intro, rules, all that jazz under the cut!! (read before req pls >_<)
hello and welcome to my blog!
my name is bug, my pronouns are they/them and i am oh so scared to be here! /hj
i think im only going to write headcanons because tbh i am not the best writer when it comes to fanfics :P
also!! im still trying to get used to tumblr so please be patient with me while i try to figure out how to do whatever im supposed to do here
please dont :[
i dont write any NSFW, heavy gore, incest or pedophilia so please dont request it. if i catch any of you requesting that stuff you will be blocked.
another thing i wont write anything that revolves around topics that could be considered extremely triggering (which sounds super vague so if you are uncertain feel free to msg me for clarification!)
please do :]
i love writing hcs where my faves get to be silly. anything that lets them have a break from whatever canon troubles they go through is just so fun to write. AND IF ITS WITH A PLATONIC READER??? hand it over. rn. i love to let my faves be silly gooses!!
you wanna request fluff? amazing. general headcanons? love it. x reader? fantastic, hand it over (the x reader stuff for non-men will probably be better because im a lesbian tee hee). i'll try my best! familial hc's? I. WILL. EAT. THAT. UP.
i also write for specific gendered readers! if its unspecified then i will just default to gender neutral reader
please ask ,':/
i will do light angst and do sometimes like hurt/comfort but please msg me just to check before putting in a req for it :-D
i swear i dont bite, my user is misleading
will write 4 the following! <3
i write for the following (faves are bolded hehe):
Spiderverse
miles morales (both of em, 42 and 1610)
gwen stacy
hobie brown
pavitr prabhakar
margo kess
lyla
jessica drew
peni parker
spider-noir
webslinger
DC
bruce wayne
dick grayson
tim drake
jason todd
damian wayne (mostly platonic)
stephanie brown
cassandra cain
barbara gordon
(will eventually write for duke thomas in the future! i just want to get a better understanding of his character so i dont WFA him)
retired fandoms/characters :(
Call of Duty
tags :3
[ #bug blurb ]: silly blurbs about my faves!!
[ #blah blah bug]: usually not writing related nonsense :]
[ #bug (re)blog ]: reblogs <3 is it obv im struggling w/ the alliteration theme i got going on
(more coming soon once i figure out how to do this :P)
As a DC fan for over 3 years, I see that lots of people really enjoy comic book characters (mostly DC) but don't read a lot of comics—primarily due to not knowing where to read comics.
To make it more accessible and encourage people who want to discover more about the characters, I decided to compile a list of where I personally read my comics, ranked in most recommended to least. Of course, I know the best options aren't the most accessible so I've also ranked them in terms of accessibility!
More under the cut :3
I feel like I should mention that my recommendations are from the perspective of someone who lives in Canada and can easily access resources from libraries, major book stores, comic stores, etc. I've tried my best to account for readers who live outside of North America but because of where I live, obviously my recommendations are a bit biased. If you are a reader from outside of US/Canada and you have other sources, feel free to reblog and add onto my list!
Additionally, comics tend to be a bit challenging in terms of accommodating disabilities—specifically visual impairment—but i found this wordpress blog here with a few sources that may help any visually impaired readers!
Anyways onto my ranking :3
Libraries
Accessibility: 4.5/5
Pros
its free!! and legal!! (in canada at least)
library cards can be obtained in person and for most places (at least where I live) you can get one online. check your local library for specific details!
most public libraries (in north america and some in the UK i think?) have online access through services like libby or hoopla that act like online libraries. these often have a larger selection than in-store and you can access them from anywhere as long as you have an active library card
supporting public libraries is great!
you can read comics before you decide if you want to spend your money on the rest of the series
Cons
public libraries function differently in other countries, some require payment :(
not everyone lives near a library
varying selections of comics, what's available really depends on location and what country you live in
some libraries still have late fees which can get pretty pricey
not all libraries have access to online library apps i mentioned previously
2. Buying comics from your local comic store (LCS)
Accessibility: 2/5
Pros
my personal favourite way to consume comics. if you can afford it and there is a comic store near you please support them!!
I found mine because a high-school friend told me there was one in my town but just search up "comic stores near me"
the comic industry has been going through a rough time over the past few years so I really try my best to support creatives by purchasing directly from comic stores (plus it keeps these stores in business)
also, if you really want to see more of a run sales matter a LOT. when comic companies see sales are high for certain comic characters or comic runs (comic runs are a series written by the same writer) they have a better idea for what audiences want and make more of these stories.
This is why there was a lot of buzz a few months ago for people to buy NEW HISTORY OF THE DC UNIVERSE: THE DAKOTA INCIDENT (2026) #1 because DC has an problem where they don't have a lot of recent stories featuring black main characters. by buying more of these issues it shows DC that there is a demand for black main characters and for black creatives
most comic stores participate in Free Comic Book Day (first Saturday of May) where they have special comics printed specifically to be handed out at locations FOR FREE!! its often a great look for upcoming runs and some stores even have promos or sales on the same day
most stores have websites to order online
some stores have access to exclusive variant covers (special comic book covers either commissioned by the comic store or the comic book company) to certain issues (the thin floppy comics)
Cons
unfortunatley this is the least accessible way to access comics, not everyone lives near a comic store. my LCS closed down a while back so now the one I go to more often is pretty far away :((
also we are in a RECESSION. everything is expensive and not everyone has a comic store nearby, especially if you live outside north america. comics that used to be $1.00 CAD now cost $7.50 CAD
buying online is even more expensive (canadian shipping prices are evil
going to a new comic store can be very daunting, i have heard stories of people having bad in-store experiences but don't let that stop you! i was very scared first going to a comic store but all the employees were incredibly kind and helpful. you might find your new favourite place! :]
3. Buying from major retailers/online
Accessibility: 3.5/5
Pros
generally only volumes and omnibuses which is great if you're looking for older stuff/issues that are out of print
also cheaper than getting the individual issues
generally more storage friendly when it comes to collecting (no need to worry about getting comic boxes!)
good if there's no comic store near you
certain issues may be easier to find and purchase online
Cons
the issues available are dependent on location, the big bookstores in my area tend to have a smaller selection in person
more money to big corporations and less to smaller businesses (like comic stores which kind of need the support)
again, shipping is so expensive
buying certain comic book issues second hand can be really annoying sometimes (scammers, people who overprice their shit, things can get lost in the mail or damaged, all that jazz)
4. Comic book app subscriptions
Accessibility: 3/5
disclaimer: i have never used an app subscription. i tried my best in researching people's experiences using this but check online for more in depth reviews of these services.
Pros
mostly in app form (Marvel Unlimited, DC Universe Infinite Ultra)
high quality scans of comics and you can zoom in which is great if you struggle with reading small text or you just want to look at details
can read comics anywhere as long as you have the access to the app and a subscription
most have a free trial for first time users (usually only 7 days)
Cons
least favourite on the list tbh,,,
monthly subscription service which is super annoying (some have tiers so you need to pay more to unlock more comics)
you dont own these comics technically since it is a subscription
also not available in all countries
from my research there is limited accessibility features which may be difficult for readers who need them
5. Piracy
Accessibility: 4/5
Pros
its free! (at a cost, check cons :/)
not linking any websites here but if you do your research (check r/piracy, be cautious when clicking random links) you can find a few reliable websites with an adblocker (and VPN)
typically have a wider selection of comics, it's easier to find older comics that are no longer being printed
no financial support to creatives who are evil! (tom taylor, tom king, chuck dixon, etc)
you can read recent drops before deciding to purchase
its really good for taking good quality photos of panels
Cons
technically illegal + by going on sketchy websites unaffiliated with any comic company you are accepting the risk of having your information stolen, your online devices compromised (possibly permanently), your IP address tracked, and whatever internet dangers exist. always practice internet saftey, dont randomly give out private info (email, phone number, address, etc) and always use adblockers + VPN when possible
btw adblockers are a BARE MINIMUM. DO NOT USE ANY PIRATING SITE WITHOUT AN AD BLOCKER. this doesnt guarentee you wont get a virus but theres a lower chance of getting one. if you cant download an effective ad blocker on your device i strongly recommend against using this method
no direct financial support to artists. reading from illegal sites doesn't contribute to sales so if there are little sales and not a lot of online buzz for a comic from a big company, the comic flops and the chance of seeing these creatives work on stories revolving your faves are incredibly slim.
if you care about a run and you have the means, SUPPORT IT!!
sometimes scans of comics are difficult to read, especially if they are older. they may also not be accessible if you use screen readers :/
sites may get taken down (rip readcomicsonline) so always make sure you have a backup pirating site
Hopefully this helps some people get more into comics. Happy reading! :D (dividers from @/pixopix)
I have thoughts about Jane Austen,,, I’m using fanfic to express them lmao
gen, Jason and reader are bookworms, enjoy! cw. my thoughts about jane austen
☆★☆★☆★☆ ★ ☆★☆★☆★☆
The bookshop was unusually quiet for such a pretty Wednesday afternoon. You’d watched a handful of people dip in and out, announced by the small chiming of the bell, and they’d briefly fill the small space with soft chatter before disappearing back into the warm sunshine, the warm and lively world that was just beyond your counter.
You barely even looked up when the bell chimed again, you threw out a half-hearted greeting to the man as he slipped into your shop, receiving nothing more than a nod of acknowledgement before he disappeared between the bookshelves.
You did love your job—you loved running this little antique bookshop, loved leafing through all the old books that were brought to you, so much history nestled in a small corner shop in the middle of Old Gotham. It didn’t mean you couldn’t be slightly forlorn about not being able to enjoy the rare Gotham sun.
You shook yourself out of your reverie as the man approached, a handful of books tucked under his arms—and for the first time you took the time to take a proper look at him, and his impressive stature and dark locks and his frankly massive arms covered in twisted and gnarled scars. There were plenty of odd personalities in Gotham but you still couldn’t help but stare, only shaken out of your wonderment when the books hit the counter.
“Will this be all for you today?” you asked softly as you slowly pulled the books towards yourself. The man grunted softly as he nodded.
Charming.
You flipped around the first book, Sense and Sensibility, to find the price tag. It was a pretty book that you’d quite frankly forgotten you had—usually you’d say something of the effect of how you just loved the gold trimming on this one or how the cover was one of a kind but frankly you were a little distracted by the stranger’s hand resting on the wood in front of you.
“A fan of Jane Austen, huh?” you mumbled as you pulled the second book towards you, to find it was just a different edition of Sense and Sensibility. You hadn’t really meant for it to be heard but the stranger hummed and you caught the tail end of his nod as you looked up at him.
“Her writing is evocative.”
You muffled your snort behind pursed lips before you could compose yourself. He raised an eyebrow.
“Ignore me,” you said quickly as you reached out the last book, “I said nothing.”
He froze.
“You don’t like Austen?”
“She’s not my speed,” you shrugged.
“I’ve never met a person who thought Jane Austen ‘isn’t their speed’.”
“She’s just,” you chewed your lip a little as you mulled over your words, “A little boring.”
“Boring?!”
“I’m sorry, man!”
“You just said the Jane Austen is boring!”
“She kinda is! Like she was revolutionary but oh my god, nothing happens in her books!” You stacked the books and slide them back over to him.
“You’re just not a fan of romance?”
“No, I’m not a fan of drama—that’ll be $33.95.”
The man dug through his wallet as he shook his head, but his small smirk was unmistakable.
“I can’t believe you’re a bookkeeper who doesn’t like classic literature.”
“Hang on! I just said Austen is just boring!”
“Her writing is fascinating.” He pulled out two $20s. “The way she captures emotions and dynamics is genuinely amazing-“
"It just drags-"
"Her writing is gorgeous-
“I’m just not convinced.”
“Let me convince you.” Your brain came to a screeching halt. And his seemed to catch up with his mouth as his cheeks became a dusty pink and he slammed the money down on the counter. “Nevermind-"
“Sure.” His head snapped up and you met his eye. “Convince me.”
“Now?”
You shrugged. “We close at 5 o’clock. Come back then, Mr…?”
“Jason. Jason Todd.” He scooped his books up into his arms. “I’ll be back at 5?”
“It’s a date!”
☆★☆★☆★☆ ★ ☆★☆★☆★☆
hi ♡ this is by far not my best piece of writing but I wanted to get back into the swing of things a little
a/n: uhhhhh inspired by recent events with my partner
cw: reader plays dirty, gn!reader
masterlist ao3 requests
PREVIEW:
Jason agrees to a test of might against you.
Jason Todd/Reader
"I bet I could beat you at arm wrestling," you assert boldly to Jason as he sits, reading Dostoyevsky. He's the picture of elegant repose as he reclines in his hoodie and sweats, filling out the seams in manner that might make your mouth water. That is, if you weren't so dogged to pay attention to the agenda you have at hand.
"Is that so?" He asks, already rising to the bait that you've levied his way. There's a wry cock of his brow, a sarcastic smile that pulls at the corner of his mouth—though he doesn't totally discount the proposition that you give him. Jason is a physical learner and a man of experience—and he'll do what he can to ensure that you take the lesson at hand.
"Yeah," you declare, and pull your bicep from your sleeve to demonstrate the raw capability of your muscular might. "See?"
To his credit, your boyfriend manages to keep a very reticent, neutral face.
"Alright," he closes the thick tome one-handed, hefts it gently to the side. "So where shall we test your might?"
You're pert with your smile, ebullient as you gesture to the coffee table before you both. "Let this be our battlefield."
"Sounds good to me, sweetheart," he says, and to ensure that there's no foul play, shucks himself from the outer layer of his hoodie. You watch as his shirt drifts up, exposing the v-line of muscle exposed underneath. You try your best not to ogle too openly as you clear the tabletop and settle yourself down on the opposite side.
He makes a subtle groan as he squats, letting you take the viewpoint of his arm that flexes with sheer might and power. When you clasp your hand against his, crossing the rubicon of the glass-top of the coffee table, the rasp of his palm is familiar and dry and warm against yours.
"Shall I count down?" You ask—your cheer is arousing suspicion to him. He parries effortlessly.
"Allow me," he returns, and tightens his grip to ensure that there's no foul play. "Three—two—one—"
He pulls taut against your arm as you lean forward with sudden, instinctive speed, claiming his mouth with a kiss. He flinches in surprise but melts in with surprising alacrity, a low, eased moan humming against the terrain of your lips. As you work your mouth against his, he encourages with eager reciprocity—and this allows you to press your advantage.
His knuckles rap down on the glass of the opposite side, and he chuckles as you gain ill-gotten victory. But he doesn't stop kissing you, doesn't release your hand—only pulls away when he's had his fill. And he takes his time to appreciate the nuance of your mouth.
"Dirty trick," he mutters against you—your smile brazenly against him as his eyes flutter closed, interested in returning back to your attentions.
"I prefer to think of it," you smirk, letting your eyes fall shut as well, "As a sneak attack."
"How 'bout you come attack me some more, then, sweetheart?" He asks with husked need in his voice. You don't find anything in you to disagree.
dividers provided by the talented @strangergraphics
I already dont buy dc comics but i want to make my support for the dc blackout offical abd make sure it reaches dc comics. Aside from signing the petition is there anything else i can do?
as of yesterday the boycott has ended, not because it was successful but because of poor organization and goals being vague. heres the statement from @/JPenumbra on twitter, one of the organizers behind the DCSoWhite campaign.
there was a lot of discourse on other social media platforms about the methods of the boycott and a lot of confusion regarding whether it is a complete boycott of ALL DC comics or just DC comics made by non-black creatives. if you want to look into it just look through the DCSoWhite tag on twitter since i think it would be kinda inappropriate for me to insert my opinion on the discourse since im not an organizer for DCSoWhite or black. im just a reader who wants to get the message out :]
but!! while the boycott is technically over, the DCSoWhite campaign is still trying to spread awareness regarding racism in the comic industry. the best way to show that you want black stories and more black people in the writers room is showing up for black creatives and black-centred stories. adding works made by black creatives to your pull list when you go to your local comic store is a great way to show support. even reviewing and reblogging panels or anything promoting comics centring black characters or made by black creatives is great!
heres a few DC recommendations that feature black creatives or characters if you feel like checking out some DC stuff. Most of the creators have work elsewhere for different companies or have independent work that you can check out if thats more your style.
- New History of the DC Universe: The Dakota Incident (2026)
released in february of this year, this one shot features static shock, icon, rocket, beacon, and hardware. the creative team is majority black with an all black writing team
- Zatanna (2025)
written and illustrated by jamal campbell (who was nominated for an eisner this year), this ongoing is so beautiful and campbell is doing it all himself which makes this run even more impressive!
- Boy Wonder (2024)
written and illustrated by juni ba, this was my first ever comic and ba's unique style and storytelling is absolutely stunning.
- Far Sector (2019)
written by n.k jemisin and illustrated by jamal campbell. this run is all about sojourner "jo" mullien, the first black queer green lantern! far sector has a compact collection which may be more accessible for people to read
- Absolute Green Lantern (2025)
illustrated by jahnoy lindsay, this run focuses on absolute universe jo mullien and leans into the cosmic horror aspect which is something that always hits different in comics
- we are robin (2015)
duke thomas' debut! he's got so much character and i think he's one of the most interesting robins. best place to start reading his stuff since a lot of his more recent stuff (wfa :( ) does him dirty
and some other upcoming projects to keep an eye out for:
- wonder woman #35 and #36
guest written by stephanie williams (who was nominated for an eisner award this year) with illustrations by clayton henry. these two issues focus on a retelling of diana's origin as wonder woman! i believe it should be available for pre-order since it comes out in july
- Justice League: Dream Girls – A DC Pride Event (2026)
for pride this year, instead of an anthology DC is doing a mini series! issue #2 has a story written by morgan hampton featuring jo mullien. it should be dropping some time this month. also this mini is written by two trans women who are not black but with current events (cough cough and the GFM thing cough cough) its important to support queer creators too.
- Absolute Catwoman (2026)
a mini series from the absolute universe, co written by che grayson (who is black and nonbinary so its great for pride month :]) that follows absolute selina kyle who is afro-latina in this universe! releases june 10th
- upcoming stephanie williams project (speculated to be vixen solo?)
theres very little known about this new project written by williams but she has been teasing a new DC run. announcements are pending but she has been hinting to some new stuff on threads and asking people to come out and support the run when it is announced
this is not an exhaustive list, im sure there are many more comics made by some fantastic creatives. if anyone has other writers/artists that they want to add on feel free!
again, im not an organizer or a representative for DCSoWhite, but i wholeheartedly support their mission in getting more black creatives in the DC writing rooms and having more mainline continuity ongoings focused on black characters. keep an eye on the organization (they tend to be more active on instagram, threads, and tiktok) for more news directly from them and follow black creatives on social media to learn more about upcoming projects :]
did u know it has been over 1200 days since there has been a DC mainline ongoing series led by a black main character? because of this there is an ongoing boycott of DC comics, heres a screenshot of the official statement:
heres the petition mentioned in the statement:
#DCSoWhite: End the Black Superhero Drought
and for more info on the boycott check out this site:
DCBlackout - a DC Comics boyocott.
because of this, i wont be promoting/supporting any DC runs from made by non-black creatives and i encourage others to do the same. use ur voice and show DC that we want black creatives and black stories!!
← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ jason todd ✘ reader + platonic! damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ
⤷ summary ⋮ You and Jason are...on a 'break'. Damian makes Bruce break into your apartment with him in retaliation.
aka ›››› "Do all billionaires use the window?" "Only our family.." word cnt. 7.3k
“Come on, babe… seriously?”
Jason’s voice hits the quiet room with far more weight than he intends, dragging across the stillness like rough gravel, thick with disbelief and a frustration so reluctant it almost embarrasses itself as soon as it leaves his mouth. His brows pull together in a tight, uneasy line—an expression he would never aim at you on purpose—especially not when you’re standing there blinking too fast, your lashes wet and trembling, your throat bobbing like you’re trying to swallow something sharp that refuses to go down.
“You have like a million of them.”
He gestures vaguely toward the counter, where the remains of the china teacup—your moderate-quality, robin patterned, impulse-buy teacup—lie scattered like a small, stupid tragedy. They weren’t heirlooms or antiques, not rare pieces from some dusty backroom chase. These were cups you grabbed without thinking, without sentiment, without ceremony. Eight of them total. A casual, mismatched set.
Well… seven now.
“I’ll buy you one, I swear—”
His hand lifts halfway, caught in a helpless, uncertain arc before the words collapse in his throat and die there, because the moment he sees the tears actually slip free—heavy tears, slow tears, so silent they seem almost reverent in the way they fall—Jason goes completely still.
He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head.
Like he’s witnessing something impossible.
Teacups.
You’re crying over teacups.
Teacups you still have seven of.
“Are you—” Jason stops mid-sentence, his mouth hanging open in a stunned, graceless pause, and the expression that flickers across his face—hesitant, baffled pity—makes your stomach twist with pure humiliation. “Are you actually upset at me right now?”
You shake your head—barely, weakly—because even you don’t understand it. The tears aren’t sharp with anger or hot with blame; they’re just happening, spilling for reasons you couldn’t name even if you tried. You bite your lip hard enough to sting, keeping your mouth clamped shut because you know the moment you speak, the words will fall out trembling and pathetic.
“Hey—” Jason tries again, exasperation threading through the tired edges of his voice, “when you broke that part of my motorcycle I didn’t say shit. When the hell did material things start mattering to either of us?”
“Why wouldn’t my things matter to me?”
Your voice shatters right down the middle, thin and fragile like porcelain under too much pressure, and before he can see the way your face twists with the effort of holding yourself together, you crouch down.
You gather the broken pieces carefully, almost ritualistically, your hands moving with a reverence that feels too gentle for something so ordinary—as though, if you’re soft enough, steady enough, patient enough, maybe the cup will knit itself back together and the part of you that cracked with it will follow.
“They shouldn’t.”
The words escape him with a force that seems to rip straight out of his ribs, unbidden and unrefined, slicing through the stillness of the room before he even fully registers he’s said them. They hit the air too hard, too sharp, reverberating like something brittle thrown against concrete, and he looks instantly, horribly aware of the damage they might cause.
Jason draws in a breath that stumbles unevenly through him, his chest rising with the kind of sincerity he has spent years learning how to smother beneath sarcasm and a bulletproof smirk. There’s something desperate in the way he inhales, something taut and aching, as if the confusion flooding his voice is so deep, so marrow-level, that it drags grief behind it like a shadow disguised as irritation.
Because in his world—one stitched together by scarcity and tight budgets and objects that were borrowed, stolen, or broken before they ever reached him—things were never allowed to matter. Not cups, not toys, not clothes, not anything you could hold in your hand.
In his world, things broke all the time.
In his world, people broke too.
And no one ever cried over either.
He grew up wanting things he wasn’t allowed to touch, told to keep his hands in his pockets and his eyes down, to pretend he didn’t see what he desperately wanted, trained to choke on desire before it had a chance to hurt him.
And the truth—the painful, embarrassing, childlike truth he would never speak aloud—is that he would’ve traded the last unbruised shard of his soul for a cheap plastic cup with a peeling racecar sticker on it, something flimsy and mass-produced, something that would never impress anyone, simply because it would have been his. Just one object that belonged to him alone. One thing no one could rip from his hands, or throw away in a rage, or pawn, or break, or use as proof that he didn’t deserve anything nice in the first place.
And he has no idea how to bridge the distance between your heartbreak and his history.
And now he’s standing here, watching you cry—cry—over a teacup he’s never once seen you cradle to your chest like something precious, never watched you display on a shelf with the kind of pride reserved for heirlooms, never heard you speak about with anything more than offhand fondness when you stumbled across a new one to add to the pile.
It hits Jason strangely, almost disorientingly, the way a dream curdles into something slightly off-kilter, because the sight of your tears over something so… replaceable presses on a part of him he doesn’t know how to unpack, a part of him that twists slowly, tightly, like a knot forming in the center of his stomach.
He’s so careful with your belongings it borders on near-religious devotion, a quiet reverence he never names out loud because naming it would make the feelings behind it too visible, too exposed. Jason never touches your jewelry trays because the clasps look delicate in a way that feels above his pay grade, like the kind of fragile luxury that should only ever be handled by someone who doesn’t have a lifetime of breaking things embedded in the muscle memory of their hands.
He avoids your vanity entirely, sidestepping it like a shrine he has no right to approach, because the shimmering bottles and soft-bristled brushes arranged in pristine rows look like artifacts—beautiful, intentional, expensive—objects that radiate the same untouchable gravity as all the things he wasn’t allowed to want when he was young.
He places his phone on your nightstand with the gentleness of someone setting down an explosive device, using both hands, terrified his weight might scratch the surface or send a lamp wobbling toward disaster.
He even—Gods, even the thought is embarrassing—hand-washes all your clothes when your not home to do the laundry with him.
Even your socks.
Because the idea of shrinking something soft and beloved of yours makes his throat go tight, because the fear of ruining a thing you love is so sharp it borders on physical pain, because he cannot stomach the possibility of leaving the wrong kind of mark on anything that belongs to you.
And yet here you are, shoulders trembling, breath stuttering in fragile hiccups, tears slipping down your cheeks in slow, devastating arcs over a teacup that has seven identical sisters waiting patiently in the cabinet.
The sight doesn’t irritate him.
It doesn’t make him scoff or roll his eyes or dismiss your grief as melodrama the way someone less careful with you might have done.
No—what it does is far worse.
It cracks something open in him, something raw and jagged and humiliating, because nothing—not the memories of his childhood or the poverty, not the violence, not the hunger—has ever dragged him back toward the aching emptiness of where he comes from quite as mercilessly as watching you mourn something he doesn’t have the blueprint to value.
And the awful part—the part that presses under his ribs like a shard of glass—is that he wants to understand.
Jason wants to know why your fingers tremble as you gather the broken porcelain, why your breath keeps catching in your throat like you’re afraid it will escape you entirely, why your tears fall faster every time his voice slips into that helpless, weary frustration he didn’t mean to let bleed through.
He wants to tell himself that maybe this cup carried some hidden meaning, some quiet memory or sentimental thread he never saw, something soft and secret that shattered along with the porcelain and left you hurting in a way he wishes he knew how to soothe.
But he knows that isn't it.
So Jason doesn’t understand.
So he stands there—lost, aching, hollowed by helplessness—staring at the broken pieces scattered between you, each shard glinting with a kind of accusation he doesn’t know how to answer. And for the briefest, sharpest moment, he feels like the fracture on the floor isn’t the worst thing he’s broken here.
And you—
God, you feel so unbearably stupid you could fold in on yourself from the embarrassment of it.
They were just tea cups.
Just cheap little china cups you never bothered to wash the “proper” way like the tiny slip of paper told you to, cups you left in the sink overnight sometimes, cups you barely thought about until one was sitting cracked and broken on your kitchen floor like the aftermath of something far more devastating.
You didn’t even care enough to treat them gently.
You chipped one last week and shrugged it off.
But now—now staring at it shattered beyond repair, splintered into fragments that look like the aftermath of a moment you weren’t equipped to handle—you feel something twist sharply inside you, something raw and humiliating and impossible to explain.
“Jason.” You breathe his name out in one long sigh, trying to smooth the wobble from your voice before it cracks into something pathetic, something you know he’ll mistake for anger. “Please… not right now. I had a long day and—”
“I just came back from an eight-hour patrol, and you’re the one crying, so how is this my—”
“I’m not blaming you!” you snap—not out of rage, but desperation—and the moment the words escape, you hate how thin and trembling they sound.
“Sure as hell sounds like it!” Jason fires back, a sharp huff of frustration leaving him as he begins pacing around the kitchen like the movement might somehow make sense of any of this.
You stare back down at the broken pieces of china, your teeth biting into your lip so hard it almost hurts, and the quiet, exhausted words slip out before you can stop them. “Well how is it my fault you’re taking it that way?”
“Can you stop talking to me like that?”
“How else am I supposed to talk to you?” you whisper, blinking fast, eyes wide and stinging. “What do you want me to do, lie and say ‘It doesn’t matter, Jason, this is exactly what I needed to come home to at ten o’clock at—’”
“If you’re stressed about something else,” he cuts in, exasperation threading through every syllable, “then why are you getting so defensive about the stupid tea cup?”
You stare at him, jaw dropping, because the word feels like a slap. “Stupid?”
“It’s a tea cup.” He groans the words, dragging a hand over his face like this entire moment is exhausting him.
“My tea cup,” you sputter, voice breaking as you gather the pieces into your hands and set them on a plate.
“What—so something you have seven other of matters more than me?” Jason finally asks, and the words aren’t mocking or cruel. They’re lost. Utterly, helplessly lost. Because you crying over something he did feels worse to him than any yelling you could throw his way. Yelling he understands. Yelling has a shape, a form he can wrestle. But crying? Tears he caused? That carves panic into his bones because tears don’t tell him what to do, tears don’t show him where to step, tears don’t give him a blueprint for repairing what broke.
He offered to buy you a new one—twice.
He tried explaining it was small, replaceable, meaningless in the grand scheme of things.
But you didn’t let it go.
You couldn’t let it go.
And he doesn’t even care if his own frustration sounds ridiculous, because in his mind he’s changed so much for you already.
You coaxed him open, gently, carefully, teaching Jason piece by piece what it meant to trust someone without waiting for the ground to fall out from under him—but Jason's the one who actually did the opening.
Jason's the one who learned to speak softer when you’re overwhelmed, who forced himself to sleep through the night instead of wandering the apartment like a ghost, who makes himself step back when he feels his temper flare instead of letting it swallow him whole.
He takes care of himself now—because you asked him to.
He tolerates people he would’ve shoved aside or ignored—because you asked him to.
He has given and bent and adjusted more than he ever thought he could for another person.
And Jason's never asked you for anything in return, so the helpless, aching plea slips through his voice before he can soften it, before he can make it gentle.
“Can’t you just let this go?” Jason murmurs, exhausted, grabbing his jacket from the back of the kitchen chair like he’s already bracing himself for the distance he thinks is coming.
And you don’t care—not even a little—if your reaction looks ridiculous or dramatic or childish, because the truth is that you have adjusted so much for him, bent yourself in ways you never thought you would have to, stretched your patience and your compassion and your understanding until it felt like you were pulling threads from your own ribs just to weave Jason something safe to land in.
You’ve explained every emotion you’ve ever felt to this man, laid them out in neat, vulnerable rows so he could see them clearly, so he wouldn’t have to guess, so nothing inside you could ever blindside him the way life blindsided him growing up.
You’ve explained his emotions to him too, talking him down from the cliffs of his own mind, guiding him back toward safety again and again, never once complaining, never once hesitating, because if he was drowning, then you were already in the water with him, pulling him back toward shore.
Was there ever one night—just one—where you weren’t there after patrol, waiting with the med kit, with the soft voice, with the careful hands?
Has Jason ever once gone to sleep without you bandaging him up first, cleaning blood off knuckles that never deserved to split open, humming under your breath so he wouldn’t mistake tenderness for pity?
Have you ever blamed him for anything—any outburst, any moment of panic, any jagged edge that cut too sharp because he hadn’t learned how to sand it down yet?
Have you ever pushed him to talk before he was ready, forced anything out of him, told him that what he felt was stupid or irrational or inconvenient?
No.
Never.
You’ve given him endless grace, endless patience, endless space to unravel and re-stitch himself at his own pace.
So for this one thing—for this one small, embarrassing, fragile break down—
“Please don’t be upset with me,” you whisper, voice trembling in a way you can’t hide, because you genuinely don’t think your heart can take it right now, because even if the reason for your tears is stupid, the feeling behind them isn’t, and lying about that would hurt more than the broken porcelain ever could.
And Jason—
God.
“…so that’s a no.”
And he breathes it out like you’ve betrayed him, like you’ve taken something from him without realizing it, like your refusal to snap out of your emotion is confirmation of some deep, ugly fear Jason’s never learned how to name.
You look down again, wiping your face with the back of your sleeve, your breath shivering in your chest as you try to swallow down the ache pressing against your ribs.
“I’m…” Jason starts, voice fraying at the edges after a long, taut moment. “I’m—I’m going to go, okay?”
You stare at the floor—at the tiny fragments of the cup, pieces so small they’re hardly more than dust, pieces you couldn’t see clearly through your earlier tears—and you manage a small, hoarse “…Okay.”
Jason stands there for a second and then hes nodding stiffly even though your eyes are still glued to the floor, your shoulders tight, your hands curled helplessly against your sides.
Then he walks away, the sound of him crossing the room somehow louder than it should be, like every step is dragging something behind it.
You don’t move.
You don’t even breathe properly.
You just stand there pressed against the fridge, listening to him tie his boots, the laces whispering against each other, the radiator humming in the background like it’s trying to fill the emptiness settling between you.
Then you hear his footsteps again—approaching this time—and before you can straighten or look up or prepare yourself, he’s standing beside you.
“I love you,” Jason murmurs, low and quiet and painfully awkward, like the words are too big in his mouth. “That hasn’t changed—uh… goodnight.”
Maybe it would have hurt less if he hadn’t said anything at all, because the forced wobble in his voice lands in your chest like a bruise, and you hate that you can hear the part he’s trying to hide.
“…tie your boots,” you mumble softly, eyes still fixed on the floor, “don’t trip, Jason.”
There’s a long, aching pause.
“Yeah, babe,” Jason whispers. He stands there for another second—just breathing, just gathering himself in the silence—and then he turns and leaves.
¹ ʷᵉᵉᵏ, ¹ ᵈᵃʸ ˡᵃᵗᵉʳ
Jason might genuinely be dumber than Damian ever suspected, because everyone at this damn table is staring at him—openly, mercilessly—and he’s still shoveling steak into his mouth like he’s in some kind of life-or-death speed-eating contest, jaw working with single-minded determination as if chewing is optional and survival isn’t.
Father, of course, looks absolutely delighted.
Ecstatic, even.
Jason staying at the manor for more than forty-eight hours—actually sleeping in his old room, leaving his boots by the door, existing in a way that suggests permanence—has turned Bruce into some strange, quiet version of jubilant, sipping his miso soup with the serene bliss of a man receiving endless father's day cards. Damian would not be surprised in the slightest if Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s brooding sentinel, were kicking his feet under the table like a child too excited to sit still.
Jason finally glances up mid-chew, cheeks full, eyes flat.
“What.”
Damian doesn’t miss a beat. “Chew.”
“Yeah, seriously,” Dick scoffs, though he’s grinning in that way that means he’s both disgusted and entertained, “what are you, a dog?”
“Do not compare dogs to him,” Damian snaps before Jason can even gather enough dignity to glare. “Titus eats his food like a gentleman.”
“I’m losing my appetite watching this,” Tim mutters, pushing his plate away and turning toward Bruce. “Since I’m obviously done, can I go work on—”
“No,” Bruce cuts in smoothly, still wearing that faint, impossible-to-scrape-off smile, “eat your asparagus.”
Tim groans, picks the limp vegetable up with all the enthusiasm of a condemned man, and shoves it into his mouth. “Acting like your not avoiding your seaweed.”
Jason tunes them out, shoulders lifting and falling with a silent sigh as he scowls and aggressively inhales the last of his food.
Eventually it’s just him, Dick, and Damian left at the table.
The clock on the far wall blinks a clean, indifferent 2:00 a.m.
Bedtime for the bats.
Or it should be.
Patrol itself had been easy—almost offensively so. Just annoying.
A rundown gambling hall and a half-hearted drug exchange at the docks during the storm, nothing he couldn’t handle blindfolded with one hand tied behind his back.
But Jason hadn’t been in it.
Not fully.
Not even halfway.
He’d moved on instinct alone, the muscle memory of nights like this doing all the work while his mind drifted somewhere far from the smoke and the grit and the snapping bones beneath his fists.
Jason had taken more hits than usual—unnecessary ones, stupid ones—including a sharp punch that split his lip and another that caught him square in the jaw. One ancient asshole had even landed a blow to his knee, of all places.
Dick had actually yelled at him mid-fight—“Get your head on straight!”—voice cracking with genuine worry.
Later, on the rooftop where Tim passed out greasy paper bags of burgers, Dick had tugged Jason aside, fingers buried in the mess of dark hair, muttering about how he needed a damn haircut because obviously that was the reason he was off his game.
And Damian—
Damian had burned holes through the back of Jason’s hood all night, silent, suspicious, eyes sharp enough to slice open whatever secret Jason wasn’t sharing.
“You going to bed here?” Dick asks now, picking up his plate, tone light but probing in that older-brother way he’ll never shake.
“Yeah,” Jason mutters, nudging a sad stalk of asparagus across his plate like the world’s most exhausted toddler.
Damian’s head snaps up so fast it’s almost comical.
He stares—really stares—at Jason, eyes widening, brows furrowing, mouth parting in something halfway between realization and disbelief. Jason, predictably oblivious, doesn’t notice a damn thing.
Dick does, though–oh, he definitely does.
He hides a snort behind his hand, mumbling something about making sure Tim is in his bedroom and not the cave before walking out.
And Damian?
Damian is still staring like Jason has just announced he’s selling his organs to fund a circus.
Now it’s just the two of them left in the dining room, the silence stretching out in a way only Jason receives as casual, and Damian watches as Jason takes a slow swig of water as if he can wash the exhaustion out of his bones before pushing himself up to stand, ready to make the quietest, least dramatic exit possible—only for a metal clatter to slice through the room when a spoon hits the middle of his back with the delicate precision of someone who has absolutely no intention of letting him leave.
Jason freezes mid-step, staring at a painting on the wall as though it might offer him a different reality, one where he isn’t being pelted with kitchenware by a ten-year-old assassin, and then he turns, slow enough to betray just how done he is, to face Damian.
“What did Dick say about throwing cutlery?” he grumbles, trying—God, trying—to summon that authoritative ‘dad’ tone Bruce wields like a weapon and Dick wields like a warm blanket, but it comes out thin, frayed, and completely incapable of intimidating anyone who’s ever stabbed a man before puberty.
Damian doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t blink. He just looks at Jason with those flat, unyielding eyes and says, “It’s been a week, you said on monday 'maybe friday'.” like the words are a verdict and Jason is already guilty.
Jason drags a hand down his face, worn-out in a way that has nothing to do with the bruises blooming under his skin. “Look, now is really not a good time,” he mutters, the words reaching for patience and barely grazing it. “And it’s not like I’m keeping you out, alright? I’m not going either—”
“Who said I needed to go with you?” Damian interrupts, his tone sharp enough to cut, as if the idea that he might require accompaniment is almost insulting.
Jason raises an eyebrow, too tired to even pretend he doesn’t know exactly where this is going, too tired to carry the weight of this conversation but too human not to try anyway. “She’s not going to want to see you right now,” he says, and the words come out softer than he means them to, softer than he wants them to be.
That actually hits Damian—Jason sees it, the tiny break in the armor, the shift from steel to something almost, almost vulnerable. His expression tightens, curls in on itself, and for a moment he looks less like the demon heir and more like a kid trying to fit himself into a shape the world keeps insisting on. “I… don’t recall doing anything… wrong,” he murmurs, the uncertainty so rare it practically echoes.
Jason exhales, a long, unraveling sound that’s half frustration and half something like grief, because the last thing he needs is to drag anyone else into the mess he’s made. “You didn’t,” he says, and he even tries for reassurance, though it lands crooked. “Chill. You’re fine. It’s me—it’s… her. We’re not talking right now. She’d be upset if you showed up by yourself, and you’re not coming with me because I’m not going.”
“You’ve split up?” Damian explodes, his hands slamming against the tabletop with a force that rattles the silverware, the kind of theatrical outrage only someone raised by assassins and billionaires could ever pull off without flinching.
“No,” Jason exhales, the word coming out flat, worn, so utterly unaffected that it almost sounds cruel, though it’s really just exhaustion wearing his voice like a wet coat. He knows exactly where this is headed, knows exactly how drained he’ll feel by the time he finally gets upstairs, and yet he still tries—Gods help him—to keep things level. “We’re just taking a break, okay—?”
“A break?” Damian repeats, the word hitting his tongue like it’s poison, like the very idea defies the laws of physics. He stares at Jason with something between horror and disgust. “What the hell did you do?”
“Nothing!” Jason shoots back, the frustration rising faster than he can tamp it down. “We just had an argument, alright? And frankly I don’t even feel that in the wrong here—we’re going to talk about it like adults later, but right now I don’t exactly want to see her and I seriously doubt she wants to see you—”
And the second the sentence leaves his mouth, he hears it. He hears it. The way it sounds. The way it lands. He watches Damian go still in that frightening, surgical way he has, his lips flattening into a single, rigid line and his fists curling tight enough that the knuckles pale.
Jason closes his eyes, drops his head, raises a hand in something like surrender—but not quite apology, because he hasn’t figured out how to string one together yet. “I didn’t mean it like that—”
“What does what you did wrong have to do with me?” Damian fires back, each word sharpened to a point.
Jason actually stops. Actually blinks at him. And then, with a tiredness so bone-deep it feels like he’s speaking through mud, he says, “I hate to fucking tell you this, Damian, but you’re my brother first. No amount of closeness—yours or mine—or whatever the hell any of us think we are to her is going to change that.”
For a moment, the room goes very, very still. A breath held by someone who doesn’t want to acknowledge they’re holding it.
Then Jason turns—and finds Dick and Tim standing in the doorway like two busted gargoyles caught eavesdropping on a family therapy session they absolutely didn’t have the clearance for. The tension on Jason's face folds into something sharp and undeniably pissed off.
“What the hell?” he snaps. “Fuck off and go to bed.”
Dick looks at him like Jason’s a stray dog someone just threatened to kick. Tim looks like he’s trying to figure out whether this is finally the moment where a 'trouble in paradise?' joke would get him killed.
Jason pushes past both of them anyway, jaw tight, shoulders tense. He sends one last look over his shoulder toward Damian—the kind of pointed look that carries a warning far heavier than the words themselves.
“Don’t even try to sneak out,” he says, low and firm, a promise more than a threat. “You do that and I— so help me Damian I'll make sure your never allowed to step foot into that apartment again, who do you wana be shed listen to?”
And then he’s gone down the hall, leaving Damian alone with a table full of cold food and a silence sharp enough to slice clean through him.
“Hey… bud,” Dick starts, voice careful, slow, like he’s trying to thread his way through a minefield of tension he can feel but can’t quite see. “Do you want to play a video game with—”
Damian doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t even glance. His head shakes once, sharp, decisive, the motion carrying more weight than any argument ever could. Then he simply walks past them, silent, deliberate, leaving the words hanging in the air like smoke, unclaimed and useless.
Dick exhales, just a little, the sound betraying a mixture of frustration, resignation, and something softer, something that almost feels like sadness. Tim shifts in place, uncertain, then sighs and mumbles a small, "I'll tell Bruce.”
Damian is sprawled flat beneath Titus like some unwilling, furry sarcophagus, limbs splayed and pinned, when Bruce walks into the room. Fresh out of the shower, pretending worry isn't gracing his brow because of the fact Damian has not kicked him out yet. Lucy, the monkey Damian has been itching to introduce for days, perches nearby, inspecting strands of his hair with meticulous little fingers, poking as if she’s checking for fleas or ticks.
Bruce eases onto the edge of the bed, reaching down to lift one of Damian’s feet. His hands move with that practiced, silent precision, pressing gently for bruises or tenderness from the night’s patrol—the memory of Dick shoving Damian away from a man and into that tight space between two shipping containers still clear in his mind, the only time Jason had reacted with something close to humor, snorting from his daze as if the absurdity had momentarily broken through the tension.
“I’m not hurt,” Damian huffs, the sound muffled beneath Titus’s fur, thick and immovable. Ace nudges into Bruce's back like hes telling his owner to ignore the little one.
“Humor me,” Bruce replies, voice low and roughened from Gotham’s rain, hands shifting carefully, probing not just for broken bones but for temperature changes and tension in muscle that might betray pain he refuses to admit.
“Father…” Damian’s voice finally cuts through, hesitant, thin, fragile under the weight of silence. Titus has shifted fully, blocking Bruce’s view of his youngest’s face, and maybe that is exactly what gives Damian the courage to ask the question rolling uncomfortably off his tongue.
“Mhm? Yes, Damian?”
“…Your… experienced with women.”
Bruce freezes mid-motion, fingers resting lightly on Damian’s knee. This is not the conversation he anticipated when Tim had peeked into his master bedroom, reporting that the baby needed attention.
Not in a million scenarios did he imagine navigating questions about women or experience with this son, least of all now, when he barley reaches Bruce's hip.
And yet here it is, suspended between them in the quiet room, heavier than any patrol report, any argument, any lesson on discipline—and Bruce knows that his experience isn't exactly…well one he wants to be used for teaching.
“Did you… meet a girl at school?” Bruce begins carefully, slow and measured, the words more an experiment than a question, and he watches, almost with a kind of detached fascination, as Damian immediately snaps upright, yanking his leg away from his father’s hand as if contact itself had suddenly become unbearable. His ears flare bright red, almost glowing beneath the dim light, and the flush spreads up his sharp cheekbones, raw and uncontainable.
“NOT ME!” Damian practically screams, the volume ricocheting off the walls and into Bruce’s ears, which still throb faintly from the night’s patrol.
“The other one!” Damian huffs, his anger deflating slightly as he pets Lucy, Titus, and Ace with careful, apologetic strokes, murmuring soft noises that are half reassurance, half apology, as if the animals themselves need to understand he’s not permanently dangerous.
Bruce rubs at his ears, bitterly convinced that after that scream he deserves a pet too.
“Dick?” Bruce murmurs, voice low and cautious, “I think he can figure out Koriand'r better than any of us could, Damian—”
Damian mutters a name under his breath, sharp, almost imperceptible, and Bruce pauses mid-thought.
Of course, he knows of you; he knows that most of his children are well-versed in your existence, your habits, your presence in the orbit of their lives—but the formal interactions between Bruce and you have been limited, almost clinical: a parent-teacher conference, one short exchange of cash in thanks, nothing else. Hell, the only reason he has your number is because Damian's phone and contacts is connected to his.
Bruce is not annoyed that Damian hadn’t called him immediately when the fight happened, but there had been a flicker of irritation that neither you nor Jason had tried, that the initiative had fallen elsewhere.
That irritation fades almost entirely, however, the moment he recalls the selfie Jason had sent a few days ago, one of those rare, candid things. Jason had been smiling ear to ear, face unguarded, and Bruce’s eyes had fallen on your hand brushing lightly against the whipped cream on Damian’s upper lip, gentle and unaware of the camera.
Jason was wearing one of Bruce’s suits, perfectly tailored from no use, and Bruce thinks it has been years—years—since he has seen that effortless smile from his son, never mind one sent willingly, one shared.
“Jason…” Damian spits the name like venom, forcing Bruce’s memory out of that quiet, tender snapshot he had professionally printed months ago and keeps tucked in his desk drawer. “Says the two of them are on a break.”
Damian’s voice hardens further, the word break pronounced like an accusation. He mutters under his breath, barely audible: “What does that entail?”
Ah.
Well.
Talia and Selina had taught him more than enough about what a ‘break’ meant, and Bruce could feel the weight of it pressing into the room, a tension that seemed almost physical, curling around the corners like smoke.
“Well…” Bruce begins slowly, carefully choosing each word as if it were a scalpel, “Your mother—”
“Father. Textbook definition.” Damian’s face scrunches up, sharp angles softening for the briefest fraction of a second. “Not mother's.”
Bruce exhales, long and weary, the kind of sound that carries the history of too many late nights, too many battles, too many conversations that end in nothing but exhaustion. “It’s different for everyone,” he says, hands flexing on his knees, voice low and ragged, “It could entail not seeing or speaking, just acting as friends, maybe seeing other people—”
“OTHER PEOPLE?” Damian actually yells this time, the word snapping like a whip, ricocheting against the walls of the room.
Other people.
People who could, Gods forbid, have little brothers.
Bruce presses a hand to his temple, already tasting the headache forming, the kind that comes whenever hes thinking about his children's love lives. At least it’s not Cassandra, he tells himself bitterly.
Bruce looks down at his son, defeated, the weight of parenthood settling across his shoulders like an old, heavy coat. “I doubt that’s what they did, but—” He pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose, willing the migraine back into nonexistence, “Look, they probably had an argument and just—”
“Have you done this ‘break’ before?” Damian interrupts, sharp, precise, a predator circling a question like it’s prey.
“Yes,” Bruce says, the word falling flat but necessary, the history of his own mistakes and missteps coiling behind it. “With your mother. All the damn time. In fact I think we never formally ended things. See? No problem. Calm down, Damian—”
Damian blinks at him like a bird caught mid-flight, feathers ruffled, heart racing. “That’s… not exactly reassuring,” he mutters, the words soft but pointed, as if every syllable carries a weight Bruce isn’t entirely ready to shoulder.
Bruce shifts, awkward, uncertain. “She’s nothing like Talia, and you can’t assume Jason will act the way I do, so… I’m sure—”
But Damian doesn’t hear him. He sees you. He recalls the way you scold Jason and him, measured but firm, precise as any lesson he’s ever had from his mother. He remembers the tea, the way you handle it, the soft pressure of your hands on the cup, as if you are instilling care into the ritual itself. He recalls the gentle pat to his head, firm yet soft, praise administered like an art form in the same cadence, the same rhythm as Talia.
He remembers Jason, the way he closes off, blocks the world, melts into something unreadable and strange the way Bruce had with Talia, the way he does with you. He remembers the switch flipping, the calm, the mush of familiarity and affection, all tangled into a strange, fragile symmetry.
Damian looks down at his lap, where Lucy has tucked herself, huffing softly, a tiny puff of air as if she’s exasperated on his behalf.
Bruce tries again, voice careful, steadying, the weight of years of lessons bleeding through: “And… it’s not like Jason can’t handle his own relationships—”
Damian looks up at Bruce and mumbles the money move.
"Father...please? I'm only talking about this with you because I trust you to keep it to yourself."
The pause stretches, dense and thick, a pressure that hovers in the space between them, before Damian watches as his father flops onto the bed, resting his head on Ace’s back as if surrendering to the sheer absurdity of parenthood.
“I’ll take you to her apartment,” Bruce sighs, voice heavy with both command and relief, “Go get the keys.”
Damian launches himself from the bed with such ferocity, such unrestrained vigor, that Bruce can’t help but feel a small, fleeting twinge of jealousy.
“CAN I DRIVE?!” Damian yells from down the hall.
“DONT MAKE ME TAKE IT BACK!” Bruce yells back from the bed, petting Ace with the same gentleness his son does all the time.
You don’t even know why you’re surprised when you glance out the window and see Bruce and Damian Wayne crawling back inside—completely unannounced, completely without costume, like some absurdly wealthy, deadly version of burglars who’ve forgotten the subtlety part of the job. Your brain freezes for a moment, caught somewhere between incredulity and the faint, reluctant amusement that it somehow never manages to suppress around this family.
Bruce moves with the quiet, deliberate precision you’d expect, though somehow even that is comically undermined by the fact that he’s wearing a loose dress shirt and slacks instead of armor, and Damian—sharp, rigid, impossibly focused—clings to the sill like a tiny, lethal spider. And somehow, somehow, this is happening in your living room.
Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out. You think about yelling, about asking, about just… doing literally anything, but the scene is already too ridiculous, too surreal, too utterly Wayne to stop watching.
“…I take it Jason doesn’t know you two are here.” Your voice is flat, calm, deadpan enough to make Damian falter at the window, caught mid-crouch like a startled cat, before he stiffens and composes himself with that rigid precision that somehow manages to look both absurd and impressive at the same time.
Bruce just stares at you, eyes flicking toward the floor for a moment, the faintest shadow of shame crossing his face. “Damian is… very convincing,” he admits quietly, almost reluctantly, like he doesn’t want to admit that his youngest has outmaneuvered him. And that the reason he isn't donning his suit and cowl that would make him feel less awkward doing this is because Damian said you…dont allow ‘costumes’ in the apartment.
You sigh, long and measured, because you know that all too well. “...Would you both like some tea?”
“Green, please.” They say it simultaneously, words colliding mid-air, and then both of them pause, blinking at the strange synchronicity of it.
Damian finally lifts his gaze to you, stepping fully into the warmth of your apartment—the one he’s been missing all week—shoulders still drawn back a little, tight with tension, cautious. There’s a flicker in his expression, a shadow of worry that you might be angry with him, and for a quiet moment, you realize that this must be why he didn’t come with Jason.
Why he felt safe enough to come with Bruce.
The thought makes you smile faintly to yourself. Unfortunately that worry was still for not, since nothing—nothing—could make you think of Jason without some measure of fondness, some involuntary warmth curling in your chest.
“…Two sugars and—”
“Honey.” You nod softly, gentle but sure. “I take it that’s for you as well, Mr. Wayne?”
Bruce notices it immediately—the same airy softness in your voice that Talia once had, long before… everything. The sound of it makes his chest tighten in a almost protective way, the kind of tightness that drives him to think about checking security systems more obsessively, running patrols along streets he shouldn’t need to think twice about, filing addresses away in the back of his mind for frequent, silent surveillance.
Mr. Wayne closes the window behind him with a slow, deliberate motion, the kind of movement that feels both commanding and almost apologetic at once, muttering under his breath with that rare, unguarded humility: “I don’t deserve honey.”
“I agree.” Your voice cuts through the quiet with that clipped precision, that same subtle authority Bruce knows all too well, and both father and son feel it—the unmistakable sting of being scolded by another woman in their life.
“This is all Jason’s fault,” Damian mutters under his breath as he stalks toward the kitchen, each step measured, deliberate, like a small storm contained in a human frame. Bruce sighs and trails behind, a quiet shadow to Damian’s tempest. “I’m putting salt in his hot chocolate.”
“That makes it taste better,” Bruce mumbles, distracted, voice low, already running through possible interventions, calculating ways to prevent this minor rebellion from turning into another justification for why your relationship with Jason is somehow compromised.
Damian turns to him with a look that could have been mistaken for disbelief or horror, eyebrows raised as if Bruce had just sprouted a third head. “You… you poor people are so weird, Can’t afford high-quality chocolate, so you add salt—”
“I’m a billionaire,” Bruce scoffs, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his mouth at how Damian seemed to relax slightly.
“Do all billionaires use the window?” You quip from in front the kettle, and only then does Bruce fully register that the two of them have already moved into your kitchen, filling the small space with the weight of their presence. In his defense, Bruce isn't used to such small living spaces.
“Just our family,” Bruce says awkwardly, voice softening, attempting to lighten the mood in a room that somehow feels smaller and larger than he can fit in all at once.
You glance over your shoulder, and the glare is familiar—sharp, incisive, the same one Jason had once leveled at him at nine years old, full of judgment that Bruce could only find adorable.
trinketville, population: 2 (5 if you count the trinkets)
cw: i mean like. he says fuck a few times. but thats it. also not proofread since i cant run into my siblings room atm and force him to read my fanfics (imy stinky @luvmailing :( )
pairing: gn!reader x jason todd
characters: jason todd. obviously
a/n: wrote this instead of my lab report. um anyways dont expect anything for like another month or 12 :P
"What is that"
The doll dangles in front of Jason as you present it to him, a big grin plastered across your face. His expression morphs from confused, to intrigued, to mildly supportive, and back to confused as he scans the small toy held in front of his face.
"He’s our son, obviously. He has your eyes—"
"Why is he naked?" Jason interjects, raising an eyebrow at you "No son of mine is going to walk around naked."
"First off, he is not naked." you retort, pointing at your son's apple-shaped hood, "And second, he's a cherub. see?"
You turn the figure around so Jason can see the wings on its back, tapping at the white plastic with your index finger.
"Ok so? I'm not letting him fly around naked either, babe. We work so we can buy things like clothes, y’know" Jason crosses his arms over his chest, he can't deny that he's mildly entertained by the surprise baby although he is a little confused on why you have such a strong affection for what is essentially a tiny baby doll.
—
The following weeks do little to make him grow fonder of his "son" despite your many attempts at what you call bonding activities. Unfortunately, moving your son around the apartment like an elf on the shelf has done very little to make Jason like him. Who would’ve thunk that having a shifty looking baby basically follow him throughout your shared home would've been interpreted as creepy.
That being said, Jason has done some warming up to his “son” in an attempt to be supportive of your hobbies. he doesn't understand the appeal or why you feel so fond for something so strange but you like him so it checks out. If you've tolerated being in a relationship with the Jason Peter Todd for so long it's only natural that you're a bit strange, he's not judging though. Jason isn't stupid, he entertains your efforts and plays his role in your game of house like a good partner. if you told past-jason he would be scouring etsy listings, hunting down tiny doll clothes for his significant other he wouldn't respond. Because he was dead. But he's sure that if he was still kicking back then he would be shocked.
His phone dings from his pocket, an obnoxiously loud noise which you complain about but unfortunately is the only way for Jason to actually use his phone — curse his 30 minute screentime. He takes his phone out of his pocket and lets out a small amused huff at the text you sent him.
“me and our son have a surprise hehe 👀”
Attached is a photo of your “son”, politely standing on the passenger seat of your car, a large paper bag behind him to keep him up. Of course you had to include him in your little excursions, Jason thinks to himself. He reacts to the message with a simple thumbs up and sets his phone down.
—
The faint jingle of keys and the soft click of the front door unlocking can be heard moments later as you swing the door open.
“Honey, I'm hoooooome!” you loudly announce, shutting the door behind you and setting down the bag on the kitchen counter. You toe your shoes off excitedly and kick them somewhere under the bench near the apartment entrance, not like you were paying attention. surprises first, organization later. That's a future you problem.
“Was wondering where you were.” Jason smiles, pausing whatever he was watching on the tv to walk up to you and lazily grabbing you by the waist. “What kept you busy today, hm?”
“Just errands, I got you those chocoshroom thingies that you like. In addition to your surprise” you reply, ruffling his hair. “what kept you busy today?”
“Nothing much although I did find a really good video essay on Oscar Wilde we should watch later." he muses, subtly nuzzling his face into whatever part of you he can reach. What can he say? He's a weird little freak and he likes how you smell. rereading this and audibly gagged why did i write that ew ew ew
“Ooh! Before I forget, surprise time.” Jason watches as you head back to the kitchen, grabbing two hexagonal boxes. As much as he loves you he can't help but silently pray that it isn't another plastic naked baby.
With a smile on your face you grab his hand and place the bright green cardboard box in his palm. He smiles back, confused but willing. Thank God no more plastic babies, he thinks to himself.
He nods along as you ramble excitedly, trying to keep up with your treacherous journey to get these little boxes. Something about scalpers and resellers marking prices up on something-ski’s? And hippers, whatever the hell those are. As much as he hates it, he probably should be on social media more, maybe it’ll help him be more in-the-loop when it comes to these things. As a very lost Jason tries to piece together what exactly the big deal is, your voice cuts through his train of thought.
“So which one do you want? I think the little one holding his nose is super cute.” You tilt your head, looking up at Jason, his brows slightly furrowed in confusion.
Shit- okay, okay, just point at one. They didn't notice. Just pick one and look interested. He turns the box over in his hands, pointing at the first blue figure that catches his eye “Uh- this one. Yeah, he looks cool.”
“Lets open them at the same time” you smile, counting down before popping your box open. Jason lets you get a headstart, watching you in amusement as you peel open the plastic packaging. He may not understand it, but if your plastic figurines make you that happy, he’ll unbox them with you just to see you smile. Hell, he probably would buy you an entire pallet of them if it means he’ll get to hear you excitedly squeal when you get the one you wanted. He lets out a small huff, prying open the box and taking the blue figurine out of the plastic packaging.
Jason shakes the toy into his palm and can't contain his laughter as a small crouched blue… thing rolls out. He tries to hold back his laugh but it's the type that brings tears to the corners of his eyes and makes his ribs hurt.
“Sorry- I’m sorry, babe, but he looks fucken ridiculous. I mean- why does he look like that!” he snorts, holding out the little blue guy for you to see. You peer into his hands and the blue hunched over smiski looks back at you over its shoulder.
“Hes pooping” you respond, unable to hide the amused look on your face after Jason's outburst.
“Do you poop like that?”
“Am I a weird little blue bald guy with a big ass head?”
Jason pauses for a moment, tapping at his bottom lip as his eyebrows furrow in exaggerated contemplation. You, naturally, smack him on the back of the head for this, calling him an asshole under your breath.
“Kidding! Kidding!” he laughs, wrapping his arms around you and kissing your cheek, his favourite trick to win you over.
You let out a small huff “You better take care of him. For good luck.”
“My good luck charm is shitting in my hands right now.” he states plainly
“Look, if a rabbit's paw can be a symbol of good luck, so can a little guy taking a shit.” you retort, rolling your eyes
Jason relents, kissing your temple “Yeah, yeah, whatever. I'll take care of him. I actually like this one anyways.”
You let out a dramatic gasp, clutching at your invisible pearls “You hate our son?! You are a horrible horrible father, Jay.”
“Woah- hey, I didn’t say I hate him. I just prefer his bald blue brother.” he shrugs with a grin
“Playing favourites, even worse.” You shake your head in false disappointment, but it's hard to feign dismay knowing that you're slowly dragging Jason by the ankles into your little hobbies.
And surely enough Jason follows in your footsteps, sending a photo of your son later that night while he's out on patrol. The toy glows brightly in the darkness of the damp Gotham night, seated on the edge of some random rooftop. The picture is shortly followed by a text from the father of your three plastic children:
my fave jason todd hc is that he had gorgeous big ol' brown orbs before his death and when he comes back his eyes are green. but not like a gorgeous jade green, its like smiski green. and they glow in the dark which is scary as shit to see at 3am when ur getting water
i want to bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. i want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.
or; your boyfriend shows up when you just want some alone time [3.2k]
jason todd x fem!reader; reader gets her period and describes painful symptoms; just fluff; jason "words don't come easy so here's acts of service" todd this is earlier in the relationship which is why he's still a little shy but she knows he's red hood? idk man. i was just going with it; can you guess what inspired this? (everything is awful)
The day started at 2 AM when you woke to shooting pains in your abdomen and blood everywhere. It continued until 2:45 while you cleaned yourself, changed clothes, put on a fresh pad, took some painkillers, and changed the sheets. It paused for about an hour until you woke up again at 4:00, courtesy of Gotham’s patented night-life that had taught you to completely tune out the sound of police sirens. Tonight, however, they weren’t tuning out.
The sirens quieted at 4:10, by which angry tears collected in the corners of your eyes as you flopped around in bed in an attempt to get comfortable. No matter what you did, there was always something wrong; the pillow was too hard, the blanket was too scratchy, the position hurt your arm.
From 4:11 to 4:12, you screamed into your pillow.
By 4:15 you had settled in front of the TV with a bowl of dry cereal (it took everything in you not to cry over the lack of milk in your fridge), a heating pad, and your favorite comfort show queued up.
At 8 AM you managed to drag yourself to work, where you half-assed the day’s tasks, took a 15-minute break to cry in your car, then dipped out a half-hour early.
Now, at 5 PM on a Friday evening, you’re curled into the fetal position in front of your TV with your comfort show resumed and your trusty heating pad cranked to the highest setting. Prepared to spend the entire night here, you already changed into pajamas and kept a couple blankets within reach. Your phone buzzes on the coffee table, and you stretch to reach it, careful not to lose your comfortable position or roll off the couch.
Jason
About to leave
Be there in 20
You groan out loud. You want to throw your phone across the room, but decide against it because no amount of hormones from hell are worth six hundred dollars. You’re still angry, though, for being so stupid as to forget about the date you had planned for tonight. Scrolling up to earlier messages, you see another text from today wishing you a good morning and telling you he was excited to see you tonight. But, too down to bother checking any messages today, you had missed it.
You
I can’t tonight anymore I’m sorry
I don’t feel great
After hitting send, you place your phone on the ground, not even having the energy to reach for the coffee table again. Or the energy to lift your arm back up, apparently, given how it hangs limply over the edge of the couch. You feel guilty about cancelling, but you are in no state to go out tonight. You’re used to the symptoms of your period hitting so hard. As much as you and Jason care about each other, you’re not sure you’re ready for him to see you like this. You’ve managed to plan your relationship around your hormone cycle so far, but today it came early.
Your phone’s buzzing is muffled by the rug, and you almost don’t hear it. Jason’s photo is displayed on the screen.
Your hanging hand clicks ‘answer’ and puts it on speaker so you can take the call without moving from how you're curled up.
“Is everything okay? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, I’m fine, I just don’t feel up for going out tonight. I’d rather stay home.”
“Did something happen?”
“No, I just got my period so I’m not really in the mood.”
“Okay, we can stay in tonight. What do you feel like eating? I can pick something up.”
“No, Jason…I want to stay home alone tonight.”
There’s a beat of silence on the other end of the line.
“Okay…did I do something?” His voice comes out a little smaller.
“No, you’re fine, I promise. I just don’t feel like seeing anyone right now.”
“…Not even me?”
Your hand presses against your temples to soothe the building tension headache. The self-doubt in his tone brings the anguish of the entire day bubbling up your throat. You feel like the worst person in the world. Exactly how you don’t want him to see you.
“Jason…it’s not you. I just…I feel like shit right now, honestly. Everything hurts, I’m miserable and sad and angry at everything, I’m breaking out all over.” You feel yourself welling up at all these little stresses coming out. “I’m craving everything but feel too sick to eat anything…I feel pretty disgusting right now, and frankly, I don’t want you to see me like this.” You finish your rant with a sniffle. You wipe your nose, trying to hold back the sob that’s threatening to break through. But at his silence, your worst, most improbable fears claw their way to the surface: he hates you now. You scared him away. You exhale heavily into your sleeve as more tears spill.
The phone is quiet for a long moment. Then; “I could never find you disgusting,” he says, gently. “But if that’s what you want, then we’ll reschedule.”
“Thank you. And sorry.”
He speaks with a tone you can’t quite parse. “Don’t apologize. Just feel better.”
-
-
-
It’s one hour after your phone call, and at the first knock, you know who it is. Who else could it be? With that soft, somewhat hesitant, one-knuckle rap on the door. Only one person knocks on your door like that.
“Jason, I told you not to come here,” you say a little more cutting than you intend to, but your back and shoulders feel like they’re about to snap under a phantom pressure and the frustration of your request being outright ignored leaves a burning bitterness that channels itself into a violent wrenching open of the door.
He jumps a little at the abruptness of your greeting. One look at your face and he visibly deflates.
“I’m sorry…I know you said not to come, but…” his gaze casts downward to his hands. You follow; he’s clutching a reusable grocery bag. Peeking out of the top is a gallon of Neapolitan ice cream. The ice cream carton’s condensation seeped through a small patch of the cloth bag and dripped onto the other items; a bushel of greens, among some other fruits and vegetables, as well as a parcel of brown paper that was fastened closed with a twine string. You return your gaze to his face.
“I think—” he cuts himself off, free hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. Then he drops his hand and sighs. “I’m sorry. This was a bad idea. You told me not to come here and I ignored you, but I thought…” he trails off, probably hoping you’ll say something so he can gauge your reaction.
You just stare at him.
He shifts his weight back and forth. His hand twitches.
“Okay, yeah, I’ll—”
Then, you burst into tears.
Jason’s eyes widen. He reaches out to touch you, then stops himself. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry! I’m sorry, this was stupid. Please stop crying, I’m so sorry—” He’s panicked, trying to calm you down with apologies and soothing assurances that he will leave immediately and never go against your wishes again. All the while you stand in the doorway, blubbering like a toddler with a skinned knee, new tears forming faster than you can wipe the old ones away.
He once again raises a hand towards you, before it stutters, then clenches into a fist as if it takes all his strength to fight against the instinct to be close to you, fighting against the string that tethers him to you. He drags his hand down his face, then it falls back to his side.
“Okay, I—I’m leaving now. I’m leaving. Do you…want this?” He holds the bag out to you.
With it now in front of you, its further contents are visible. You manage to tamp down your tears enough to get a few words out.
“Did you—hic—buy me groceries?”
“Yeah…” There’s a wince in his tone, as if he’s only now realizing that his gesture is not translating as he intended.
You look back up at him with pursed lips and knitted brows, sniffling. Sure, the ice cream you can understand, but…you have no idea what to make of the rest.
The bag drops back to his side. “I figured…it’s just— it’s the stuff that you’re supposed to—” He strokes his palm over his mouth, eyes screwing shut for a moment. He huffs at himself, then continues. “I mean I’m sure you already know all of this, so maybe you already have all these things, and now I’m realizing how unnecessary all this was, and I shouldn’t have assumed—”
“Jason,” you say. Your upset has since been overshadowed by something else, though you can’t tell what it is. And your crying has stopped, but its lingering effects have you feeling congested and a little foggy. You’re half expecting this to be a fever dream that you’re moments away from waking up from in a cold sweat.
“—because obviously you know what helps you feel better much more than I do—”
“Jason.”
“And you— yeah?” His eyes are a little harried when they find yours again. But off your tired and still-confused look, he gets the message and collects himself.
“Right, yeah, I just thought that…maybe I could bring you some of the stuff with all those minerals that are supposed to help women when they’re…menstruating.” He briefly breaks eye contact at the end of his sentence, red rouge creeping up his neck.
You can’t help it; you start to giggle. You can’t remember the last time you heard a man use the term ‘menstruating’ in a non-medical context. And the fact that he’s so shy about it— upset as you may be (though not at him), there’s no denying how adorable your boyfriend is. His head shoots back to you as your laughter intensifies. He blushes harder.
“It’s not that funny,” he mutters.
You step away from the door, finally closing the space between you, and wrap your arms around his torso. Your head nestles into his chest. He gently drops the grocery bag on the ground and reciprocates your hug. He rests his chin on your head, which fits perfectly under his. Like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. You breathe him in.
“Sorry I’m such a mess,” you murmur into his shirt.
He breathes into your hair. “You have nothing to apologize for. And you’re not a mess.”
You look up, chin resting in the space between his collarbones. He looks down at you with a small smile, but some wariness is still etched into his features. Fear of unwittingly upsetting you again. He brings up a hand to push some hair out of your face and tuck it behind your ear. His hand remains there, toying with the hair that falls below your shoulder.
"Thank you for the food,” you whisper. The moment feels too intimate to speak any other way.
“I’m sorry for not listening to you. I just…” He imitates your quietness, like his admission is also too vulnerable to say loudly. “I really wanted to see you. And I hated the idea of you feeling bad about yourself, or being in pain. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
Your eyes feel wet again. The first instinct is to hide your face, maybe press it to his chest once more. But, for some reason, you don’t. You want him to see you like this, messy and emotional and upset. You want him to see every part of you, and you want to see every part of him, the good and the bad.
“You didn’t.” A tear slips past the effort to keep it at bay. He shows no reaction to it, eyes never leaving yours, other than a quick swiping away with his thumb. “No one’s ever done anything like this for me before. That’s why I was crying. Not because you showed up.”
“That doesn’t seem right. This is nothing. You deserve even more.”
With no words to fully, adequately communicate the blooming in your chest, you stand on your toes, reaching up to him for a kiss. But given his stature, your lips only reach his chin and brush over its underside.
At your quiet whine, he chuckles and leans down to meet you in the middle. The kiss is soft; filled with the innocence of fresh blossoms in the spring, and the sweetness of its borne fruit.
You pull away when a vicious cramp roots you back to the present. Your limps tighten around Jason with a groan.
“I need to go back inside. I’ve been away from my heating pad for too long.”
His shoulders sag when you step away from him. “Oh, um…do you still…want me to leave?”
With a simple exhale of humorous disbelief, you grasp his hand in yours and tug him to your front door. He’s like an excited puppy, eyes brightened and perking up as he grabs the grocery bag and happily trails after you.
He goes straight to the kitchen, pulling out a chair at the counter for you to settle into, then sets the bag on the counter. The ice cream carton has dampened most of the cloth by now, and likely the rest of its contents, but rather than attending to the groceries, his first action is retrieving your heating pad from where it rests on the couch. He unplugs it from the wall outlet and brings it to you. You curl up on the chair with it pressed flat against your lower stomach. It only takes a minute for the pressure in your hips to abate.
Then he moves to the groceries. The ice cream immediately goes in the freezer, and he unloads what’s remaining onto the counter, one by one, and you take note of each item. There’s spinach, carrots, apples, oranges, dark chocolate, some kind of meat wrapped in brown paper, and, strangely enough, an entire block of cheese.
You give him a quizzical look, picking it up to read the label. “You got me…cheddar cheese?”
He retrieves a cutting board and knife from its spot next to the sink, then takes the cheese from you. “Good for certain symptoms.” He slices open the plastic wrapping and cuts out some cubes with skilled efficiency. He does the same with an apple. “They all are,” he says, referring to his entire haul. He completes the makeshift charcuterie board with a couple squares of dark chocolate and slides it across the counter.
You look down at the cutting board, thinking about everything he’s done for you; everything you never even had to ask for. The words sit on your tongue, encaged by your clenched teeth; an admission that coils itself around your spine and squeezes tight, restricts your breathing and pumps your heart at thrice its speed. But you feel yourself welling up again, and the first bout of tears already exhausted you so much that all you can manage is, “I don’t know what to do with all this. I don’t have the energy to make anything good.”
But he just smiles and says, “That’s what I’m here for, honey. Can I make you something?”
You nod. He gets to work. The immediacy of his actions, how he takes no time to decide on a dish or find a recipe, makes you think his previously stated intentions of ‘just dropping this off’ were less genuine than he lead you to believe. Nevertheless, you munch on the snacks he laid out for you and watch him work. The cheese and apples are a surprisingly cohesive combination, the meshing of sweet crispiness and savory creaminess eliciting a contented sigh from you. You try to ignore the way Jason smirks in the corner of your periphery. The chocolate is incredible, yet unfamiliar. You read the label on the packaging: 80% Dark Chocolate with Cherry and Almond Filling. Even if you hadn’t tasted it yet, the quality of the packaging itself would have been enough to let you know that this chocolate is extremely high-quality. Like, special-order-from-Europe quality. Not stop-at-the-grocery-store-on-the-way-home quality.
“Where is this from? Did you buy this today?” You ask him through a mouthful of the rich, melting chocolate.
He doesn’t look up from the carrots he’s dicing. “Uh…no.”
Anyone else would attribute his avoidance of eye-contact to standard kitchen-knife caution. You are not anyone else. You could blindfold him, spin him around ten times, put a sharp knife in his hand, and he could still pull off a perfect julienne. You look closer. His cheeks are dusted with pink.
You let out a laugh. “Jason, you’re not embarrassed about liking fancy chocolate, are you?”
“No! Not at all,” he says, ceasing his chopping. He looks up, but not quite at you.
“Then?”
“‘Then’ what?” He asks.
“Then why are you being so shifty right now?” You try to catch his gaze.
“I’m not!” He defends. “It’s just chocolate! Do you like it? I’ll bring you more.” He’s stealthy with the way he avoids your eyes; you almost can’t notice how hard he’s trying not to make eye contact.
“Jason!” You reach across the counter, having to rise off the chair slightly, and take his face in your hands, making him look at you. When he does, he wears a sheepish smile.
“It’s…” His removes your hands from his face, holding them in his. He mumbles something, turning his head to the side. But you catch the tail end of it, a goading grin already creeping up your face.
“What was that?” You tilt your ear towards him, exaggerating the action.
“It’s Bruce’s.” He, in turn, exaggerates the enunciation, rolling his eyes at your simpering. “I…found it. In his pantry one day. And I liked it, so I took it. And then I…kept taking it. Every time I visited.”
You pout teasingly. “And you’re ashamed to admit that you think he has good taste in something?”
He doesn’t say anything, only hiding his face in his shoulder. You pull on your intertwined hands and he gets the message, skirting around the kitchen counter to come closer.
“You are so adorable, you know that?” You say. You reach up and pinch his cheeks. He swats your hands away, but there’s no mistaking his broad, childish grin for anything but affection.
He breaks off another square from the chocolate bar and holds it to your lips. You bite off a small portion, then push it back to him. He takes the remaining piece in his mouth and his eyes close for a brief moment as he savors the sweet, tart, and nutty flavors. You simply watch, entranced by him. Then, he kisses you. You lean into it, hands sliding up his shirt to grip the fabric and bring him even closer. His hold finds your waist.
He tastes like cherries and dark chocolate.
He breaks the kiss to rest his forehead on yours, and you want to tell him that. That, and so much more. But from the look on his face, the way his eyes find yours and the tips of his ears have a similar heat to the one in your chest, you can tell he already knows.
when it comes to jason's post-pit-repressed-teenager characterization (aka despite being older he's still as inexperienced and confused and insecure about the world outside of vigilantism and w/ women as a 15 y/o would be) (aka my favorite characterization tee hee), i think that he's mature about periods, knows they're normal and not gross or shameful etc, but still gets shy about saying the actual word, for no other reason than the 'shy around women' part always makes me giggle
also bruce is keeping the chocolate stocked specifically because he knows jason likes it and will keep taking it because he loves his son even if his son doesn't love him (he does he's just in his angsty teen 'i hate this family you don't understand me' phase rn)
jason todd whos lowk insane so when he gets a handwritten note from you he keeps it (very normal!) and then wonders if he should learn to forge your handwriting so he can write notes to himself and pretend its from you (not normal!!!) instead of just asking you to write him more because hes really embarrassed to admit he that he loves when you leave little notes for him
he acts all tough, but when he's alone, he's rereading old texts, staring at pictures, or absentmindedly tracing over something you left behind—like your handwriting on a sticky note or a hoodie you forgot at his place (everything reminds him of you)
he has the worst habit of staying up at night (insomnia lol), thinking about you. maybe he should call? maybe he should just show up? would that be too much? (he does it anyway)
jason plays it cool, but the moment his you initiate any sort of physical contact—holding his hand, running fingers through his hair—he practically melts (not that he’d ever admit it)
when he's away from you for too long, he catches himself glaring at couples holding hands on the street, muttering about how "some people just love to rub it in, huh?" (he just misses you)
when he’s out on patrol, beating up criminals, the second he hears a notification going off on his phone, he's checking to see if it's you (if it’s not, he sighs and aggressively shoves his phone back into his pocket)
he alway finds excuses just to see you- "oh, i was just in the neighborhood.” (he wasn't) “you left something at my place.” (you didn’t) “i thought you called me" (lies.)
sometimes he just stares off dramatically, thinking about you. roy has caught him sighing at the moon once (it was humiliating)
if you fall asleep around him, that’s when he lets his guard down. ge’ll brush ypur hair out of your face, press the lightest kiss to your forehead, and whisper things he’d never say when you're awake (cause how can he when everytime he looks at you, you take his words away?)
jason todd is a yearner.
enjoy this while i work on the others hngh <3 trying a new style this time
「 tws + notes: no tws, potentially ooc, unedited as BAWLS, what do you mean it's been a while since i've last written, domestic (kinda), lowkey heavily implied romance,,,, blame the spirit of valentine's day (。﹏。) 」
「 gn!reader, can be platonic or romantic relationship <3 」
↳ ft. bruce wayne, dick grayson, jason todd, and tim drake
author's note: yeah so... i'm still dc rotted. here are little things that i just find cute つ﹏⊂ <33
gonna keep it 120% w/ u, life is BUSY!!!! but we ball regardless :D you know im gonna find time to write my superhero fanfics anyways >:3
▸ BRUCE loves when you wear his clothes. simple but recognizable, his clothes become a silent way of saying "they're with me." and considering that most of the pieces in his wardrobe that are downright iconic, almost all of gotham knows who's jacket you're wearing when you step out in it.
he's not insecure by any means, and it isn't quite a display of possessiveness— but rather, affection and devotion. you're special to bruce, and even if it's through subtle means, he's more than happy to show it.
▸ DICK likes to have you within reach. no reason in particular, he says, but you know that's not quite true. maybe he's secretly a little ashamed of being so clingy. either way, he wants (or needs) you to be close to him.
it doesn't really matter to him how he achieves this either. whether it's his hand in yours, his arm around your shoulders, his hand resting on the small of your back, or his arm linked with yours— he's happy as ever. if you're a fast walker and by some miracle, you weren't already holding hands, dick's not beyond tugging your shirt from behind to reel you back in.
"are you trying to escape me? i'm wounded." dramatic.
▸ JASON loves helping you run errands. to be completely honest, he would be content doing just about anything as long as you're around, but there's something special about being the one that you drag around for mundane things like buying groceries or getting gas.
he also loves to be helpful to you. always offering to get the things off higher shelves that you just can't reach, always getting out the car first to pump your gas— there's just something about that shy but pleased smile of yours that makes doing little things for you so much more rewarding. and, yeah, it's silly but jason's heart practically leaps out his chest when you thank him by planting a little kiss on his cheek.
▸ TIM loves to take naps with you. he values the time that he has with you, and of course, would much rather spend it conscious— but there's something particularly special about being able to rest at your side. it's a declaration of trust from him— and there's an undeniable tenderness he feels when he realizes that he's able to let his guard down for once.
except... tim doesn't notice how frequent this habit has become. he's gotten so used to napping with you, that if he's feeling like he's been awake for too long, he'll hunt you down just to get some rest. your plans of reading peacefully on the couch are thwarted— prepare for him to wrap his arms around you while he shifts to lay his head on your chest. no words, no questions— guess you'll have to set aside whatever you're doing now.
tim drake is the type of guy to stand outside your bedroom window blasting again by fetty wap from a comically large boom box to get you to talk to him again
