Valentine’s Day had never been a major event at the Watchtower. Between alien invasions, interdimensional crises, and the occasional rogue AI, love wasn’t exactly top priority. But this year, Wonder Woman had a plan.
She rallied the League for a rare day off, transforming the Watchtower’s main hall into a glowing celebration of love and friendship. Lanterns floated in zero gravity, holographic roses bloomed across the walls, and Flash had somehow convinced Star Labs to rig up a chocolate fountain that defied physics.
Clark Kent—Superman—hovered near the observation deck, gazing down at Earth. He wasn’t one for parties, but something about today felt different. Maybe it was the way Bruce had been acting lately. More open. Less guarded. They’d been spending more time together—training, talking, even sharing quiet moments in Gotham’s shadowed rooftops.
Bruce Wayne—Batman—arrived late, as usual. No cape. Just a tailored black suit and a single white rose tucked into his lapel. He didn’t say much, but when he saw Clark, something softened in his eyes.
“I didn’t think you’d come,” Clark said, floating down to meet him.
“I didn’t think you’d wait,” Bruce replied.
They stood in silence for a moment, the chaos of the party fading behind them. Then Bruce reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, hand-bound book. Inside were sketches—rough, charcoal drawings of moments they’d shared. Clark catching Bruce mid-fall. Bruce watching the sunrise from the Fortress of Solitude. A quiet dinner in Metropolis.
“I’m not good with words,” Bruce said. “But I wanted you to know.”
Clark smiled, touched beyond measure. “You don’t need words. You’ve always spoken in actions.”
Behind them, Diana raised a toast. “To love—in all its forms. May it make us stronger than any villain ever could.”
As the League cheered, Clark took Bruce’s hand. For once, the world didn’t need saving. And for once, they let themselves simply be—two heroes, finding solace in each other.
It started with a rose.
Alfred Pennyworth, the ever-dignified butler of Wayne Manor, was pruning the greenhouse when a vine slithered up his arm—gentle, curious, and unmistakably enchanted.
“Hello, handsome,” purred Poison Ivy, emerging from the foliage like a botanical goddess. “You’ve got a way with plants. And with restraint. I find that… intoxicating.”
Alfred adjusted his cufflinks. “Madam, I assure you, I am merely a humble gardener.”
“Humility is sexy,” Ivy whispered, and vanished into the leaves.
That was Monday.
By Wednesday, Catwoman had broken into the wine cellar—twice. The second time, she didn’t steal anything. She just lounged on the chaise, sipping Alfred’s 1982 Bordeaux.
“You know,” she said, tail flicking, “you’re the only man in Gotham who doesn’t try to impress me. That’s impressive.”
Alfred raised an eyebrow. “I aim to serve, not seduce.”
“Too late,” she purred.
Friday brought Cheetah—wild, fierce, and surprisingly fond of classical music. She caught Alfred playing Chopin in the parlor and curled up beside him like a jungle cat in repose.
“You play like you’ve seen heartbreak,” she murmured.
“I’ve served it tea,” he replied.
And then came Harley Quinn.
She crashed through the skylight during brunch, landed in the fruit bowl, and declared, “Alfie! You’re the only sane man in this loony bin. I wanna be your emotional support clown!”
Alfred blinked. “I suppose I’ve had stranger job titles.”
💋 The Harem of Gotham
Somehow, it happened. Ivy brought flowers. Catwoman brought stolen diamonds. Cheetah brought raw instinct. Harley brought chaos and glitter.
And Alfred? He brought calm.
One evening, in the quiet of Wayne Manor, Alfred reclined on the velvet sofa. Catwoman lay on his chest, purring softly. Cheetah curled beside him, her claws gently tracing his lapel. Ivy was tending the roses outside. Harley was painting the Batmobile in pastel hearts.
Bruce walked in, saw the scene, and turned right back around.
Flash (who had installed hidden cameras) whispered to Superman, “Alfred’s living in a reverse rom-com. And I’m here for it.”