prongspower

[prongspower]

Post-Argument Sex

(Batboys x Reader)

Warnings: MDNI - 18+, talks of smut

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request. Enjoy!

Bruce Wayne

With Bruce, it doesn’t happen after every fight, you’d have to hit that rare mix where the argument is more about stubbornness and control than real hurt.

The energy is tense. He’s not storming toward you with a smirk, he’s looming in your space, still running on that low, rumbling Batman growl, but now it’s turned inward toward you.

His hands are firm, almost restrained at first, like he’s still holding back the words he didn’t get to throw at you.

You’d feel it in the way his mouth moves… no teasing build-up, just a hard kiss meant to shut down both of you before you say something worse.

Once it starts, Bruce is very focused on making sure you’re okay with this shift in energy, but once you give the go, it’s intense, almost a claiming. He’s trying to burn away the frustration between you with heat and pressure.

Afterward, he’s quiet, keeping you close until you’re both calmer. He won’t apologize right away, but you’ll feel it in the way he holds you.

Dick Grayson

With Dick, the fight probably escalated because you both care too much, and once the tension crests, the line between “I’m so mad at you” and “I love you so much it’s infuriating” gets paper thin.

He’s more likely to make the first move, pacing, running his hands through his hair, then blurting something like, “God, you drive me insane,” before pulling you into a kiss.

There’s a push-pull dynamic, his hands will grip your hips or jaw like he’s still trying to win the argument physically, but his smile will be breaking through mid-kiss.

The sex is fast, messy, borderline playful even if it starts heated, like the anger melts into relief that you’re both still here.

Afterward, he’s the type to flop down next to you, breathing hard, and mutter, “We’re still talking about this, you know,” but in a way that makes you laugh instead of roll your eyes.

Jason Todd

With Jason, the spark from an argument can very easily tip into physical territory, especially if it’s one of those “I hate how much I want you right now” moments.

He’s in your space quick, crowding you, smirking, maybe tossing a sarcastic, “You done?” before kissing you like he’s trying to knock the wind out of you.

His touch is rougher, more insistent, picking you up, pinning you against a wall, pulling at clothes like he’s in a hurry. There’s a physicality to it that feels like an outlet for everything he couldn’t articulate.

He thrives on the charged energy, half growls, half laughter when you push back against him physically.

Afterward, he’ll still be cocky about “winning” the fight, but the way he tucks you against him or kisses your shoulder tells the real story. He’d rather burn through his pride than stay mad at you overnight.

Tim Drake

Tim’s version of post-argument sex almost never happens immediately after the fight, he needs a beat to process, but when it does, it’s because the frustration has been simmering and he finally realizes, “If I don’t touch you right now, I’ll implode.”

It starts slow and a little awkward, he’ll stand there rubbing the back of his neck, trying to figure out if you’re still mad, then suddenly he’s kissing you like he can’t believe you’re letting him.

It’s intimate more than aggressive, lots of lingering touches, almost like he’s apologizing through every kiss.

He uses the sex as a way to prove he doesn’t want the fight to define things, focusing on your pleasure until you’re both soft toward each other again.

Afterward, he’s the type to quietly admit he was wrong (even if he wasn’t fully), because having you feel safe with him matters more than being right.

Duke Thomas

Duke is stubborn, but he doesn’t like leaving things unresolved, so if post-argument sex happens, it’s because the fight was mostly about stress, not betrayal.

He’s got a warm, grounding kind of intensity. he’ll step into your space slowly, watching your face for any sign you don’t want him touching you yet.

Once you give him the go, he kisses you in a way that immediately shifts the mood… firm but lingering, a silent, “We’re okay, right?”

The sex is steady and reassuring, even if there’s still an undercurrent of frustration, like he’s trying to physically rebuild the connection you just rattled.

He’s very into post-sex cuddling after a fight, keeping you tangled with him until you both start laughing about something completely unrelated.

Damian Wayne

Damian hates feeling out of control, so if a fight gets heated enough for post-argument sex to happen, it’s because you’ve pushed each other to that razor’s edge between fury and need.

His approach is direct, no teasing, no slow lead in. He’ll close the distance in a blink, gripping the back of your neck or waist, kissing you with almost aggressive precision.

The sex is intense and highly focused, like he’s trying to prove something, both to you and himself. Every movement is purposeful, almost competitive in its urgency.

You’ll feel the leftover sharpness from the fight in his touches, but it’s controlled, he never loses himself completely, because he refuses to be reckless with you.

Afterward, Damian doesn’t apologize verbally right away, but his meticulous care, cleaning you up, making sure you’re comfortable, speaks volumes. The actual verbal “I was wrong” might come hours later… or the next morning over coffee.

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[prongspower]

everything's growing in our garden

jason todd x wife! reader

synopsis: Jason comes back from patrol with a baby and soot in his hair. He never thought he deserved anything good, but you build something soft anyway.

words: 3.8k

warnings: crying baby. no use of y/n

---

The building is coming down around him.

Smoke curls like claws through the stairwell, the air thick with heat and sirens and screaming — but none of it matters. Not really. Not since he heard the crying.

He kicks down the last door on the left. Inside: scorched drywall, a mattress half on fire, and—

There.

Curled in the corner like a forgotten blanket. No older than a few weeks, swaddled in soot, mouth open and wailing. Eyes wild. Reaching.

Jason doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe.

Just moves.

He’s across the room in three steps. Drops to his knees. Checks the baby over with hands he can’t make stop shaking. No visible burns. Still breathing. Covered in ash.

The moment he lifts him, the baby latches onto his flak vest with tiny, furious fingers.

Won’t let go.

Jason’s heart punches his ribs.

"Hey, hey," he rasps, trying to make his voice gentle. “Got you. I got you.”

A beam groans above them. He doesn’t wait. Tugs his jacket off and wraps it around the baby like armor. One hand under the neck. One against his chest. Head down. Go.

Out the hall. Down the fire escape. Through the smoke.

The baby doesn’t cry anymore. Just holds on.

And Jason?

Jason runs like hell.

—

You are not expecting a baby tonight.

In fact, the only things on your to-do list are:

Recharge.

Hydrate.

Kiss your hot husband when he gets home from his nightly war on Gotham’s crime statistics.

You are currently achieving two out of three. Your AirPods hum low-fi jazz into your ears, and the cucumbers on your eyelids are starting to slip down your cheekbones. Somewhere across the apartment, your diffuser is puffing lavender-scented clouds into the air like a sleepy little train. You smell like a coconut-sugar candle and your nails are drying. Life is good.

You’re just starting to doze off when the window clicks open.

Of course. Jason never uses the damn door.

You expect the usual: a grunt, a dropped helmet, maybe a kiss pressed to your forehead before he stumbles into the shower.

Instead, what you get is smoke. Soot. A strangled cry.

You sit up.

Cucumber slices slide down your cheeks and onto your hoodie. One AirPod clatters to the couch cushion. Your husband is standing in the middle of the living room, soot-streaked and wide-eyed, holding a bundled shape in his arms like it might vanish if he so much as blinks.

You stare at him.

Then at the bundle.

Then at him again.

“…Jason,” you say slowly. “That is a baby.”

“I know,” he blurts. “I know. I just—I didn’t think, okay? I saw him and I—”

“Jason.”

He takes two steps forward, the bundle squirming weakly in his arms. There’s a tiny, high-pitched hiccup. The shape shifts and reveals a round, red-blotched face, mouth open in the start of another wail. Soot clings to chubby cheeks. 

Jason looks wrecked. More than usual. Helmet hair, bruised, a tear down the seam of his jacket. His arms are trembling.

“There was a fire. A ring. The bastards were running kids out of Crime Alley and I—he was just there. Crying. Everyone else gone. And he grabbed me. Grabbed my glove like he wasn’t letting go, and I just—” His voice breaks. “I saw myself for a second. Just. I moved. I didn’t think. I couldn’t leave him.”

You blink. A slow breath leaves your lungs.

“Come here,” you say, voice soft.

Jason hesitates. “Sweetheart—”

“I said come here.”

He obeys, like he always does when your voice dips into that tone.

You reach for the baby.

Your fingers graze the edge of the jacket and pause. The baby’s eyes flutter up. Red, watery, still in panic mode, but he looks at you. Just for a second.

You smile. “Hi there,” you whisper, more breath than words.

And then, gently, you ease the baby out of Jason’s arms.

He goes without a fight. The baby whimpers, grabbing your shirt with one sooty fist, and tucks himself into your chest with the kind of blind trust that makes your throat ache.

You sway a little, automatically. Muscle memory from a life you never thought you’d need.

“You did the right thing,” you say.

Jason’s mouth opens, but nothing comes out. His chest rises like he’s about to sob and collapse all at once.

“Breathe, Jay,” you tell him. “In. Out. Again.”

He listens.

One breath. Then another. Then a shuddering sigh.

“I didn’t know what to do,” he whispers.

“You brought him home,” you say simply. “That’s what you did.”

He swallows.

“Go shower. You’re bleeding. You smell like fire.”

“I can help—”

“You will. But after you shower.”

Jason hesitates. “We don’t even have wipes or—”

“Are you kidding me? You’re the Red Hood. You own three brands of baby wipes. You said they’re the only thing that gets the powder residue off your guns.”

He squints. “You said you wouldn't make fun of that anymore”

“Go. Shower. We’ll be here.” Jason shoots you a grateful look and then turns to go to the washroom after promising the baby he’ll be back. 

You settle onto the floor with the baby curled against your chest, sitting cross-legged by the coffee table like this is any other Tuesday night and not a total deviation from reality. Your fingers are already moving before your brain catches up, brushing soot from his forehead, rocking him in slow, instinctual sways.

He’s hiccuping. Sharp little spasms that jolt through his tiny body, each one punctuated by a shaky breath and a soft, broken sound from the back of his throat.

Your heart squeezes.

“Shhh,” you whisper, rocking a little more. “I know. I know, sweetheart. We’re gonna fix it, okay? You’re safe now.”

The baby wipes, Jason’s fancy, unscented ones, sit in the middle of the table like some cosmic joke. You grab them with one hand and ease the little boy into your lap with the other.

He blinks up at you, lashes crusted with ash, lips trembling. You think he’s trying to cry again, but he’s too tired. Instead, he lets out a low, wheezy whimper that turns into another hiccup, and you feel it all the way through you.

“I know,” you murmur. “Big day, huh?”

You unwrap Jason’s jacket that's been wrapped around the baby slowly, piece by piece. It’s warm from his body heat, and the baby makes a small sound of protest as the cooler air hits his skin.

“Oh, I know, I know,” you croon, voice going higher and softer without you meaning to. “Almost done. Let’s get you all cleaned up, little guy.”

What’s left of his onesie is charred at the edges, barely clinging to one shoulder. You tug at it carefully, apologizing every time the fabric catches. He doesn’t seem to notice. His hands are curled into little fists, still clutching invisible threads.

You grab the first wipe and start gently, his forehead, soft and warm, dotted with grime. You trace along his eyebrows, then sweep carefully down the bridge of his nose. Each stroke is featherlight, the kind you might use for glass.

He hiccups again, but it’s quieter this time.

“There you go,” you whisper. “See? Not so bad.”

You work your way down. Cheeks, chin, neck. There’s a smudge of blood near his ear that you clean with extra care. Not his, thankfully. His arms are sticky, tiny fingers coated in smoke and something that might have been applesauce at some point.

You talk the whole time.

Not because he understands, but because you need it. Because it keeps your hands steady. Because if this baby is going to live in your world now, then he deserves to hear words that are soft and steady and safe.

“You’re doing so good,” you say as you clean under his chin. “Brave little man. Bet you didn’t think you’d end up in a vigilante’s living room tonight, huh?”

He blinks, hiccups again. Then lets out a slow, shuddery sigh.

That’s the first time he really settles.

Not asleep, not yet. But no longer vibrating with fear. His hands uncoil a little. One of them smacks softly against your chest, fingers opening and closing. Grabbing. Seeking.

You let him wrap them around the drawstring of your hoodie.

“Got me?” you whisper. “Yeah. I’ve got you too.”

You work your way down to his belly, where there’s more ash than baby skin, and clean it in little circles. His legs twitch when you get to his feet. He lets out a hiccuping noise that might almost be a laugh.

You smile, watery and wide.

“Ticklish, huh? I’ll remember that.”

Once he’s clean, or as clean as he can be, you reach behind you for the towel you spotted earlier, fresh and fluffy from laundry day. You lay it out on your lap and ease him into it slowly, like wrapping a present made of porcelain.

He doesn’t cry. Doesn’t protest.

Just lets you fold the corners around him and pull him close.

You lift him again, now swaddled and warm and smelling like Jason’s baby wipes. His cheek presses to your shoulder. One final hiccup rattles out of him, soft and damp.

Then stillness.

You stroke a hand down his back and feel his breathing even out, the rhythm finally syncing with yours.

“See?” you whisper. “We’re okay.”

You hold him like that for a long time, rocking gently, chin resting atop his head. His grip on your hoodie string tightens once more, like he knows this is something new, something he doesn’t have a name for yet, but he wants to keep it.

You kiss the top of his head, right over a little fuzz of hair.

“Welcome to the world, baby boy,” you murmur. “Let’s make it better than the one you came from.”

You hear the bathroom door creak open before you see him. He appears in the doorway, soft footsteps, damp hair dripping onto his shirt, a slight limp that he’s trying (and failing) to hide. He’s in one of his plain black tees and a pair of sweats that hang low on his hips, clean for the first time in hours.

But he looks older.

Not just tired, aged. Like whatever he saw in that warehouse tonight carved something new into his bones. His shoulders are hunched. His hands tremble at his sides. He’s blinking too much, like the light hurts.

You don’t say anything. Not yet.

You’re still on the couch, legs tucked beneath you, and the baby, your baby now apparently, is curled into your chest, wrapped in the fluffy towel, finally calm. One chubby fist clings to your hoodie drawstring. His little mouth hangs open slightly, breath puffing soft and warm against your collarbone.

Jason sees the two of you and stops like he’s been gut-punched.

His mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

You meet his eyes.

“Well,” you say softly, “you missed bath time.”

He swallows. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse. “You look…natural.”

“Do not make a MILF joke right now,” you warn him.

His lip twitches. Not quite a smile. But almost.

He crosses the room slowly, barefoot and silent, and sinks onto the coffee table across from you, elbows on his knees. His eyes don’t leave the baby. You watch his fingers flex, twitch, then curl into fists against his thighs.

He’s still shaking.

You shift the baby slightly so he’s more visible. “He’s clean now,” you murmur. “Mostly soot. One scratch. Nothing serious.”

Jason nods, jaw clenched tight.

“Want to hold him?”

He blinks. “I—I’ll drop him.”

“No, you won’t.”

“I’m not—he’s so small. I don’t know what I’m doing.”

You look at him. Really look at him. The man who faced death a hundred times, the man who ran into fire tonight without flinching. He’s more afraid of this baby than he ever was of a bullet.

“You okay, Ma?” he asks, voice low.

“Jay,” you say gently. “Meet your son.”

Jason sucks in a breath.

You shift the baby carefully, transferring the little bundle into his arms. Jason’s muscles go taut. You guide his hands. One behind the neck. One under the towel. The baby stirs a little, but does not wake.

Jason just stares.

“Our son,” he says quietly. Then, softer, like it costs him something: “You’re already better at this than me, Ma.”

“Not a competition.”

“If it was, you’d be winning.”

You smile. “Let me know when you’re ready for diaper duty.”

He doesn’t laugh. His throat bobs.

“He held onto me,” Jason says. “When I picked him up. Like he was already used to me. Like he knew.”

“He probably did,” you reply. “You’re loud.”

“Sweetheart.”

You glance at him, lips twitching.

He looks back, eyes full of something you don’t have a name for, and murmurs, “You’re killing me here.”

You grin. “Good.”

He snorts, and the sound breaks something in both of you.

You pull a small notepad from the coffee table and hand it to him. Folded. Torn out with care. You made the list while he was in the shower, one-handed, with the baby hiccuping on your chest.

Jason takes it with one hand, still awkwardly cradling the baby in the other.

He unfolds it.

Formula (small can to test for allergies) Bottles (with the little slow-flow nipple things) Diapers (Get all from size newborn to size 3 just to be sure) Wipes (unscented, non-alcohol) Pacifier (whatever brand looks trustworthy) Blanket

He stares at it for a second.

Then he says, “You’re terrifying when you’re calm.”

“You said that already.”

“Still true.”

He glances up. “You sure you’ll be okay here?”

You raise a brow. “I just cleaned a crime scene off a one-month-old with gun wipes and wrapped him in a bath towel. I think I’ve earned your trust.”

Jason exhales, slow and shaky. He leans down, presses the gentlest kiss to the baby’s forehead. Then one to your temple.

“I’ll be back in ten,” he says, voice gruff. “Don’t let him grow up without me.”

“No promises,” you say, already pulling the baby back into your arms. “He’s learning fast. Got a strong grip.”

He grabs his keys and is halfway out the window before you call out, “Hey!”

He pauses.

“You’re doing good,” you tell him.

He looks over his shoulder, silhouetted by the streetlight behind him.

“Only ‘cause I’ve got you” he says.

Then he disappears into the night.

You look down at the baby, who is still fast asleep, tiny chest rising and falling like the most fragile promise.

“Well,” you whisper. “That went okay.”

The baby grunts.

You take that as agreement.

–

You and the baby were doing okay for a while.

After Jason left, you wrapped the baby a little tighter in the towel and curled up on the couch with him tucked against your chest. The apartment was warm, quiet, filled only with the soft hum of the fridge and the occasional rustle of the blanket nest you’d made. You could feel the baby’s little breaths on your collarbone: slow, sleepy, steady.

You thought maybe you’d both doze off.

But then he shifted.

Just a little.

His head tilted back, eyes blinking open. Still a little glazed from fatigue, but alert now. Searching.

And you watched him look around the room.

His gaze skipped past the shelves, the ceiling, the lamp. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t newborn twitchy nonsense. He was looking.

Your chest squeezed.

“Yeah,” you whispered, brushing a thumb along his cheek. “I miss him too.”

The baby let out a soft sound. Not quite a cry. Just a broken little whimper, like something in his tiny chest had snapped loose.

And then came the tears.

Big, hiccupy sobs, full of confusion and exhaustion and something too big for his little body to hold. His face scrunched. His fists clenched in the towel. He started wailing like his heart was breaking.

And somehow, that was the thing that undid you.

You tried. You really did. You held him, rocked him, whispered, “Shh, baby, shh, he’ll be back soon,” over and over again.

But your voice wobbled. Your throat tightened. And somewhere between one sob and the next, your own tears started falling.

You’re still crying when the window opens.

You don’t look up at first. You just whisper, “Jay?” like maybe you’ve imagined him, like maybe you’ve gone soft with shock and longing.

But then—

That’s when the window bangs open again.

You jump, clutching the baby tighter, but then—

“Sweetheart,” Jason breathes, breathless and wind-chapped and bag-laden, “I’m back. I got it all. I—holy shit, are you crying?”

“No,” you sniff, snuggling the baby closer. “We’re both crying.”

Jason’s face crumples. He’s across the room in two strides, bags thunking to the floor.

“Sweetheart,” he murmurs, crouching in front of you. “It was ten minutes. What happened?”

“He missed you,” you whisper, gesturing at the baby. “I missed you.”

Jason leans forward and kisses your forehead, your cheek, your temple, like he’s trying to seal the cracks. “I’m here now. Okay? You’re not doing this alone.”

The baby lets out one last watery squeak before going quiet, little fists still clinging to your hoodie strings like they’re lifelines.

Jason exhales hard. “Alright,” he says. “Let’s do this.”

He scoops the bags off the floor and starts unloading: bottles, formula, wipes, a six-pack of tiny diapers, a giraffe pacifier, and, somehow, a stuffed penguin wearing a bowtie.

“I panicked,” he says when you lift an eyebrow at the penguin. “He looked trustworthy.”

You laugh, a little teary still, and set the baby down gently on the blanket-nest you made on the couch. “Okay. You want bottle or diaper?”

Jason eyes the baby warily. “I’ll take diaper. Can’t mess that up too bad, right?”

You make a noise that is not confirmation and head to the kitchen to figure out formula.

Behind you, Jason crouches over the baby like he’s defusing a bomb. “Alright, little man. Let’s not make this weird.”

You’re measuring formula powder into the bottle when you hear a yelp.

“Did he pee on you?”

“Direct hit.”

You bite back a snort. “Wipes are next to you.”

Jason mutters a prayer to whatever gods govern newborn hygiene and starts cleaning up. You screw the bottle lid on and flick the kettle on to heat a little water.

A minute later, you yelp and yank your hand back.

“Babe?” Jason says, halfway through taping the diaper.

“Burned my finger,” you say, holding it under cool water. “He better appreciate this. Formula smells like wet chalk.”

Jason is quiet for a second. You look over and shout out, “You okay?”

“I’m fine. You?”

You glance down at your finger, still under cool water, then over at him, on the floor in front of the couch, legs splayed awkwardly, baby wrapped in a blanket in his lap like something sacred and possibly radioactive.

“I’ve never been better,” you say.

You mean it.

Jason searches your face, like he doesn’t quite believe you yet. But you watch the tension in his shoulders loosen, just a little. The kind of shift that says okay, we can breathe now. Just for a minute.

You dry your hands on your hoodie and grab the warm bottle from the counter. “Alright, Jay,” you say gently, “feeding time.”

He adjusts the baby in his arms slowly, carefully. Like he’s still convinced one wrong move will make the kid detonate. But the baby just blinks up at him, quiet now, eyes big and glassy.

You lean in, helping Jason guide the bottle toward the baby’s mouth. “Remember what the video said? Just enough tilt to keep the nipple full.”

“Like a fuel injector,” he mutters, which is a sentence that absolutely does not belong here and yet somehow fits perfectly.

Then softly, hesitantly the baby latches.

Jason freezes.

And then the baby starts drinking.

A tiny sound, halfway between a slurp and a sigh, escapes his mouth as he settles in, hands curled against Jason’s shirt like he’s staking a claim.

Jason’s voice is barely audible. “He’s eating.”

You press your shoulder against his. “You’re feeding him.”

“Holy shit.”

You laugh. “Exactly what the baby was thinking, I’m sure.”

The room is so still. Gotham hums beyond the windows with distant sirens, the occasional horn, but inside, it’s just the three of you. Just this quiet miracle.

The baby drinks slowly, pausing now and then to blink up at Jason. There’s something so trusting in that look, like he already knows this is his person. Like he knew the moment soot-covered arms scooped him from the wreckage.

You rest your head on Jason’s shoulder. He leans into you instinctively.

“I thought I broke everything I touched,” he says quietly.

“You didn’t break him.”

He looks down again, awe softening the edges of his face. “No. I didn’t.”

When the bottle’s almost empty, you pull back gently. “Okay. Now for part two.”

Jason squints at you. “Part two?”

“Burping. Remember the video?”

Jason blinks. “Oh God.”

You laugh. “Don’t panic. We’ve got this.”

You lift the baby from his arms and place him carefully against your shoulder, one hand supporting the back of his head, the other patting his back in slow, rhythmic taps.

Jason watches like it’s surgery.

“Not too hard,” he murmurs. “Not too soft. Just right.”

“What is he, a porridge?”

“I swear—”

And then the baby lets out a very small, very proper burp.

You both freeze.

Jason’s mouth drops open. “That was—he—he did it.”

You beam. “He did it.”

“No you did it. You’re the baby whisperer.”

You lower the baby back down, curled against your chest now, heavy with milk and sleep and trust.

Jason reaches out and brushes a single finger down the baby’s back. His hand is so big next to that tiny body, but the touch is impossibly gentle.

“He looks like he’s already dreaming,” Jason whispers.

You nod, watching the baby’s eyelids flutter. “I hope it’s something soft.”

A pause. Then:

“What do you think he dreams about?” Jason asks.

You smile. “Right now? Probably warm bottles. And maybe you.”

Jason’s quiet for a beat too long.

You glance over.

He’s staring at you.

Like the world just narrowed down to you and the sleeping baby and the way your voice wraps around both of them like a blanket.

“I really love you,” he says softly.

You blink.

“Say it again.”

“I love you”

You smile. You tilt your head until your temple touches his.

“Back at you.”

The baby lets out one last sigh and goes completely still.

You and Jason don’t move. You just sit there, watching the baby sleep, your arms wrapped around the beginning of something new. Something that still smells like formula and burnt fingers and trust.

And the thing is?

You’re not scared.

Not even a little.

[prongspower]

𝓕𝓸𝓻𝓫𝓲𝓭𝓭𝓮𝓷 - 𝓙𝓪𝓼𝓸𝓷 𝓣𝓸𝓭𝓭

𝓟𝓻𝓸𝓵𝓸𝓰𝓾𝓮

ACT ONE - PROLOGUE

Forbidden - Masterlist

General Masterlist

Pairing: Red Hood! Jason Todd x Villainess! Fem. Reader (LONGFIC)

Trope: (old friends) to Enemies to Lovers

Synopsis: How far can a childhood bond prevent a war? For Jason, you disappeared on a cold night, for you, Jason abandoned you in an old shed. Separated, with Jason next to Batman and you next to the Joker, oblivious to each other's identity, the same feeling filled each other chests: "Do I know you?"

Warnings: Blood, violence, scars, cuts, child Abandonment

divider by @hyuneskkami

The first time they saw each other, they were in the Crime Alley.

A starving girl, dirt and grease around her dress and little fingers. Your hands were rummaging through garbage for food, just like a little raccoon.

“I have a sandwich.” Jason said, showing you the gray package in his hands.

You stepped back, apprehensive, then looked at the food. “What do you want?” Your voice was weak. The gray and parched lips showed the indication of the approaching cold season. "I don't have money, I know that adults exchange money for food."

Jason frowned, still offering the sandwich, truth be told, someone left it on top of a table in a bar and he grabbed it and ran away. "We can divide, then."

He moved closer, making you realize that he was a little taller than you, and when your hands went to the trash can again, he held them with his free hand.

“Hey.” He muttered, making you look at him again.

"I don't want your food out of pity.”

Jason had to admit, you had spirit, but he just sighed. "It’s not pity..."

"You're not going to get anything by giving me a sandwich."

You had a point, a good one, actually.

"Maybe not." He said, showing the food packaging again. "But I don't want anything from you.”

He divided the sandwich in two parts and gave you the one that was rolled in the paper. “My name is Jason Todd.”

You looked at the bread paper, fascinated, as you said your name in a murmur, so low that even the boy himself had a hard time hearing what you had said. But he only moved his head slightly. "Where are your parents?”

“I have no parents.” Your voice sounded a bit hoarse. “Neither last name”.

His eyes widened, surprised. And you began to eat the sandwich he gave to you. Your eyes were still looking at the package.

“What is this? The word.” He looked at the word that you pointed.

“Bread?”

“Bread.” You repeated, blinking slowly. “And this one?”

“Cheese.” He answered as well. “You don't… know how to read?” It was more an affirmation than a question itself, but you nodded anyway.

“I don't know how to read.”

“How old are you?” Jason looked at you more intensely.

“I don't know. I used to have a grandma that always gave me some food when I passed by her house, but she died. She always told me how old I was. I know I was seven when she died. It was before they built that little playground in Robinson Park.”

“This happened three years ago.” Jason explained. “You are ten years old, then. Just like me.”

Your eyes found him in a surprised gaze.

“When is your birthday?” He questioned you again.

“I don't know.”

“Let's say that your birthday is today, then.” He said, looking at you. “Consider the sandwich as my gift.”

“Why are you being good to me?” You asked, murmuring.

And Jason was asking that himself. He needed money, money to help his mother, who was sick due to that white thing she kept in her bedroom, he needed money to buy food, he needed money to live.

He was going to pass by in the alley and just ignore you looking for food in the trash but something…

Something made him stop.

“I don't know.” He whispered, looking at his own sandwich.

That could be just another normal day in his life, but Jason put the other half of the sandwich in your hands, walking away. “Keep it.”

“Will I ever see you again?” Your voice reached his ears when he was almost turning the corner.

But he stopped, not looking at you.

“No.” He answered, disappearing in the night.

But you saw him again the next day, and the other. And the week later.

And suddenly, Jason Peter Todd became your only and best friend in that dark city.

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[prongspower]

Late Night Pancakes

(Batboys x Reader)

Synopsis: where you wake your boyfriend up at 2am to make you pancakes

Notes from the Batcave: request from @delirious-gothamite, enjoy babe!

Bruce Wayne

You nudge him awake at 2 a.m., and he cracks one eye open, expression unreadable.

“…You woke me… for pancakes?” His voice is gravel and judgment.

The first thing out of his mouth isn’t “Why?” but, “We are not waking Alfred at this hour.”

He acts like this is a completely unreasonable request… and yet ten minutes later he’s in the kitchen, making them himself.

They’re burnt. There’s a reason Alfred has him banned from the kitchen.

Dick Grayson

Blinks awake, hair a mess, and is already smiling before you even finish your request.

“Babe. YES. Middle-of-the-night pancakes are the best.”

Throws on sweatpants, puts on music in the kitchen, and flips them with way too much flair, nearly dropping one but saving it midair like a circus act.

Makes them into cute shapes, pours way too much syrup, and insists on eating them together on the kitchen counter with your feet touching.

Jason Todd

“You’re lucky I like you, sweetheart.” Said while burying his face in the pillow.

Acts like you’ve asked him to run a marathon, but eventually drags himself to the kitchen.

His pancakes are thick, almost cake-like, and drowned in butter.

Keeps muttering about how this is “ridiculous” while very clearly enjoying himself, especially when you try to feed him bites as a thank you.

Tim Drake

You shake him awake and get a very confused “…Pancakes?” followed by “Oh. Yeah, sure,” like you just asked if he wanted oxygen.

Adds chocolate chips or fruit without you asking because of course he’s going to overachieve.

Feeds them straight from the pan to you, while you while sit on the counter, legs swinging.

Duke Thomas

Groggy but doesn’t protest much. “You want pancakes? Fine. But I’m making the good ones.”

Pulls out every ingredient like a pro, he’s got secret Saturday-morning breakfast skills.

Teases you the whole time about your “late-night cravings” but makes extra so you can snack on them tomorrow.

Ends up sitting with you in the dark, both of you lit by the fridge light, eating in companionable quiet.

Damian Wayne

Jerks awake instantly, frowning like you just told him Gotham is under siege.

“You’re waking me at 0200 hours for… pancakes?” His tone suggests he’s considering ending the relationship.

Says no at first. Then, five minutes later, shows up in the kitchen muttering about “your appalling lack of self-control” while making perfectly uniform, golden pancakes.

Thankfully he did NOT inherit his dad’s lack of cooking skill.

Sets the plate in front of you with a curt “Eat. Quickly. I’m going back to bed.” But he sits down to watch you, because he needs to see you enjoy them.

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[prongspower]

Batkids early adoption au except it all happens in the same night (also Bruce Wayne is an idiot)

Picture this:

Bruce goes to the circus. A tragedy occurs. He starts walking back to his car with a freshly orphaned Dick Grayson clinging to his neck. He gets there only to find...

The tires are gone. All but one, which is in the process of being removed by a scrawny street kid named Jason Todd. The boy runs.

Bruce panics. He obviously can't let this poor, obviously homeless kid run off to get crimed in Crime Alley. Bruce does the only thing he can think of: he throws Dick like a pokeball. It works, sort of. Dick catches the kid, the kid catches a concussion.

Bruce panics harder.

He bundles the kids into the back of his car and hops in the drivers seat. "Hospital," he says to himself, "I can do this. I'm Batman."

"What?" Dick says.

"What?" Jason says.

"What?" Bruce says.

THUMP. They're interrupted by the sound of someone landing bodily on the roof.

Bruce stumbles out of the car to find Tim Drake doing the family guy death pose on top of his $400,000 Mercedes. Above them, a broken fire escape squeaks a threat of more violence. Bruce is distracted by it for only a second, but when he looks back down, Tim is already upright and setting off a camera in his face.

"Hi, Batman!" Tim grins. "I knew it was you."

Bruce blinks away the stars with a sigh and opens the back door again. Tim scrambles off the roof and wanders in.

Bruce now has three childr- wait when did that one get here? Cassandra Cain is wedged into the middle seat between Dick and Jason. She smiles at him sweetly.

"Who-" Bruce begins.

Someone wings a brick at them out of nowhere. Tim narrowly avoids further head trauma only because Bruce's dad reflexes activate in time to bat (ha!) it away. Bruce turns to see a little blonde girl sprinting off. He moves to catch her, but steps on Jason's discarded tire iron; it flips up and nails him in the balls. Stephanie Brown gets away.

Bruce realises, while he's writhing pitifully on the ground, that the car still has no tires.

He calls Alfred for help.

---

Four hours, a hospital visit, a whole lot of paperwork and one long phone call to CPS later, Bruce arrives home with four emergency foster kids in tow.

Talia Al Ghul is sitting in his living room with a baby carrier.

[prongspower]

Caught In The Act

(Batboys x Reader)

Synopsis: you kiss your boyfriend publically while he’s in his hero persona… and it makes front page news.

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request! Enjoy!

Bruce Wayne (Batman)

You catch him after patrol, cornered in a shadowy rooftop alcove as he’s about to grapple away.

You pull up his cowl just enough to plant a quick kiss on his jaw before he can protest.

Unfortunately, one of Gotham’s ever-present paparazzi has a zoom lens, and the next morning the Gotham Gazette runs a grainy shot of Batman being kissed by a mysterious woman in a leather jacket.

The headline reads: “BATMAN - TENDER SIDE REVEALED?”

Bruce grumbles and claims it’s a distraction tactic for a mission. Alfred nearly chokes on his tea.

Dick Grayson (Nightwing)

It’s right after he stops a mugger in Blüdhaven.

You rush up to thank him, except “thank you” becomes you launching into his arms and kissing him full on the mouth. You forget you’re standing directly under a streetlamp.

A passing bus has an ad for the Blüdhaven Chronicle, and the onboard photographer just happens to snap the moment.

The picture hits the paper with the headline: “NIGHTWING GETS A HERO’S REWARD.” Dick thinks it’s hilarious and keeps showing people.

Jason Todd (Red Hood)

You meet him on a rooftop after he’s finished a job. He’s all gruff “You shouldn’t be here” until you tug his helmet up just enough to kiss him.

Of course, some idiot with a drone gets the whole thing on video. Within 12 hours, the footage is all over YouTube titled “Red Hood’s Secret Lover?!”

Jason is livid, mostly because the comments are weirdly wholesome. (“Wow, he looks happy for once!”) He pretends he hates it, but he keeps the screenshot as his phone background.

Tim Drake (Red Robin)

You catch him coming out of a fire escape, mid-patrol. He’s exhausted, you’re relieved he’s safe, so you pull him in for a soft kiss.

Tim freezes, because he’s spotted the security camera light blinking red above you.

Sure enough, 24 hours later, Gotham Now posts a blurry still with the caption: “RED ROBIN—MYSTERY GIRLFRIEND OR ACCOMPLICE?”

Tim’s mortified, mostly because they caught him mid-blush.

Duke Thomas (Signal)

You swing by his patrol route to bring him a hot drink during a chilly night.

He lifts his visor to thank you, and you peck him on the lips. What neither of you notice is the news chopper above filming a traffic update.

The clip goes viral, signal-boosted by a hero fan account, with the caption: “THE SIGNAL HAS A SIGNAL FLAME.”

Duke insists he’s fine with it but is secretly more delighted than he lets on.

Damian Wayne (Batman)

It’s rare for Damian to let anyone near him while in the cowl, but you’ve known him long enough to ignore his gruff exterior.

After a rooftop takedown, you stride over, cup his face, and kiss him, right in view of a stunned GCPD officer who immediately tells the press.

The headline reads: “BATMAN - YOUNGER, BOLDER, AND TAKEN?”

Damian denies everything, then personally hunts down every photographer in Gotham to make the photos disappear.

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[prongspower]

Telling Them You’re Pregnant

(Batboys x f!reader)

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ request! Enjoy!

Bruce Wayne

You catch him in his study, pretending to read but clearly lost in thought.

“I have news,” you say, and he looks up with that guarded curiosity only you can chip away at.

When the words “I’m pregnant” leave your mouth, the pen in his hand slips, hitting the desk with a dull clink.

His jaw works, searching for words, but his eyes, soft and wide, betray him first.

He crosses the room in three long strides, pulling you in, “I never thought…” he starts, voice low and unsteady, “…but I’ve never wanted anything more than this. Than us.”

He’s had kids, raised them, but getting this opportunity to do so from scratch, raise a tiny baby from the ground up with you? He can’t imagine anything he wants more.

Dick Grayson

He’s upside down, doing handstand pushups, when you drop the bomb.

You figure if he can handle acrobatics, he can handle news.

You’re wrong.

He topples sideways, legs flailing, before rolling onto his back with a stunned grin, “Wait. Like… pregnant pregnant? Me, a dad?” His voice pitches up like a kid at Christmas.

Then he sits up, laughter spilling out of him, “Babe, I am going to be the coolest dad ever. No, seriously. Our kid is gonna have the best bedtime stories. Circus stories!”

Jason Todd

You hand him a tiny leather jacket, black, with a red bat stitched on the back.

He frowns, eyebrows knitting, but the second he realizes it’s baby-sized, his eyes snap to yours. He’s quiet. Too quiet.

“Jay?” you ask, suddenly nervous.

He swallows, running his fingers over the jacket, “…I didn’t think people like me got this. Family. Normal.”

You cup his face, and he lets out a shaky laugh, pressing his forehead to yours, “I’m gonna keep them safe, doll. Both of you. No matter what.”

Tim Drake

He’s already running on three hours of sleep when you find him at his desk, nursing a mug of coffee.

“Hey, Tim?” you say casually, “We’re going to need a bigger apartment.”

He blinks, “Why? Are your parents visiting? Are we… oh.” His coffee cup pauses halfway to his mouth as it clicks.

He stares for a long moment, then smiles, slow, genuine, and a little disbelieving, “I… didn’t realize how much I wanted this until right now.”

Duke Thomas

You tell him on the rooftop, where you always meet after patrol. The city hums below, but up here, it’s just the two of you.

When you say the words, he blinks, then laughs, warm and unrestrained, “I’m gonna be a dad? Me?!”

He sweeps you up in a hug, spinning you until you’re both breathless.

“You know what this means, right? Our kid is gonna have the coolest baby pictures. We’re talking tiny capes. Tiny helmets.”

Damian Wayne

You hand him a small box, and he opens it to find a baby onesie printed with “Future Assassin.”

His brows shoot up, “Is this…?”

You nod, and for a moment, his composure cracks, eyes widening, lips parting.

He clears his throat, “Tt. I suppose it is only logical my legacy continues.”

But then his hand settles over your stomach, thumb brushing lightly. His voice drops, “You will be loved. Fiercely. Always.”

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[prongspower]

Bruce: And if someone comes up to you at school and says ‘hi, I’m one of B’s friends, I’m here to pick you up’ what do you say?

8 year old Dick Grayson: Liar! Bruce doesn’t have any friends!

[prongspower]

Matching Colors

Pairing: Jason Todd x Girlfriend! Reader

word count: 2.7k

synopsis: On a quiet patrol night, Jason thinks he’s just keeping you out of trouble—until the streetlights hit your hands and he realizes you’re wearing Red Hood-themed nails. What follows is a mix of rooftop banter, playful denial, and the kind of tension that makes even Gotham’s shadows feel warmer.

a/n: I got these custom Red Hood nails made in real life (pic at the end because yes, I’m that extra) and immediately thought, “What if Jason noticed them on patrol?” This idea spiraled into a full one-shot because of course it did. Half flirty chaos, half heart-squeezing tenderness, and 100% inspired by my own nails. Enjoy! ❤️

Gotham’s rooftops are slick with late-night rain, the kind that makes the city look almost clean if you don’t stare too hard. Your boots land silently beside Jason, the faint thud absorbed into the hum of distant traffic. He doesn’t look at you right away—eyes locked on the next rooftop, jaw tense under the edge of his helmet.

You’re half a step behind him, Red Hood’s broad silhouette cutting through the mist. It’s a comfortable rhythm—him scanning the streets, you checking the alleyways. The two of you have been doing this long enough that words aren’t necessary.

It isn’t until you crouch by the ledge, pulling your grappling line from your belt, that his attention shifts. The movement makes your gloves slide back just enough to reveal the sharp curve of your nails—deep crimson with that unmistakable black detailing. A perfect match to the symbol across his chest.

Jason stops mid-step. “The hell is that?” His voice is low, roughened by the modulator, but there’s something warmer under it.

You glance up at him, confused for a second, then realize he’s not staring at your face—he’s staring at your hand. “What?”

He tilts his head slightly, like the angle will help him figure you out. “Are those… Red Hood nails?”

You smirk, curling your fingers just enough to flash the glossy designs in the dim light. “Maybe. Why? You jealous?”

Jason steps closer, his boots silent on the rooftop. The rain catches on the curve of his helmet, sliding down in little rivers. “Jealous? No. But now I gotta know if you did that for me… or if you’re just a really committed fan.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” you shoot back, already hooking your grapple.

Before you can fire, his hand wraps gently but firmly around your wrist. You feel the heat of him even through the armor. “I’m serious,” he says, voice softer now. “You don’t get it… nobody does stuff like that for me. Not without an angle.”

You pause, reading the subtle shift in his stance—the way his shoulders drop a fraction, like you’ve caught him off-guard. Slowly, you turn your hand in his, the rain making the red shimmer darker. “Then maybe it’s time someone did.”

Jason’s silent for a beat too long, the city stretching out around you in wet neon. Then he lets out a quiet huff—half laugh, half disbelief. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Only the best kind,” you answer, stepping past him and firing your line.

When you swing off into the night, you don’t have to look back to know he’s smiling under that helmet.

pic at the end: My actual Red Hood nails that inspired this whole thing—complete with tiny helmet art and Bat symbols because subtlety is overrated.

Inspo. Find them here thank you HibouNails😍

[prongspower]

I have a grandchild?

navigation , dc navigation

WARNINGS: none really, just funny banter

requests are open

dividers by @cafekitsune

Jason Todd liked to think he wore many masks.

The city knew him as Red Hood. To his brothers, he was the snarky, trigger-happy one. To Bruce, a question mark with a temper. But every Tuesday and Thursday, in a tidy, sun-filled classroom, he was something else entirely:

Mr. Jay.

He taught third grade English Lit. Paperbacks. Book fairs. Glitter-covered essays. Small chairs. Lots of stickers.

And somehow? He loved it.

Jason never expected to find peace in a room full of tiny, chaotic humans, but here he was—"Mister Jay" to twenty-four third-graders at Gotham Academy’s lower school, reading Charlotte’s Web with more expression than he thought humanly possible.

He wore cardigans now. He drank peppermint tea. He even had a bulletin board labeled "Our Word Wall."

And he hadn’t told a soul in his family

Not because he was ashamed—he actually liked it. He liked the simplicity, the structure, the way little Brian Jennings waved at him with both hands every morning and offered him a friendship bracelet made of rainbow rubber bands. He liked the chaos he could understand for once.

“Okay, who can tell me what the monster in Where the Wild Things Are really represents?”

Rory’s hand shot up first—Rory with wild curls, a constant sprinkle of glitter on her cheeks, and a reading level two grades above her age.

Jason grinned. “Hit me, Rory.”

“His FEELINGS. Because Max was MAD and monsters are mad feelings!”

“You nailed it.” Jason gave her a fist bump. “A plus level insight. Someone write that down.”

Rory beamed like she’d just won an Oscar.

It started during the fall parent-teacher conference, when you arrived ten minutes late, breathless and apologetic, your daughter’s glitter-covered backpack slung over your shoulder.

Jason took one look at you—coffee-stained shirt, wild bun, tired eyes and soft voice—and immediately short-circuited.

“Sorry—my car wouldn’t start, and then I had to stop Rory from feeding goldfish crackers to a raccoon.”

Jason blinked. Smiled. “Sounds like a Tuesday.”

“Sorry again,” you huffed, taking a seat. “I’ve had a long day.”

He blinked. “No problem. Uh, Rory’s doing great.”

You sighed in relief. “She talks about you all the time. Mr. Jay says this, Mr. Jay says that. I was starting to think she liked you more than me.”

Jason laughed—and it was a real one, the kind that crept into his ribs and stayed. “Don’t worry, she just likes that I let them write haikus about dragons.”

“Haikus?”

“Very serious educational practice.”

You smiled. Something clicked into place.

It started slow. A cup of coffee after conferences. A chat outside after school pickup. Then, one Saturday, he ran into you and Rory at the Gotham public library. Rory sprinted into his legs, squealing “MISTER JAY!!!” loud enough to startle nearby birds.

That day ended with the three of you at a bakery. Rory passed out with a cookie in her hand. You gave him a look—surprised, amused, softened—and said, “She’s never warmed up to someone like this.”

Jason didn’t say anything. Just wrapped Rory’s scarf tighter and said, “She’s a good kid.”

What he meant was: I’d do anything to keep her happy.

Jason fell hard. Harder than he’d fallen in years. He kept it quiet at first, didn’t want to spook you with his baggage, didn’t want Bruce to send a drone overhead and “investigate” why his second-oldest son was skipping crime fighting for PTA meetings.

He just wanted this one thing for himself.

And somehow, it worked.

You dated quietly. Rory loved him instantly. He helped her with spelling words and listened to her detailed theories about dragons living in Gotham’s sewer systems. He fixed your heater when it broke and always remembered your favorite snacks.

By the time spring rolled around, he was yours, completely.

Jason was...gone. Just absolutely a goner. He’d found a rhythm in the chaos—dinner with you, homework with Rory, bedtime stories, and night patrol. It was weird and messy and full of glitter.

And it was home.

He was there when Rory lost her first tooth. When she scraped her knee on the playground and insisted only Mister Jay could clean it. When she had a nightmare and called him, not you, because "Daddy Jay fights monsters."

He didn’t correct her. Not once.

You saw it—how she clung to him, how he always bent to her level, how she crawled into his lap like it was the safest place on earth.

You asked him once, “You sure you’re okay with this?”

Jason kissed your forehead. “She’s my kid, too. Blood or not.”

So when you had an emergency work trip and your usual babysitter canceled, you didn’t even hesitate.

“You sure you don’t mind watching her overnight?” you asked, handing him a list of instructions and emergency contacts longer than a novel.

“Go save the world, I have this covered.” 

You kissed his cheek, hugged Rory tight, and left.

“Alright,” Jason turned to her. “Movie or fort?”

Rory’s eyes sparkled. “BOTH.”

Jason kissed your cheek. “She’s my favorite kid. We’re going to build a pillow fort and eat suspicious amounts of mac and cheese. Go save the day.”

What neither of you accounted for... was Bruce Wayne.

Two hours later, the living room was a pillow apocalypse. Jason wore a glitter crown and had his nails painted purple. Rory was asleep, snuggled in his hoodie, soft snores muffled under a blanket castle.

It started at 6:37 p.m., when Bruce—who was supposed to be on a League mission—showed up at Jason’s apartment.

The door creaked open.

Jason glanced up.

And froze.

Bruce Wayne stood in the doorway.

“I need to talk to you about the armory in Blüdhaven,” Bruce said, standing in the doorway like the world’s most dramatic bat.

“Uh.” Jason didn’t move. “Hey.”

Bruce’s eyes flicked to the bright pink tiara sitting crookedly on his hair. The glitter smearing his cheeks. The empty sippy cup peeking out of his pocket.

Jason, his Jason, was wearing a pink apron that said “Kiss the Cook” and holding a bowl of glitter slime, staring at him dumbfounded. “Now?”

Then Rory ran into the room with a towel-cape tied around her shoulders. “JAY. THE UNICORN IS UNDER ATTACK.”

She froze when she saw Bruce.

Bruce froze when he saw her.

There was a long, loaded silence.

Jason opened his mouth.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “...Is there something you want to tell me?”

Rory looked up at Jason and whispered, “Is that Batman?”

Jason sighed. “Yeah, that’s Batman.”

“COOL,” she whispered loudly.

“She looks like you,” Bruce said.

“WHAT?!”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you WHAT?!”

“That you have a child.”

“She’s not—! I mean—! I’m babysitting!”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“I’m serious! She’s not mine!”

A pause. Then a tiny voice mumbled, “Daddy Jay?”

Jason died.

Bruce looked like he had transcended.

“She calls you—”

“She’s SIX and I READ TO HER. It’s a TITLE OF AFFECTION, not a PATERNITY CLAIM!”

“She has your nose.”

Jason screamed, his arms wildly flailing. “She has a BUTTON NOSE!”

Bruce just stated “I expect pictures at Christmas.”

Rory interrupted cheerfully, “He’s dating my mom!”

Bruce looked like he aged ten years in one second.

“...You’re dating a civilian... with a child… and didn’t tell me?”

“She’s not mine!” Jason repeated, clutching the slime bowl like a lifeline. “I’m just babysitting!”

Rory handed Bruce a plastic tiara. “Do you want to be the princess or the dragon?”

Bruce stared at it. Then at Jason.

Jason shrugged helplessly.

Bruce sighed. “Dragon.”

When you came back the next morning, you were greeted by a sight you would never forget:

Jason, asleep on the couch, Rory curled up beside him like a cat. The apartment was a war zone of glitter, tiaras, and cookie crumbs.

And Bruce Wayne, sitting in a tiny plastic chair at Rory’s tea table, wearing a paper crown and reading a bedtime story.

He looked up at you. “She made me tea.”

You blinked. “Is it real tea?”

“No. It’s glue and glitter water.”

“Ah.”

“She named me Sparkle Dragon.”

You smiled. “Fitting. What happened?”

“Your kid called me Daddy Jay. In front of Bruce.”

You blinked. “Okay. And?”

“He thinks she’s my biological daughter.”

“... Did you correct him?”

Jason stared at you. “She said I have her nose. Bruce believed her.”

You covered your mouth to hide your laugh. “Well... she has told people you’re her ‘real’ dad since February.”

Jason groaned into his hands.

You kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay. Honestly... I don’t mind. You are kind of her dad.”

Jason looked up.

You met his eyes. “You show up. You care. You paint her nails and make dragon haikus and fight the blender when she wants smoothies. That’s more than biology.”

Jason’s chest tightened. Then softened.

“I love you,” he whispered.

You smiled. “Love you more”

Jason opened one eye. “Tell me you brought coffee.”

You laughed. “Only if you tell me why Batman is babysitting my child.”

Jason sighed into the pillow. “Long story.”

Bruce stood. “She’s a good kid.”

“She’s a menace,” Jason mumbled fondly.

Rory woke up and shouted, “GLITTER PANCAKES?”

[prongspower]

the average twitter vs tumblr community experience

[prongspower]

♡. ⤷ dick grayson just loves getting you pregnant.

──── ❛❛i just know your pull-out game is trash. what are you trying to do—start a soccer team or somethin'?❞ jason said with a funny face, watching dick’s oldest kid stuff his face with the tiny sandwiches alfred had made for the birthday party. the little dude looked just like his old man, minus the ridiculous robin outfit and the sad puppy eyes only an orphan could pull off. the younger girl beside him, dick's middle child, was going at the muffins just as aggressively, like the two of them were racing to see who could eat more.

dick didn't even look up from his drink, gently bouncing his youngest on one arm, chubby-cheeked, wide-eyed, and clinging to his shirt like a sleepy little koala. "if you had a wife as hot as mine, you'd be popping out kids too, buddy."

they both turned to look at you.

you looked effortlessly beautiful in your sundress, arranging the table with sweet treats and the homemade cake you’d baked with steph for your son. you were glowing, smiling softly to yourself as you nudged cupcakes into place, strands of hair slipping down your shoulders in that way that always made dick a little bit stupid in the head.

jason looked at him and smirked.

"okay, fair point. If i had that, i'd never pull out either."

dick shot him a glare sharp enough to kill.

"watch it."

"relax, i'm just admiring. like art in a museum. look, don't touch."

the baby in dick's arms let out a soft coo, then promptly sneezed in his face. jason burst out laughing, almost choking on his beer. dick wiped his face with a napkin, sighing. the living room was steadily filling up, your apartment buzzing with the kind of energy only a gathering of vigilantes and sugar-fueled kids could create. laughter bounced off the walls, footsteps thudded across the floor, and someone had already knocked over a bowl of popcorn.

by the time everyone had arrived, you stood near the center of the room, glancing around at the crowd with a shy smile. tim and damian were surprisingly civil, caught up in a low-stakes debate over something. bruce stood nearby, hands behind his back, taking in the decorations with his signature unreadable expression. barbara and cass sat on the edge of the couch, quietly demolishing cupcakes. wally was crouched on the floor, pretending to lose a race to your son, who was giggling maniacally.

you turned toward the kitchen doorway.

"come here, honey."

dick stood from the armchair, still gently cradling your baby girl, and crossed the room to your side. you laced your fingers with his free hand, your other hand brushing nervously over the front of your sundress.

once you had everyone's attention, you cleared your throat.

"so, guys, since everyone’s here..." you looked at dick, who gave you a reassuring nod. "we have an announcement."

across the room, wally and jason exchanged a look, like they already knew what was coming.

"we're pregnant!" you said brightly, your smile wide and beaming. steph let out an excited squeal and rushed forward to hug you tightly, practically bouncing on her feet.

"oh my god, again? you're glowing, this is so perfect!"

meanwhile, wally and jason turned to stare at dick like he'd just revealed he was a time traveler. jason didn't miss a beat.

"bro. do you have a breeding kink or somethin'? four kids? four? what the actual fuck?"

tim, without looking up, reached out and casually covered richard jr's ears. barbara did the same for your daughter on the couch, both of them sighing in sync.

dick blinked, deadpan.

"you know, some people just really enjoy fatherhood."

"you definitely enjoy something."

wally snorted. "this man's building his own titans roster at home."

dick just grinned, kissed the top of your head, and rocked the baby gently in his arm.

[prongspower]

pls don’t let this flop 😔.

[prongspower]

It's still so strange to me how apparently taboo it is to like a post on someone's Instagram from a month ago when there are posts still circulating on Tumblr from 1550 BCE

[prongspower]

Grow, Baby, Grow

Featuring: Dick, Jason, Tim, Duke, and Damian

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ requests

Dick Grayson

100% the type to brag to everyone about your “magic plant touch.”

Gets you rare seed packets from his travels because “this reminded me of you.”

Starts helping with watering just to spend more time with you, even if he’s a little clumsy and over-waters the basil.

Builds you an elaborate vertical garden on the balcony when you run out of space.

Will absolutely pose with the sunflowers for your Instagram.

Brings Alfred to see your latest blooms like he’s showing off his report card.

Jason Todd

Pretends to be indifferent, but secretly adores watching you get excited over a sprout pushing through the soil.

“It’s just dirt and leaves, babe,” while also spending hours online researching why your tomatoes aren’t fruiting.

Will defend your plants from raccoons like it’s a war.

Buys you ridiculously huge ceramic pots just because “you said you wanted to grow a tree.”

Loves seeing your hands dirty from gardening, thinks it’s hot in a “real human, not a Gotham porcelain doll” way.

Will sit outside reading while you garden, occasionally passing you your trowel like your personal assistant.

Tim Drake

Initially says, “Cool hobby,” but then quietly turns into your enabler.

Creates a plant spreadsheet for you with optimal watering times, light cycles, and fertilizing schedules.

Builds a small greenhouse app-controlled light system for your herbs.

Brings you coffee and sits with you while you repot things at 2 a.m. because “I couldn’t sleep anyway.”

Definitely tried to crossbreed two plants once just to “see if it would work.”

Buys you plants as “apology gifts” after long stakeouts.

Duke Thomas

Loves being outside with you, thinks your gardening is the most peaceful, grounding thing.

Will casually carry huge bags of soil like they weigh nothing.

Offers to help with digging, planting, and lifting heavy pots without you having to ask.

Knows all your plants’ names because he listens when you talk about them.

Has been caught taking pictures of you in the garden when the sun’s hitting you just right.

Absolutely grows his own favorite veggies with your help so you can make fresh meals together.

Damian Wayne

Absolutely competitive about it, thinks his own planting skills are superior because of the manor’s grounds.

Starts his own little section of the garden with rare, exotic plants “to prove a point.”

Constantly lectures you about soil pH and plant origins like you didn’t already know.

Low-key loves seeing your excitement over a successful harvest.

Will guard your plants from pests with more seriousness than most people guard their homes.

Gifts you a bonsai and acts like it’s just practical… but it’s actually deeply sentimental.

⭐️DCU Masterlist⭐️ 🦇Return to the Batcave🦇

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✨Join the Taglist✨

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[prongspower]

Practically Superman

(Clark Kent x F!Reader)

Part 3

✨Part One and Part Two✨

Word Count: 3,765

Notes from the Batcave: for ✨this✨ and ✨this✨ request in the inbox and for everyone who’s been waiting for pt 3. This will be the final part. Thank you everyone for loving it 🖤

@foxycrafterofgreenwood @invinciblewaffles

It starts as one of those impossibly golden afternoons in Smallville, warm sunlight filtering through the trees, the air just sweet enough to make you want to linger outside. You think you’re simply going over to spend the day with Clark and the boys, maybe grill something, let the twins run around in the yard until they’re sticky with popsicle juice and grass stains.

Conner offers to take you “into town” for a bit, saying something about needing your help picking a gift for Tim’s birthday. You don’t think twice about it. You actually feel a bit honored your son would want your help with such a task.

While you’re gone, Clark is a man on a mission.

He and Pa set to work transforming the backyard into something out of a dream. The picnic table gets draped in crisp white linen. Mason jars filled with fresh wildflowers are lined along the fence, picked by Jon of course. He knows your favorites. Strings of warm fairy lights weave through the apple trees, ready to glow when the sun dips low. Martha drops off her famous pie, insisting Clark not “overthink it” because she knows how her son gets when he’s nervous. Even the twins have jobs, Eloise helps scatter petals along the path from the back door to the center of the yard, and Liam follows her around, “helping” by mostly holding onto a fistful of petals and occasionally tossing one to the ground.

By the time Conner and you get back, the sun is beginning to set.

The first thing you notice when you walk into the house is that it smells faintly of flowers and something buttery from the kitchen. The second thing you notice is that it’s quiet, suspiciously quiet, for a house that normally has at least three different conversations happening at once.

“Clark?” you call, setting your bag down.

From the kitchen doorway, Jon appears, trying, and failing, to hide a grin, “He’s out back,”

You step outside… and freeze.

The backyard is glowing. Golden light from the setting sun mixes with the warm shimmer of fairy lights. The grass is cut and raked, and the petals leading you forward like something out of a movie. Your twins are sitting cross-legged on a blanket, giggling, while Martha chats with them quietly from a lawn chair.

And in the middle of it all, Clark stands waiting. Hands in his pockets, tie slightly loosened, his smile just shy of nervous.

You walk toward him, heart pounding, “What’s all this?”

He takes your hands, big and warm, folding them gently between his own. “You’ve given me a lot in the time we’ve been together,” he says, voice low but steady, “Your trust. Your laughter. Your patience with my… occasional last-minute disappearances.” His mouth quirks, and you know he’s thinking of every time he’s had to vanish because of a Superman emergency.

“But more than anything,” he continues, “you’ve given me a family again. You’ve loved Conner and Jon like they’ve always been yours. You’ve welcomed me into your life with the twins. You’ve made this home, our home, something I can’t imagine living without.”

Your breath catches.

Clark drops to one knee, and the world seems to narrow to just him and the velvet box he’s holding, “I don’t want to keep imagining, sweetheart. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Will you marry me?”

The only thing you can do is nod, nod and laugh and cry all at once, “Yes. Yes, Clark, of course I will.”

When he slips the ring onto your finger, it fits perfectly, like it’s been waiting for this moment. The twins run over to wrap themselves around your legs, Jon is openly beaming, and even Conner looks a little misty-eyed.

Later, when the stars come out and the fairy lights glow against the dark, you sit beside Clark at the picnic table, your hand in his, watching the kids chase fireflies. You’ve never felt more certain, or more at home, in your entire life.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

You stare down at the little stick on the bathroom counter, willing the second line to appear.

It doesn’t.

Your stomach sinks as you set it aside. It’s the same thing you’ve been seeing every month for six months now, but it doesn’t sting any less. You’d both agreed to start trying after the conversation, after the laughter, the kisses, the soft “I’d love to have one more with you” whispered against your hair (after the initial shock wore off), and every month since then you’ve been hopeful.

And every month, it’s been the same answer.

You hear the door open and close downstairs, the unmistakable sound of Clark’s shoes on the hardwood. He calls your name, his voice warm and steady as always, and you quickly shove the test into the trash before he reaches the bathroom door.

When he does, he doesn’t need to ask. One glance at you is enough for him to understand.

“Hey,” he says softly, stepping in to wrap those impossibly safe arms around you. His chin rests on top of your head for a moment before he tilts back enough to look into your eyes. “It’s okay.”

You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek. “I just thought… maybe this time-“

“I know.” His thumb brushes against your cheek, “But it’ll happen eventually. We don’t have to rush it.”

The reassurance is genuine, but you can tell he’s not brushing it off just to make you feel better. Clark has patience like no one else, patience for people, for the world, for you.

“Let’s not make this something that steals our joy,” he continues. “Right now, we’ve got a wedding to plan, and I want you to enjoy every bit of it.”

You lean into him, closing your eyes as his hand strokes down your back. He doesn’t push for more conversation, doesn’t try to spin it into silver linings, just lets you be here, safe against him, until the heaviness in your chest eases a little.

When he finally smiles at you again, it’s the one that’s always been impossible to resist.

“Besides,” he says with a playful nudge, “you know what they say about honeymoons.”

Despite yourself, you laugh.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The dining table was still littered with scraps of wrapping paper and glittery gift bags from the twins’ birthday party. Eloise’s new tea set was spread across the table like it was hosting an important summit, while Liam’s Lego castle was precariously balanced on the counter guarded by three mismatched action figures.

Clark leaned in the kitchen doorway, watching you as you loaded the dishwasher, his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his tie hanging loose after work. The house still smelled faintly of frosting and barbecue from the party.

“Five,” you murmured, shaking your head with a little smile. “I swear they were just wobbling around in diapers last week.”

“They still wobble sometimes,” Clark teased, stepping over to take the plate out of your hand before sliding it into the rack himself. “And we’ve got more birthdays coming. Conner’s twenty-one, Jon’s thirteen…” He ticked them off on his fingers. “And in just one month, Mrs. Kent—” he caught your hand with a warm grin “—our wedding.”

You leaned into him for a second, letting his warmth and the sound of his voice soak into you. “Big year of celebrations,” you said softly. “Maybe… one more, if we’re lucky.”

His thumb brushed over your ring. “If it happens, it happens,” he said gently, the same patient reassurance he’d been giving you for months. “We’re already lucky. More than lucky.”

You nodded, but the box of pregnancy tests hidden in the bathroom cabinet felt like it was burning a hole in your mind. Six months of trying and nothing to show for it but a little knot of hope you couldn’t quite loosen. You didn’t want to let it dampen the sparkle of the year, your wedding, the boys’ milestones, the twins turning five, but the wanting was still there, quiet and persistent.

Clark kissed your temple, squeezing your hand before turning back toward the living room. “Come on. Let’s make sure Liam hasn’t turned that Lego castle into a floor model.”

Later that night, after the twins were finally asleep, exhausted from party sugar and birthday excitement, you found yourself alone in the bathroom with the soft glow of the nightlight. The small box of pregnancy tests rested on the counter, the same one you’d been using for months now.

You swallowed hard, heart pounding a little louder than usual. With a steadying breath, you followed the familiar routine: test, wait, watch.

The little window flashed. Negative. Again.

You sank onto the closed toilet lid, the silence of the house suddenly heavier. The quiet wasn’t comforting tonight. It felt like the weight of all those ‘maybes’ and ‘not yets’ pressing down on you.

Clark’s footsteps echoed softly in the hallway before the door opened gently.

“You okay?” His voice was low, gentle.

You looked up, forcing a small smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes, “Yeah. Just… nothing new.”

He came closer and sat beside you on the floor, pulling you into his arms without a word.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered into his shirt.

Clark shook his head, kissing the top of your hair, “Hey, don’t be. We’re in this together. It’ll happen when it’s meant to. No matter what, I’m here. And we have so much to celebrate already. We’ll keep planning, keep dreaming.”

You nodded against him, letting yourself breathe a little easier with his steady presence.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

He smiled, pressing his lips to your forehead.

“For now, let’s focus on the wedding. And making sure the twins don’t destroy the cake again,” he teased lightly.

You laughed softly, the tension easing, knowing no matter the timing, you had this.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The late afternoon sun spilled gold across the Kent farm, turning the fields into a rolling sea of light. The air smelled faintly of fresh-cut hay and Martha’s baking, and the breeze was warm enough to keep everyone lingering outside, chatting in little clusters around the white folding chairs.

Eloise looked like she’d stepped straight out of a picture book, tiny flower girl dress puffing around her knees, a crown of baby’s breath in her curls. She wasn’t scattering petals so much as dragging Conner along by the hand, the nineteen-year-old trailing dutifully in a suit, expression halfway between long-suffering and fond.

“She’s decided I’m her personal security detail,” he muttered as he passed Clark’s groomsmen, Eloise giving a queenly little wave to the seated guests before tugging him along again.

Meanwhile, Liam had paired up with Jon in the world’s least subtle food heist. You could see them through the open kitchen window—Jon crouched in front of the fridge like he was in a spy movie, Liam standing watch and whispering “Go, go, go!” as they stuffed a napkin full of deviled eggs and cookies. The two bolted out the side door with their loot, ducking behind a hay bale like it offered perfect cover.

The whole thing was small by design, just Clark’s family, your family, a few close friends. The arch was simple, draped in wildflowers Martha had gathered that morning, and there was no aisle runner, just the soft grass beneath your shoes.

You waited until you saw Clark step out from the farmhouse to walk toward the arch with his mom. He was laughing at something Jonathan said, but when his eyes found you, standing at the end of the makeshift aisle, bouquet trembling slightly in your hands- he froze.

The laughter broke into something softer. His mouth opened like he meant to say something, but no words came. His eyes were already glassy, and you saw his chest rise and fall in an unsteady breath.

“Dad’s crying,” Jon stage whispered from behind the hay bale, earning a quiet “Shh!” from Liam.

Clark didn’t even try to hide it. By the time you reached him, his cheeks were wet, and his hands were already reaching for yours like he couldn’t trust himself not to close the distance too soon.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, voice catching, and you knew it wasn’t just the dress or the day, it was the life you’d built, the family already laughing and stealing food around you, and the promise of everything still to come.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The sun had long since dipped behind the horizon, painting the Kansas sky in deep purples and golds, and the barn was warm with the glow of string lights draped overhead. The air smelled faintly of hay and buttercream frosting, laughter weaving between the soft hum of conversation and the faint clink of glasses.

Clark’s arm never left your waist, his palm warm and grounding as he guided you to the center of the barn for your first dance. The music swelled, something slow, soft, and timeless, and the two of you swayed like you were the only people in the world. His forehead rested against yours, his thumb stroking over the back of your hand.

“You’re stuck with me forever now,” you teased softly.

Clark’s voice was low and thick. “Best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

When the song faded, the room shifted, the emcee announcing the father-daughter dance. Eloise, in her pale cream flower girl dress, tiny curls still pinned up with pearl clips, looked momentarily startled at being the center of attention. Then Clark crouched down to her level, offering his hand like she was royalty.

She lit up. “You have to spin me,” she demanded.

Clark chuckled, taking her small hand and leading her out to the floor. The crowd collectively melted as he carefully twirled her, her skirt flaring out before she giggled and threw her arms around his neck. You caught the way Clark blinked a few times too quickly before pressing a kiss to her temple.

By the end of the song, she was clinging to him like she might never let go, and he walked her back to the table with all the gentleness in the world.

You barely had time to take a sip of champagne before the next song started, the mother-son dance. Jon was already being shepherded forward by Lois, rolling his eyes but smiling. Liam was nowhere in sight, probably mid–dessert heist in the kitchen.

You were scanning the crowd for him when you felt a warm, familiar hand on your elbow.

“Come on, Mom,” Conner said, grinning like he’d been waiting for this all night. His suit jacket was unbuttoned, tie slightly loosened, but he still looked impossibly grown-up.

Your chest tightened. “Conner-“

“Nope, you don’t get to cry yet,” he interrupted, leading you to the dance floor with the same easy confidence he’d had since he was a teenager, “you’ll ruin your makeup or something.”

You laughed, letting him guide you into the sway of the music. Somewhere off to the side, Clark stood with Eloise on his hip, swaying right along with you.

When the song ended, Conner hugged you tight, leaning down to murmur, “I’m really glad he found you.”

And that, of course, was your undoing.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The farmhouse was still wrapped in early-morning quiet. You were three months into being Mrs. Clark, and outside, the Kansas sky was pale and streaked with hints of pink, and the air smelled faintly of coffee from the timer Clark had set the night before.

Clark was still warm beside you in bed, one arm draped over your waist, breathing slow and even. It was rare for him to have a whole day off, and you almost hated to disturb him. Almost.

Because your hands were shaking.

You’d taken so many tests over the past months that you’d lost count. Some had been done with excitement, others with forced optimism, and lately, a few with almost mechanical detachment. But today felt different. You couldn’t have explained why—just a small, persistent tug of hope that made you slip quietly from beneath Clark’s arm and pad into the bathroom.

The digital test rested on the counter, the tiny hourglass flashing as it processed.

You sat on the edge of the tub, rubbing your hands together, willing your heart to slow down.

When the word appeared, you froze.

Pregnant.

You blinked, hard, as if it might vanish if you stared too long. But it stayed there, solid and undeniable.

You had to press your fist against your mouth to keep from making a sound, though the urge to laugh, cry, and scream all at once nearly bubbled over.

The bedroom was dim when you stepped back in, test clutched in your hand. Clark was still lying there, hair a mess, face half-buried in the pillow. His eyes cracked open when you sat beside him, and a sleepy smile tugged at his mouth.

“Mm. You’re up early,” he murmured, voice rough with sleep. “Everything okay?”

You didn’t say anything at first, you just slipped the test into his hand.

It took a second for his brain to register what he was holding. And then his eyes went wide. The slow smile turned into something bright, disbelieving, almost boyish.

“Really?” His voice caught. “You’re-?”

You nodded, tears blurring your vision. “We’re gonna have a baby, Clark.”

The test hit the nightstand, forgotten, because Clark pulled you into his arms so fast you almost laughed. He buried his face in your neck, shoulders shaking as he let out a low, shaky laugh that was part joy, part relief.

“I knew it,” he whispered against your skin. “I knew it would happen. And now it’s-“ He leaned back just far enough to look at you, brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “You just made me the happiest man in the universe.”

You kissed him, slow and smiling, with the Kansas morning spilling soft light over the both of you.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The kitchen at the Kent farmhouse smelled like heaven, Ma’s roast chicken, roasted vegetables, biscuits warm from the oven. The table was already groaning under the weight of it all, though Clark had been shooed out of helping more than once.

“Go sit,” Ma had told him. “It’s your day off. Let me feed you.”

Pa was at the fridge, pulling out drinks. He passed Jon a soda, handed Conner a beer, and then reached for one for you.

“Cold one?” he asked, holding the bottle halfway out.

You shook your head, smiling just a little too much, “Oh, I can’t.”

Pa blinked, “Why not?”

“I’m pregnant.”

It was so matter-of-fact, like you’d said you couldn’t because you were the designated driver. But then it rippled through the room, Conner actually dropped his beer onto the table with a thud.

“Wait-“ Jon’s eyes went wide. “Like… with a baby?”

“Really,” you said, feeling your cheeks ache from smiling, “with a baby.”

Eloise’s little voice piped up from her chair. “Does this mean I get to be a big sister?”

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Clark said, his voice thick, moving from beside you so he could crouch to her level, “It does.”

Eloise squealed and launched herself at you both, Jon whooping and Conner just grinning like a proud big brother already.

And then Ma Kent wiped her eyes on her apron and said, “Well, I’d say that’s worth making dessert extra sweet tonight.”

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

From the moment you told him, Clark Kent went full fortress-mode.

No lifting groceries. No bending to pick up laundry. No standing on a stool to reach the top shelf.

And Conner, bless him, was just as bad.

Between the two of them, you weren’t sure if you were pregnant or made of glass.

Every time you even thought about carrying something heavier than a throw pillow, one of them was there.

“Babe, I’ve got it.”

“Mom, seriously, sit down.”

It was sweet. Smothering. Infuriating. And you loved them for it.

Labor, though… labor was a beast. Hours blurred into exhaustion and pain, but Clark was steady through it all, big warm hands gripping yours like he could physically carry you through every contraction if you’d just let him. His forehead pressed to yours, voice low and soft, “You’ve got this, honey. You’re almost there.”

And now, finally, it’s quiet. The chaos has passed.

It’s just you, Clark, and the tiny bundle sleeping in your arms.

She’s impossibly small, soft as down, her breath a faint whisper against your skin.

Clark leans over, brushing a finger over her cheek like he’s afraid to wake her, and his eyes are already damp.

“You did it,” he says, voice breaking like he’s never been prouder of anything in his life.

You smile, exhausted and overwhelmed, “We did it.”

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The room is warm with that soft, new-baby stillness, like even the air knows to be gentle. You’re propped up against the pillows, your little girl sleeping soundly against your chest, her tiny fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt. Clark sits beside you, one big hand cradling her head, the other resting over your knee like he needs to keep you anchored here with him.

The door creaks open, and Conner steps in, guiding Eloise and Liam with careful hands like he’s escorting royalty. The twins make a beeline for the bed, eyes wide, voices already bubbling over, until Clark intercepts them with a soft laugh and a quick scoop, lifting them both into his arms.

“Hey, hey,” he says, settling them onto the edge of the mattress, “Gentle, okay? She’s brand new.”

Eloise leans in first, brushing her tiny hand across her baby sister’s swaddle. Liam follows, curiosity pulling at his features.

From behind them, Jon slides up closer, peeking around Clark’s arm. He takes the baby carefully when you offer her, holding her like she’s a delicate science experiment.

“Oh, she’s cool,” he says after a beat, totally casual, though the way he’s staring at her says otherwise, “She’s tiny.”

And then it’s Conner’s turn.

He hesitates, clearing his throat like he’s brushing off the weight of it, but when he finally sits and takes her into his arms, you see it in his face. The crack in his composure. The way his jaw tightens as he blinks a little too fast.

Clark smiles at him, proud and quiet.

“Yeah,” Conner murmurs, his voice rough, “she’s perfect.”

You lean back, exhaustion heavy but joy heavier, watching them all, your family, your whole world, tucked in around you.

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[prongspower]

Bruce finally allows you and Jason sleep together ?!?!

you were coming over your boyfriend's mansion to have a sleepover. Bruce made you sleep at Jason's room, but made him sleep at the couch. and finally, his dad agreed that you could sleep together.

with the condition that you had to sleep with the door open.

you were so ready for it you even packed your sluttiest pajama, a babydoll, and obviously with no panties on.

when you entered Jason's room, he patted the space of the bed for you to lay next to him.

he held you by your waist tightly, making your ass face his cock. his hand traveled from your hips to the curve of your ass and then to under your body. "no panties?" he asked against your ear, making your toes curl.

your hand went to hold his heavy dick. you pulled his boxers down, making it slap against his abdomen. "are you sure? someone might hear us" he warned, but his sleepy voice made you feral, you grabbed his dick and aligned it with your entrance.

he panted and let out little groans like he hasn't get pussy in years, and fuck you were so tight, so perfect for him.

you let out your first whine when his tip hits your cervix, but before the moans get louder, his hand covers your mouth.

he thrusted slowly, painfully slow, making you squirm for more. his hand left your mouth to play with your puffy clit, your legs closed shut by inerce, but when you did that he could feel your cunt squeezing his poor dick.

his hand went to between your teeth and he groaned "bite", "what?" you looked confused. "bite." he commands. you bite so softly he could hardly feel it. his hand held your hips to give him stability and he thrusted into you, making his cock hit all the right spots. you bitted his hand so hard it would leave marks for days. but he loved using you for his own pleasure, like his personal cumdumpt.

a couple of thrusts later he's cumming all over your tight walls. it might leak to his sheets, but he didn't really care.

.

"had fun last night, Todd?" his brother, Dick, asked as the whole family could see the bruises on your thighs, the mark of your teeth on his hand, and the scratches on his arms. thank god they didn't see his back !!

had to write this twice so I'd appreciate if you reposted or requested :3