that let Bruce know she was being raised here now, long enough for her peers to influence her speech. "Wow, you're already so good!"

"Thanks!" The boy falls out of it. "I'm so excited to learn how to do the jumps. What about you? What are you excited about?"

"The kicks!" The little girl cheers, throwing a foot into the air as if she were kicking a soccer ball. " I'm going to be a ninja!"

She did a couple of chops in the air while her brother started standing on his toes, each making an odd little drawn-out side. It took Bruce a moment to realize it was supposed to be a battle cry, and he had to hide his laughter behind his hand,

Though the sound still carries, causing the children to pause and glance in his direction. At once, their eyes widened, then brightened, grasping onto each other and squealing. "It's Bruce Wayne!"

Hmm, now these are the youngest fans I've ever encountered. Bruce muses as the children race over to the counter, babbling about space travel and autographs. Were he anyone other than Batman, he doesn't think he would be able to understand them at the speed they speak or when they talk over each other, each saying a different fact about space.

"Did you know the sun is a star?"

"A day is longer on Venus!"

Mercury and Venus are the only planets that don't have moons. Isn't that cool, Mr. Wayne?"

"Can you lend me a spaceship? I'll take good care of it!"

Blue stars are the hottest! And the prettiest."

Bruce couldn't get a word in, even with the tiny things barely being able to look over the counter edge. Their tiny hands were gripping the edge of it, standing on their tiptoes just so their eyes could clear the counter. The automatic doors slide open again, this time by a well-dressed man, carrying two gym bags, who walks in. "Alright, alright, lambs, let the poor bloke breathe, yeah?"

The kids listen instantly, and Bruce knows, before he looks up, that this man is their father. Not only did their accents match, but their body language gave away their relationship. A healthy one, filled with love and trust that only kids who adored their parents could show.

"Sorry about them. They tend to get a bit excited about space. Weren't too rude, I hope?" The man apologizes. Bruce raises his head, a smile already pulling at his lips, and his hand reaches for the drawer of candies he keeps for the little ones.

"No trouble at all. The two are angels, it's great to see kids excited about science!" His words die in his throat when he makes eye contact with John Constantine. No iconic trench coat in sight. No signs of intoxication. No slouched over poster. No leer or scowl.

Instead, a while pressed transparent white shirt, a perfectly tied knot, in Alfred's preferred style of Eldredge, fresh pants that hug long legs and a fit waist, and the oddest detail of all, the polite, friendly smile being aimed at him. In fact Constantine's entire expression showed a man comfortable in his own skin and just as welcoming.

He was stunning.

Was this an imposter?

"Um...I...How can I help...you?" Bruce would deny to his dying day that he shuddered as Constantine's smile stretched further across his face in an entirely amused manner and not a disgusting leer.

"My lambs are big fans of space travel." Constantine starts after a moment. He must have realized the connection between Bruce's brain and his mouth was broken. "I was wondering if they could get an autograph of yours on their Wayne Spae travel shirts. We got them from the last tour your company did. Then, the kids can get to their classes? Danny is in kids beginning ballet, and Dani- with a i- is in kids beginning karate."

Bruce coughs, scrambling for the proper paperwork, though taking quick glances at Constantine as he does so. He was trying to find clues of the imposter theory, or maybe this was a form of magic? An illusion?

Some kind of clone, perhaps?

"Certainly! Let me just...ugh, get you to fill out some forms. Safety questions, waivers, and policies." Bruce coughs and hands a clipboard over the counter. Constantine offered him a polite grin, gave the board to Danny to hold, then walked the kids by hand over to the sitting area to fill out their information. Bruce watches him go, still stunned by the gentleness and... normal behavior he never thought a man like Constantine could exhibit.

The British man quickly finds a seat, sitting down with a regal elegance that makes Bruce swallow nervously. One leg crosses over the knee, creating a table with the limbs, which Constantine uses to balance the clipboard and start filling out the paperwork. In the same motion of picking up the pen, he rubs the heads of his kids, who kneel at the ground by their bags.

Both children giggle at the hair rub, causing the blond's face to soften. Bruce's mouth waters, hyper aware of those long fingers curling around a pen and the concentration on the man's face.

The blond man doesn't look at Bruce while he fills out the forms, but he does let the kids dig through their gym bags until each stands with a shirt. The familiar silver-blue symbol of Wayne Space travel is waved around like a banner as the kids bounce at Constantine's side, asking something in their hushed little voices.

The man looks up from his paperwork long enough to nod and smile at the children, keeping an eye on them as they run to Bruce. In Dani's hand is a Sharpie. "Mr. Wayne, our autographs!"

Bruce glances up at their father, makes eye contact, and flushes deep red at the utter adoration Constantine shows his children. He coughs again, shaking his head as he holds out his hands for the maker. "Of course. Where would you like me to sign?"

Maybe he's wrong. That man looks a lot like Constantine, but it's not possible that such a great father could be him? The Justice League Dark member couldn't even make it through half a meeting before puffing cigarettes and making one lewd comment. Bruce was pretty sure he never washed his trench coat either.

And yet, when the kids run down the hall to their rooms, the blond adult, one step behind them, calling out reminders about inside voices and feet, Bruce is left with paperwork clearly stating that John Constantine is their adoptive father.

The Justice League will never believe him. They must also never find out.

Because if they did find out John Constantine was a father who likely used his vulgar hero persona as a disguise, as Bruce was starting to suspect, then they would also find out Bruce actually thought the man attractive.