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Here they are! The prompts for Superbat Week 2025 are here!
Everyone was SO CREATIVE in submitting prompts! It was a DELIGHT to sort through them all to create this list!
You have until now to the week of September 15th to get those creative juices flowing! Remember, any medium is welcome, from fanfics, fanart, fic rec lists, edits, podfics, etc.!
We are also doing what was done last year, each day has a theme! Along with the prompts for that particular day, any ideas that you have that fit under the theme can be used as well!
For more information, read the rules and take a look at the timeline!
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
@highlordofkrypton and I are running late, but here we are for Day 4 - Visiting the Farm.
I hope you enjoy and get your tissues ready, Mathi is not joking around🫶🏻 @superbateveryweek
read on AO3
to sow a love worth lifetimes ❧
10 YEARS OLD
Where he’s coming from and where he’s going is a blur. The long winding dirt road makes it harder to keep track—all of it is more or less the same. Bruce doesn’t know how many days it’s been. During the day, the pain is distant as if it shies away from the sun or watchful eyes of his… his… his Alfred. At night, he lives that moment over and over again in visceral detail. His body seizes up, hearing the gunshot despite being in his too big bed and not an alley. He has nowhere to go. No one to run to. It doesn’t feel right asking Alfred to hold him. He won’t shy away from the man’s comforts—Alfred needs it too—but he can’t bring himself to ask. He’s alone now. He needs to be strong in the name of his parents' memory.
“Master Bruce, how are you doing back there?” Alfred glances at the boy in his rearview mirror.
Bruce straightens up, determined to be mature for his age. He shows up to the events where he is requested and he tries to learn about his father’s businesses as much as a ten year old can. He pretends to know what everyone’s talking about instead of seeing his parents ghosts in the places where they should be.
“Yes, I’m fine.” He glances at the mirror, meeting Alfred’s eyes to make sure that the truth is conveyed clearly. Then, he goes back to looking outside at the fields of corn and wheat flitting by. They make it too easy for his mind to wander, but the sun’s still up, which means he can’t stumble into a nightmare.
The ‘pop’ of their tire has Bruce tensing so badly, he cuts little half-moons into his palm while gripping his seatbelt so hard his knuckles turn white. The car comes to a slow, a flopping sound outside the window.
“It’s just a flat tire,” Alfred says loudly.
Bruce isn’t here. He’s somewhere else—a dark place where blinks of light are accompanied by the ‘pop’ popping sound of bullets and the scatter of pearls on the ground. In some versions of the memory, he falls to his knees and picks up every bead, as if each one is a piece of his mother’s soul and if he could just put them back together, she’d come back to life. Other times, he imagines saving both his parents by putting pressure on their wounds just like it said in one of his books. If he could just do it over again, he’ll be better prepared. He’ll know what to do to keep his parents alive until the cops come with the paramedics. Better yet, he’d keep his father alive long enough for him to guide Bruce through saving his mother. I need another chance.
This time, he isn’t in a controlled daydream.
This time, the bullet strikes his father somewhere in the chest in a place that makes him drop dead on the pavement.
This time, his mother’s blood stains the ground as she looks at him sadly.
“Bruce,” he hears his name called distantly. “Bruce, you’re alright.”
Alfred touches his wrists, pulling them away from his head. When—When did he start clutching at his ears, trying to block the world out? The older man kneels outside the open car door, and he gathers Bruce into his arms, holding him tightly and providing him with an anchor to this reality where his parents are already dead and time has swept past them, like they didn’t matter at all in the grand scheme of things. Bruce allows the hug, and he grips Alfred’s jacket with trembling hands.
“You’re alright.” Alfred repeats, despite the lie. Bruce isn’t okay. The old butler holds him for as long as he needs, ignoring the ache in his knees and the weight of a ten year old in his arms. Bruce has grown too quickly, and yet, he’s far too young to have to shoulder all this. He rubs the boy’s back with a firm hand, soothing him. “You’ll be alright.”
“Heyo,” a voice shatters their moment and grounds Bruce even more than Alfred’s comfort. He releases Alfred’s jacket, and steps back, standing against their car. Bruce smoothes away the fear and the grief from his face, looking up at the stranger.
“Hello,” he says with an even-keeled voice, as if he wasn’t reliving his parents’ death at the sound of a popped tire. He’s only just noticing their surroundings—the white fence upon which the man leans, the vast fields, the farmhouse behind him and another boy his age holding a ball under his arm.
“Can I give ya’ll a hand?” The unfamiliar man says.
“Oh, that would be very kind of you,” Alfred says. “Mr.?”
“None of that,” the man waves him away with a charming lopsided grin. “John’s just fine. This here’s my boy Clark. He sure could use some company while we work,” he motions behind him while speaking to Bruce. Clark waves at Bruce, smiling with his missing tooth front and centre, as he radiates excited energy.
“Alfred,” the butler answers, holding his hand out and shaking John’s hand. “Bruce, would you like to wait with Clark?” He doesn’t use ‘play’ purposefully. Ever since the murder, Bruce has latched onto the need for productivity. Everything needs to mean something. There is no room for play. A child could not save Thomas and Martha Wayne, which is why he is so determined to grow up quickly.
“This is my car. If I may stay with you and learn how to fix it, I would appreciate it.” Bruce remains firm, meeting the eyes of both men and establishing himself as their equal despite his small stature.
John glances at Alfred. Neither adult knows what to say, but it seems they agree that it would do Bruce some good to spend some time with someone his age. It’s Clark who speaks first.
“That’s a good idea! If you get bored, you can come play with me whenever you feel like.” Clark nods, grinning at Bruce. His hair’s a mess and he’s got dirt on his nose. His jeans have grass stains on his knees. Clark is picture perfect joy on his little farm with his dad. “I got a ball and everything.”
“I can see that,” Bruce says, trying his best not to be dismissive. He turns to the other men. “Where should we begin?”
“That depends,” John says, leaning on his elbows. “You got all the tools you need?”
“Yes, but if you happen to have a car jack, I assure you I’ll take you up on the offer.”
“Sure do.”
John pushes off the fence, walking towards his son and ruffling Clark’s hair. He says something to Clark softly, and Clark bounces on the tip of his feet, nodding his head and answering his father eagerly. The sight of them sends an ache through Bruce’s chest and he turns away from the moment he will never live again with his own father.
