Summary: you come home, very drunk, and see a very hot guy sitting on your couch… so naturally you ask him out!
It starts with a simple, high-pitched gasp in the middle of your living room.
Jason is sitting on the couch in a gray t-shirt and sweatpants, laptop on his knees, mid-snack, when you stumble through the front door. You’re wearing one of his oversized jacket slung over your shoulders, your cheeks flushed red from two too many margaritas with your friends, and your hair a complete, chaotic masterpiece.
He sets his laptop aside immediately, a half-amused, half-concerned smirk already forming on his lips. "Hey, sweetheart. How was girls' night—"
He doesn't get to finish. The moment your eyes land on him, your hands fly to your face, covering your red-hot cheeks. You freeze in place, staring at him through your fingers as if you’ve just spotted a celebrity in a coffee shop.
"Oh," you whisper loud enough for the whole apartment complex to hear. "Oh my god."
Jason blinks, pausing. "What?"
You kick off your shoes—completely missing the rack—and take three deliberate, overly cautious, drunk steps toward the couch. Your eyes are wide, glassy, and completely starstruck.
"Who are you?" you ask, leaning over the back of the couch, resting your chin on your folded hands. You beam at him, giggling softly. "Because you are... so pretty. Like so hot. Has anyone ever told you that? You look like a whole movie star."
Jason slowly looks down at his faded t-shirt, then back up at you. A playful glint flickers in his blue eyes as the reality hits him: You have completely forgotten you're already dating him.
"A movie star, huh?" Jason drawls, leaning back against the cushions and crossing his arms over his chest. He bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep from bursting out laughing. "Can't say I hear that one often. I'm Jason."
"Jason," you sigh, the name rolling off your tongue like a melody. You sway slightly where you stand, blushing down to your collarbone. "That's a nice name. I'm... well, you know. I'm me."
"Nice to meet you, Me," he says softly, his voice dropping into that smooth, low register he knows makes you melt. "What's a girl like you doing flustered in my living room?"
"I live here! I think?" You look around the apartment, thoroughly confused for a split second, before your focus snaps right back to him like a magnet. You lean in closer, whispering conspiratorially, "Listen... I know this is crazy, but... are you single?"
You pause, then giggle, “wanna know a secret? I actually wanna marry you but I think asking you if you’re single is less advanced.”
Jason bites his lower lip, trying—and failing—to hide a massive grin. "Am I single? Well... that's a tough question."
Your face falls instantly into a dramatic, adorable pout, and you genuinely look devastated. "Oh no. You have a girlfriend?"
"I do," Jason says softly, watching your reaction.
"Is she pretty?" you ask, sniffling just a little bit, clearly heartbroken.
"She's gorgeous," Jason says, his voice softening. He reaches out, grabbing your wrist gently, and pulls you over the back of the couch until you tumble right onto his lap. You gasp, your hands landing flat against his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart. "She’s got this ridiculously cute laugh, gets super giggly when she drinks, and is currently sitting on my lap looking at me like I hung the moon."
You stare at him, your brain slowly churning through the alcoholic fog.
1... 2... 3 seconds pass.
"Wait," you whisper, your eyes going wide. "I just drank and I am fairly giggly."
"You are."
"And I'm on your lap."
"You are."
"...I'm the pretty girlfriend?!"
Jason couldn't hold it back anymore; he threw his head back and laughed, the deep, rumbling sound vibrating through his chest against your palms. "Yes, dummy. You're the pretty girlfriend. We've been together for over a year."
A look of pure, unadulterated triumph washes over your face. You kick your feet up, burying your burning face right into the crook of his neck, muffled giggles spilling out against his skin. "I scored so hard," you mutter into his collar. "He's huge and he's mine."
"Yeah, yeah, you hit the lottery," Jason chuckled, his broad arms wrapping snugly around your waist, pulling you close so you wouldn't slide off. He kissed the top of your head, resting his chin on your hair. "Come on, baby. Let's get you some water and into bed before you try to ask me out again."
"Wait!" You pop your head back up, cheeks still bright red, poking his chest with a single finger. "So... does this mean you won't go on a date with me?"
Jason shook his head, a soft, fond smile softening his rugged features. "I'll take you on a date every single day of the week, sweetie. Now go to sleep."
its become almost routine after a night spent together that she would fall asleep in your arms, legs tangled within one another and for the night it felt like nothing was going to touch you both. that everything bad was now good and the pout kara wore as a signature look would change into the bright smile you were blessed with seeing behind closed doors.
but it never lasted come the morning.
she was sneaky at first, you barely felt her get out of the bed, barely heard her as she got dressed, she didn’t even use the front door, opting to fly outside your window and into the early morning skies. but you’ve learned her pattern already.
once the first sound of a bird chirp rang throughout your apartment her eyes cracked open just a bit. she was uncharacteristically sober on earth, sober with you, so she found herself up earlier than she was used to to.
panic always settled in, like if she wasn’t supposed to be there or maybe she felt unwanted—out of place. so she left and you woke up feeling a bit used, left feeling like maybe you read her feelings all wrong, that maybe she didn’t like you more than just sex.
“running out on me again?” her head snapped up towards you, pants stopping mid-thigh—she looked like a deer caught in headlights.
“no-no i was going to get krypto, i was going to text you?” she said, remembering the long discussion she had with clark the night before. the one where clark’s eyes nearly popped out of his head—shocked with what he was hearing.
“its okay, maybe use the door this time?” you said with a soft smile, wondering when is the next time you are going to see her.
“i will” she nodded “maybe—maybe i can come back? we can have dinner” your mouth opened in surprise, now you were the one who looked like a deer caught in headlights.
“yeah? no yeah! i’d like that a lot” she smiled, finally buttoning her pants close.
“i’ll see you later then” she chucked, leaning on the bed to place a long passionate kiss on your lips. you were the first to pull away, in desperate need of air. the sound she made could only be described as a whiny moan, her lips seeking out ours once again.
“i believe you have a dog to get” you tease, eyes closing slowly as her lips travel down your jaw. she hummed “i’m going” yet her lips still traveled a bit lower—a soft smile adoring her face once she heard your giggles.
“ill be back okay?” you nodded “ill be here”
she’s choosing to stay this time, a choice she should have made months ago. now she just needed to ask clark how to plan a proper earth date.
for years, you've shaped yourself to be the perfect heir ra's al ghul had longed for, believing that you were the only person worthy of the title of the demon's head after your father. but when you start to notice on how your father was eying a bat vigilante by the name of batman and even considering him as his heir over you, his flesh and blood, something stirs in your stomach and you vow to kill the dark knight to prove to ra’s al ghul that you were fit better for the title. yet that feeling in your stomach changes and soon travels to your heart. and before you know it, you fall in love with the bat
a/n: pretend talia doesn’t exist in this one ugh im sorry my queen 😔. i took parts of bruce and talia’s love story but gave it my own twist. also inspired by the boy wonder by juni ba!
prologue.
I. bloodline
II.
III.
IV.
V.
VI.
masterlist!
comment if you’d like to be in the series taglist!!
the official beginning of the jason todd x sionis!reader timeline
you have an argument with your piss poor excuse of a father, only this time, it results in him draining your bank account. angry and freshly broke, you use the only logical coping mechanism; you fuck his rival's sexy son.
tw: mndi 18+, problematic reader, daddy issues, oral sex, p in v sex w/ fem!reader, top!Jason, voyuerism (rooftop sex), brief daddy kink, jason is a little ooc but it's for the plot. reader doesn't know jason is red hood here.
a/n: it's the prequel, baby !!
quid pro quo | pride & periods | is this love? | tremble & shake | scorn to change my state
"Are you sober?"
"Am I what?"
You and Jason Todd were meant to be rivals. At least, you considered him a rival. He had never seemed to care. Granted, he was presumed dead for most of high school, taking any hope for legitimate academic competition with him. By the time he reappeared in Gotham, your father had already decided you weren't cut out to destroy anybody - although he hadn’t failed to remind you of what could’ve been the entire time Jason owned the Penguin’s hangout.
You still hated the guy. His apparent death had killed all the worth your father saw in you. For him to have been alive this whole time was a major slap in the face.
Secretly, you always thought your father wanted you to destroy Jason because he wished you were Jason. Was it really so fair that Bruce Wayne really had everything handed to him, including all the sons he could want. What was Roman Sionis stuck with? A squeamish daughter with no ambition, who couldn't even prove she was better than some adopted street kid.
Now you exist as more of a pet to him than anything else. Something for him to own, something he could keep leashed at his side, something he could brag about, as if he had any real pride for you. Which was why a single, sham threat to change your last name was enough to have your personal bank account closed.
Well, if you don't need daddy's name, you don't need his money either. It's just a lesson in responsibility.
Yeah, right. Like he wasn't going to find a way to keep you from making money of your own.
But, you could still prove your ownership over yourself. After several minutes of staring blankly at the wall when you realized your father hadn’t been bluffing, you dug to the bottom of your laundry to locate the cherry colored dress that got you into anywhere for free. You weren’t sure what it was you were aiming to accomplish, but the damn dress was going to ensure you didn’t need the Sionis money or name to get what you wanted. Your feet moved with a mind of their own right into your favorite bar, right into the perfect tall, dark and handsome ride.
You hadn’t recognized him at first. You hadn’t seen him in person in God knows how long, not since you were 15, probably. There was nothing special about his jeans, Mickey Thompson t-shirt and leather jacket. He didn’t look like a prince with the lazy way he slouched against the counter at the far end of the bar. From the entrance, his face blended in with all the others, unremarkable and unimpressive. Until the slight tug of his upper lip suddenly had you back in freshman year English, pouting as the teacher praised your would-be rival’s take on Romeo & Juliet.
Finally, a six-foot-something, Wayne branded plot began to formulate.
Of course, now you're rolling your eyes at him. You hate having to repeat yourself, even over the loud buzzing of the bar.
"I said, 'are you sober'. You look sober. Are you?"
Jason Todd blinks, like he still doesn't quite understand the question. He straightens his posture, jostling the untouched pint of something between his middle finger and thumb.
"I-yeah, I am. Are you?"
You cross your arms, roll your eyes again and ignore the question. Obviously, you're sober.
"Do you know who I am?"
He looks you over thoughtfully. His gaze conveniently lingers on the pop of your hip and the cleavage peeking out of your ruby neckline. Exactly where you want it. You snicker; so maybe he's a little slow, but at least he doesn't seem to be blind.
"You're Sionis' kid, aren't you? It's been a hot minute," Jason leans forward a little, magically more invested in the conversation. The ginger man standing next to him pauses his attempts to woo a brunette to raise an eyebrow at you.
"My dad hates you."
He scoffs, taking a half hearted sip of his beer.
"And bears shit in the woods, what else is new?"
You don't remember him having that stupid white streak in his too-well-tousled hair. It was sexy. You hated it.
"Fuck me."
IPA dribbles down his idiotically strong chin. His mouth goes a little slack as he blinks once again, harder and longer this time.
"What?"
Ugh, again with the repetition.
"Fuck me. Have sex with me," you reiterate as nonchalantly as if you're asking him to move over.
The redhead next to him starts cackling. Jason glowers at him, shoving the drink into his hand with one arm while pulling you closer with the other. It only takes him a gentle tug to pull your chest to broad chest. He leans down so his lips brush against your ear, his crooked nose nudging the side of your head.
"Hey, you sure you're sober?"
The warmth of his breath in contrast with his mouth, still cool from his glass, sends a shiver down your spine.
"I'm dead sober."
"Okay, you see how I might doubt that given you just walked up to me and asked me to have sex with you."
You push him away and it's like pushing into a brick wall. A very muscular brick wall. "Look, Wayne-"
"Todd."
"Whatever. Even if I wanted to drink, I couldn't because my father drained my entire bank account."
Jason tilts his head, causing a lock of white hair to fall across his crooked nose.
"And why'd he do that?"
You hum amiably, curling your pretty maroon nails around his thick forearm.
"I'll tell you if you fuck me," you promise, batting your eyelashes as you place your other hand over his heart. Much to your frustration, his heartbeat is slow and steady. His sharp face has lost its earlier shock. He looks at ease, pleasantly entertained, with a slight smirk and a cocked slitted eyebrow.
"I think that's called extortion, baby girl."
"It's only extortion if I'm threatening you," you snap back. You should know, your father's an expert in it. You take a small breath, smoothing out your tone again, "I'm just keeping my business to myself. So, I'd call this more of a quid pro quo."
"It's a quid pro quo if I'm getting something substantial out of it," he says this but at the same time, two large hands are sliding over your hips with a featherlight touch. His nails briefly press into your skin.
Something in your belly tightens. Maybe he’s a more worthy opponent than you’d initially assumed.
You tip your head up as you stand on your tiptoes and sneak your much smaller hands under his jacket, brushing up his warm sides. He sucks in a sharp breath.
"If you really had no desire to fuck me, this conversation would've ended by now,” your voice is dripping in something venomously sweet. “And I'm not going to claim I have any idea of what's happening in your own business, but if I had to take a wild guess as to who in this room has the most to gain from fucking Roman Sionis' daughter, you'd be at the top of the list. Even if it's just for the bragging rights."
"You should know you’re worth more than just bragging rights, princess,” he says, rolling a fold of your dress between his fingers with a condescending shake of his head. You wonder if he can feel the heat radiating from underneath.
"Prove it."
"...and you're sure you're sober?"
"Wanna test my breath?"
He snorts at your bad line, but his index and thumb are already caging your chin between them. He considers you for one more moment, then kisses you.
You can taste the single sip of beer, but it’s not as strong as the fading taste of a cigarette. His lips move against yours with intent, as if seeking out a falter in your sobriety. Their search comes up empty, leaving behind nothing but a thin string of spit and the overwhelming desire for more of him.
"What's your plan then? Risk it in a bathroom stall?"
You loath how utterly girlish the grin on your lips is.
"Nah, I know a spot upstairs."
***
"You're freaky, you know that?” Jason teases as you push open the roof access.
"The cameras up here have a delay. My dad's people won't be able to snitch until tomorrow morning, so we have all the time in the world,” you smirk at the way his eyes bug out, tugging on the collar of his jacket with a sly wink. “Don’t worry. The cameras don’t pick up anything that happens on the ground. Plausible deniability.”
He gestures to the roof set-up. The ledge comes up high enough to hide from peeping neighbors, but a string of yellow Christmas lights keeps the spot well illuminated.
"Yeah? And what about other prying eyes? You aren't worried Batman's gonna show up and scold us for public indecency?”
The mental image is funnier than you let him think. You give him an amused little hum as you press yourself against his chest, walking two fingers up his ridiculously prominent bicep.
"Hmm, technically this is private property and besides, this is Red Hood's territory."
"Red Hood? You really are freaky.”
His lips are twinged ruby from being a human breathalyzer. A thin sheen of your lip gloss reflects the warm light surrounding you. Little scars decorate his hard face like freckles. You trace over a recent nick under his eye.
"Please fuck me, Jason.”
His arms are still at his side. His fingers twitch, either from anticipation or anxiety.
"You're sure you want this?"
"Fucking positive. Do you?"
The green of his eyes are shadowed by his hooded eyes. His unflinching gaze is locked in on you. There’s a weight to it that seems to put pressures on all the right places.
"Oh, fuck yeah, I do."
He doesn’t stop to think this time before he kisses you. It’s harder than earlier, his hands roaming your body. He had his moment to explore your cherry flavored mouth, now he’s taking what he wants. What you both want.
There’s no shared breath between you as you suck on his bottom lip, ensuring your lip gloss is smeared everywhere. A large hand snakes its way up your spine to grip the back of your head. You gasp as fingernails dig into your scalp and Jason takes advantage of your parted lips to run his tongue over yours.
You rack your nails over his stomach, catching the muscular grooves of his abdomen to make his shudder. You flatten your palm to sneak it downwards when he retaliates by grazing over your tailbone. You quiver under his touch, feeling that obnoxious smirk on his face.
“Tell me,” he pants between wet smacks, “if”, smack, “if anything’s”, smack smack, “too much.”
This gives you pause. What a chivalrous sentiment from a man who’s about to ram his cock into you on the dirty ground of a bar rooftop where Red Hood might see just to trifle with your father. Actually, you weren’t sure anyone had offered you that sentiment before. It has you rubbing your thighs together.
Something unmistakable and hard pokes your belly as your hips meet. His tongue feels along the ridges of your lips before licking between them, once again filling your mouth with him.
Cigarettes have never tasted so good.
The arm around your waist slides to fill his free hand with your ass. You alarm yourself by letting out a muffled moan when he squeezes. He’s going to make a mess of you much quicker than anticipated.
It’s just because the cameras are picking this part up, you think to yourself, I’m still in charge, Jason Todd isn’t going to get the best of-
Your thoughts are interrupted by the hand on your ass rounding your hip. Two fingers play with the hem of your short dress and pull the skirt up to reveal the skimpy thong underneath. Jason finally pries himself away from your mouth to get a good look, letting out a low whistle as he admires the coordinating colors.
“You’re so organized, aren’t you?” He croons in a much gruffer voice than he’s been using. The rough pads of his fingers knead circles into your thigh, making you keen. “Daddy must really be stressin’ you out, baby girl. You’re so tight, need to unwind…”
You let out a little breath as the hand on your head moves to cup your chin. Jason’s lips are satisfyingly swollen and a rash of scarlet has started to spread across his cheeks, although it’s nothing compared to the heat rising in yours. The fingers at your thigh skim inward, ghosting over the elastic of your underwear.
“This alright?”
Later you’ll curse yourself for not saying something snarkier or dirtier, for not grabbing the outline of his cock and reminding him whose idea this was…but right now, there’s nothing in the world you want more than for this man to touch your pussy.
You nod, “Please, Jason-”
“Please, what?”
Oh, this fucker with his little smug expression.
“Please…Please touch me, Jason.”
Although every time you say his name, his chest tightens up beneath your palms.
He cups your sex, feeling along the thinning string keeping you covered. Your eyes widen as you realize it’s clinging to your lower lips. His index and middle fingers are cold against the thin fabric of your thong. It's a sharp juxtaposition from his hot breath on your lips, then your jaw, then your neck.
Dagger-like canines whet the skin of your throat. The tip of his tongue drags a straight line down your jugular while the tips of his fingers trace circles over your flimsy underwear.
“So wet,” Jason lets out a pleased hum, snapping the string with a thawk to make you jolt. “And in these pathetic excuse for panties? I wouldn’t be surprised if you left something behind in the bar.”
Your natural instinct is to retort, but you don’t have a chance to get a word in before he’s pushing the flimsy fabric aside and swiping his middle finger through your slit.
“Daddy makes you mad and the first thing you do is parade yourself around with your fucking pussy out. You just went out looking for trouble, didn’t you.”
“Nuh-ah-uh,” you protest weakly, gripping his shoulders for support. He’s massaging your lower lips with false mercy. “Wasn’t looking for anything until I-ah-until-ahh-til I saw you.”
His canine bites down as his thumb presses your clit like it’s a button. Two fingers slip inside you with an embarrassing amount of ease and you whine as they scissor you open.
“You really know what you’re doing,” you huff, a half hearted attempt at a joke. He pauses, as if he’s surprised to hear you say that. His fingers freeze up inside you, then start to pump in and out carefully - cautiously even.
“Maybe that’s just what you needed, hmm,” he muses into your skin, planting another wave of kisses along your jawline. “Someone who knows what he’s doing to help you loosen up.”
He’s straining painfully against you. It seems unfair to let him do all the work when he’s also begging to be fucked to shreds. You reach for his cock, only for his fingers to retract from your cunt and curl around your wrist.
You whine, both at the sudden lack of him inside you and your foiled attempts to gain some control. Your knees nearly buckle as he removes his arms all together to shrug off his jacket. But he merely tuts, “None of that, princess. Why don’t you lay back down? I think the cameras got enough.”
Well, fuck it. You told him to treat you like a trophy, no point in confusing the man now.
He drapes his jacket on the ground before twining his arms around your waist and shoulders to lower you down on top of it. The inside is surprisingly soft against the exposed parts of your back.
“You just gotta let me take care of you, baby,” Jason coos, gently grabbing your ankles to move your legs apart. He takes his sweet time dragging your panties off, letting each callous on his hands hit your smooth thighs. “Look at that pretty fuckin’ pussy. You’re gonna taste so fuckin’ sweet.”
Taste?
“What’re you-”
“Shh, trust me,” he says, coming up to kiss you. He pushes your dress up to your waist, stopping to rub your hip affectionately. “You’re gonna be glad I did this. We can stop if you get uncomfortable.”
He kisses either thigh as he dips his head between your legs, his black hair tickling your skin. You suck in a breath of anticipation, but he steals it when he places an open mouth kiss on your slit.
You crane your head to look at him. Not a single other person has done this to you before. You were beginning to think it was just some sort of myth, but the way Jason licks from your hole to your clit with a blistering, flat tongue is suddenly very real - and very good.
He blows a harsh breath on your clit before delving back into your cunt. He licks his way into you, filling you with a new strange, wet sensation. His tongue is hot on your already burning core and you think you might melt into a puddle. You bite your lip, but it’s not enough to stop the pathetic cries that come out of you as Jason Todd, your alleged nemesis who never paid you any mind, the son of the dull pain in your father’s ass, eats you out.
The sound is obscene and loud, masking your soft pants. The wet noise echoes off the high walls of the ledge while Jason works your cunt with a stupid amount of precision. His mouth is sloppy, engulfing you whole. But, his tongue is tactical, taking its time to draw out a map of all the places that make you moan and squirm.
“Oh God, oh God!” You cry out, your hands flying to grab a fistful of black and white hair as he laps at you. His arms hook around your knees to yank you closer. He’s unreal, unrelenting in his dining. When he switches to deliver kitten licks to your clit, two fingers take his tongue’s place in your hole.
You buck upwards as his fingers curl inside you, easily stroking at that sweet spot just out of reach of your own fingers. His free arm pins your twitching hips down, and that’s when you officially relinquish all control to him.
“Jason, ahhh” you groan, every muscle and nerve in your body quaking. “Jason, I’m gonna…please let me…”
He doesn’t need to be told twice. He sucks down on your button, letting his teeth graze the nerves in just the right way to send that unforgiving twinge up to your belly until it whites out your vision. Your orgasm floods his face, but he keeps licking until it stops. Only then does he pull away, giving you a shit eating grin dripping in more than just lip gloss and beer.
“That’s a good fuckin’ girl, asking so nicely. And so damn sensitive, it’s cute.”
Your heart races at being called a good girl. You should be spent already, but something about the fact that he made you cum in only ten minutes makes you want even more.
He rises to his knees and you stare at him in awe as his body towers over you, blocking out anything but the hungry gleam of his eyes, the carnivorous bite of his lip, the mounting sweat of his skin. Anything but him.
The lights glow gold behind him, crowing your own personal Apollo with his halo. His pupils are blown out, but his stare hasn’t lost its cool. You, on the other hand, are trembling beneath him, your pussy clenching at the sound of his zipper coming undone.
Your eyes bug out to match the size of the cock he pulls from his jeans. It’s stiff as it fills his grasp, already leaking into his palm. He grins proudly at your awe.
“See why I wanted to warm you up, pretty girl?”
The adrenaline of the moment gives you the strength to sit up and press your worshipful lips to the ruddy head, revealing in the way it twitches. The remnants of your lip gloss add to its shine. Jason mixes it with his spit as he spreads it across his veiny flesh.
“You’re a God, Jason Todd.”
He bends down to reward your praise with a kiss, a briny tang replacing the burn of tobacco. Your hands come up to caress his jaw before dropping to his shoulders, proactively digging into his t-shirt. Your lips pull away from his to connect to his neck, repaying him for the bruises he decorated you with earlier.
He hums in pleasure, tipping his head to give you better access. He smears your lipgloss residue onto his hand and lubes his cock with a Lime Crime Wet Cherry and spit cocktail.
You’re so wrapped up in leaving a toothy imprint in the junction of his neck that you miss the hard switch in his expression. You yelp as he grips your thighs and hooks them over his hips, pinning you beneath him. Your torso flies back, but he reflexively catches your head before it can smack against the concrete.
He continues to cradle you, steadying himself as he drags his tip along your slit excruciatingly slow. He tuts and taps your clit when you bite back a moan.
“Don’t hold back now, beautiful,” he taunts, prodding your entrance with his blunt head. “What’s the matter, worried Red Hood might hear you?”
You try to grind against him and snarl when he pulls his cock away, “Don’t fucking tease me, jackass.”
Jason slaps his cock against you, then rests it on your belly. He lets out an amused scoff, “Wasn’t I a God thirty seconds ago?”
“Forgot to mention I’m an atheist.”
You cross your arms like you aren’t flat on your back with your legs up, but no poker face can hide the desperate squirm of your hips.
The bastard shakes his head and the weight of him shifts over your gut, “You just can’t help being a brat, can you? And to think, you were being such a good girl f’me.”
“Only because you were being nice-”
“I can be nice again, sweetheart,” his voice is low as he spits out the pet name. “But you gotta be patient.”
“I wasn’t raised to be particularly- AH!”
The head of his cock bullies its way past your labia and sits at the ready. You can already feel yourself stretching to accommodate him. It’s just the tip and it’s already bigger than anything you’ve ever had.
“You ready?” He whispers. You nod with a strained whine, but it’s not enough for him. “Take a breath, I gotta hear your voice, pretty girl.”
“I-”
Your heart pounds so fast, it stops for the split second that those sharp greens irises soften. His thumb rubs a circle behind your ear.
“Yeah,” you suck in one last breath. “I’m ready.”
“Just - hmm - Just tell me if you need me to stop.”
Your mouth falls open as he starts to push in. When you first saw his size, you had expected it to sting. But instead of sharp pain, he fills you with an instant and, based on the snail’s pace he’s moving at, neverending pressure.
“Oh, baby…Oh, that’s it, that’s it, nice and slow.”
It’s so much. It’s so good. Every bump and groove makes itself known as he buries himself inch by inch, rubbing against you.
"Fuck, you have a big cock," you groan, letting your head fall back on his jacket. He has the audacity to snort as he sinks the rest of himself into you, until his hips finally grate against yours.
The hand holding your head slips out from under you and pulls down the strap of your dress. Your already stiff nipple becomes absolutely statuesque when it meets the night air.
"Yeah? Well, you got a big fuckin' attitude, asking a man you barely know to come fuck you on a rooftop. You do this a lot?"
The edge of a callous catches your nipple.
"No! Just f'you!" You squeak with a jolt.
The callous turns into an entire paw, squeezing your entire breast harshly. You push upwards into the base of his palm, brushing your nipple against the defined lines.
"Just for me? Just had to have me?"
Jason leans in closer, so you can feel each hot strained exhale.
"Had to have you!"
There’s little more than a hair between your noses. That big strong hand finds its way to your throat.
"No one else pisses off your daddy as much?"
You have no explanation for what slipped out of you next.
In your entire sexual experience, you had refused to speak them. And more determined men than this one had tried to squeeze it out of you.
But something about the hand on your throat and the breath on your lips had you shouting,
"You're my daddy!”
Something flashes in his eyes and for a moment, you’re worried you fucked up. He freezes up. His face falls blank and his mouth goes taut as he considers your words. The hand supporting his weight jerks next to your head while you pant anxiously. You get the sense that this is a first for him too.
Then he lets out a breathless laugh.
"Yeah. Yeah, that's right, baby. I'm your daddy.”
He pulls out of you without warning or sympathy. Your hips chase his blindly, your hole weeping for his cock to come back. He sits back on his knees and hauls your ass over his thighs, spreading you open on his wide lap.
"You holding on tight, baby?”
You waste no time securing fistfuls of his shirt, the white logo distorting in your clutch. He lines himself up to your entrance again, brushing the sweat off your brow.
"You tell me if it's too much, yeah?"
“Of course, daddy.”
He grins, his sharp canines glinting. “Good girl.”
He abandons his slow and steady routine to shove himself into you. He so graciously gives you a moment to re-welcome him with a little squeeze before he’s pounding into you, ramming in and out of you at an unforgiving pace.
You make a valiant attempt to move with him. Really, you do. But the man is actively reducing you to a huffing and puffing ragdoll. The angle he has you at leaves you nowhere to go but the end of his cock. You want to say something, to egg him on, however all that tumbles out of your gaping mouth is a series of choked uhs and ahs.
That is until he hits a spot you didn’t even know existed and you let out an honest to God scream. In your defense, the speed at which he fucks you is utterly inhuman. If you didn't know better, you'd think it was Superman taking his fill of you.
He slows, moving just enough to rub up against that sensitive point. He revels in the way your legs crush his sides, your trembling knees digging into his ribs.
“Oh, that feels good, doesn’t it, baby,” he groans. He plunges in as deep as he can go, lifting your hips like you’re made of clouds. Something in you pinches and burns as you open up even more for him.
He readjusts you with a grunt and sets a new brutal rhythm; fucking you fast and hard, then easing up when he strokes something that makes you shudder.
“Pretty girl,” he mutters, “Good girl…so good…so so fuckin’ good…”
Like clockwork, you gasp every time he slows down and drags his cock in or out of you. He lets you feel every minute detail, graciously allowing you to appreciate what he's giving you, before he's striking every sweet spot like lightning again.
“Come on, let Red Hood hear you.”
White, red and gold flashes before your eyes. Your mouth falls open dumbly as you cry out for your former woud-be-rival. Although there was ecstasy exploding from your core to your belly, the best feeling was him gasping your name in turn.
He pulls out of you just as he finishes, your name still falling from his swollen lips. With a heave of his chest, he rolls off of you and lands with a thump at your side. You pant together, waiting for the stars to pause their dancing.
“Gonna tell me why your dad took your dough now?” He finally puffs out.
“Fuck, I don’t even remember,” you laugh hoarsely. Jason snaps his head up to look at you. Dumbfounded is an adorable look on him.
“So you lure me into making a sextape for you, then conveniently forget your end of the bargain?”
“It’s not my fault you fucked my brains out,” you shrug as you sit up. You take an agonizing moment to stretch so you can enjoy the glare on his face. “Why do you wanna know so badly anyway?”
He sits up next to you, running a hand through his thoroughly tousled hair, “I’m gonna need another deal if you want me to start revealing my secrets.”
Jason Todd’s a quick thinker, you have to give him that. You consider him, consider the possibility of extending this hook-up into a full fledged thing. There has to be more to gain than lose. If you play your cards right, maybe you can beat your father to destroying the Wayne legacy. Or…maybe you can get your revenge by weaving yourself into it. Either way, you’ll ensure you come out on top.
“Tell you what,” you say, standing up and trying to ignore the way your legs shake. “I’m free tomorrow night. Do that thing with your tongue again and it might jog my memory. I’ll do something with my tongue and see if that doesn’t inspire you to share.”
He scoffs, “You’re a little business mongrel, y’know that?” You roll your eyes, but extend your hand out to help him up. He looks at your hand for a moment, narrowing his eyes. Then he accepts it, cautiously wrapping his large hand around your smaller one like he’s handling a snake. “No more rooftops,” he decides. “And no more up close cameras.”
You nod, “Fair. But I’m not calling you daddy again either. That was a one time thing.”
Jason laughs. It’s just a short bark, but it’s genuine. “No problem. It’s not really my thing either. I just appreciated its dramatics for tonight’s purposes.”
The corners of your lips twitch upwards.
“So…We have a deal?”
He gives your hand a firm shake, although it doesn’t betray the suspicion in those unnerving green eyes.
“I think you said it best yourself, princess. I think we have a quid pro quo.”
Something heavy settles in your chest like a weighted blanket as you shake his hand. It’s not an uncomfortable feeling, it’s just that you sense Jason Todd is going to be around for a long time. And you’re going to get everything you can out of him.
what it feels like when everyone your age is in relationships and doing god knows what while you’re just a marvel nerd maladaptively daydreaming about a character all day (who is also way too old for you):
summary on a professional level, superman respects steve rogers in a way any other hero would. on a personal level, clark would highly appreciate steve keeping away from you, his fiance.
content warnings fluff. jealous!clark x meta-human!reader. steve is sweet but he loves causing drama, a habit he adopted from nat. avengers all call reader 'kid'.
notes this is sososo impulsive, i don't know where i'm taking this but i hope you enjoy this 4th of july special!
—
"sweetheart, i got it."
"i know you do, honey, but the people of new york are observant. they'll either think you're another super soldier or—"
clark sets down the insane amount of luggage in his arms at your knowing gaze, arms crossed as the cab driver that had just dropped the both of you off at the cozy cabin near upstate new york gawks at your fiance.
the cab driver hedges forward. "is he...?"
you shake your head with a firm press of your lips. "nope. my fiance's just from kansas. farm boy muscles and all that." while it looks like the cabbie doesn't really believe you, you've got that edge that all new yorkers never really shed so the man nods and drives off.
with no witnesses, clark lifts all of your luggage to bring inside without breaking a sweat. you sigh as you contemplate the chaos that'll most likely ensue at the avengers compound for the fourth of july weekend.
—
a month ago, natasha romanoff had arrived in your tiny box of an apartment in metropolis without even a text of warning. it would've been something you appreciated since clark had you on your kitchen counter, gently pressing you with a hungry kiss against the overhead cabinets as dinner burned on the stove. his broad frame was settled nicely between your thighs, his lips gliding down your jaw and neck before the apartment door swings open as if the intruder had a key—
"whoops. didn't know you had company."
you gasped and peeked over clark's shoulder who instinctively tried to shield you from natasha in all her sardonic glory. "nat—?!" you had wriggled away despite clark's insistence, ducking beneath his strong arm to meet your friend in your living room. "what are you doing here? is everything okay—"
"everything's fine," nat had cut in, her sharp gaze taking in clark behind you who looks more like guard dog than protective fiance at the moment. "i just wanted to drop in. i should've called though, that was on me…"
warmth bleeds into your back when clark had stepped forward, a silent wall of support behind you. he's not unaware of your past, of your healing powers that pulled you into nick fury's orbit. while you were never made into an avenger, you were the support they all needed whether it was to be healed or just to be around someone normal. it was about a couple years ago that you finally left new york, starting fresh in metropolis as a nurse. steve had been kind enough to help the move in process a lot more smooth than it would've been alone.
"um— sorry. nat, this is clark kent, my fiance. clark, this is nat, one of my closest friends from new york although i'm rescinding that title after her break in tonight," you sigh as you wave a hand between both.
clark's still a gentleman through and through, even in the face of superspies that like to cross boundaries, and shakes nat's hand before his hand returns to your waist. "what's the occasion?"
"tony's throwing a fourth of july-slash-steve's-birthday weekend barbecue, thought our favorite nurse would like to come," nat smiles. "you can bring superman over here."
clark chokes on his spit. "i— what? i'm not— no, he's—"
you pat his chest. "honey, nat knows everything, it's literally her job. don't worry, your secret's safe with her. and i don't know, clark and i were gonna just stay in."
"sounds like fun," he cuts in and that little smile, dimple and all, knows you're about to lose this one. "i haven't gotten the chance to meet your friends, sweetheart."
every argument you have dies in the face of your fiance's eager expression and you sigh quietly to meet natasha's triumphant little grin. "yeah, okay. we'll be there. is it at the compound?"
"yeah, there's your usual room—"
"no, clark and i wouldn't wanna intrude. we'll find an airbnb or something." there's an edge to your tone that leaves no room for negotiation and natasha has enough sense to back off, nodding as she starts to head out.
when the door shuts, you groan into clark's chest who rumbles in sweet amusement as he rubs your back. "superman meeting the avengers… what can go wrong."
—
a lot of things went wrong upon entering the cabin. for one, there aren't any furniture. two, there isn't any running water. frustration begins to build but before it can erupt out of you, clark's cupping your cheek to kiss your forehead and your phone starts to ring.
"stark."
"hey, kid. don't be stubborn and bring supes on over to the compound, your room's all ready for you."
"i hate you, tony."
"no, you don't. although this confirmed my theory."
you pause. "what theory?"
"you got a thing for goody two shoes. tell me— does kent say 'language' during your rated-r rants?"
you hang up the call, cutting off tony's obnoxious laughter on the other end.
—
now that the both of you are on avengers' property, your privacy is all but secured against the general public so clark had seen no issue in just flying you and your luggage over. it's a bit unsettling to see him fly in his civilian clothes but you cling to him all the same, carried bridal style while the luggage hang from his hands. you aren't sure how he isn't losing his grip but you land in the open bay where natasha and steve is waiting to greet the both of you.
the luggage are set down first, clark still hovering and once his hands are free, his feet land with you still securely in his arms. "clark?" you prompt and your adorable, beefcake of a fiance startles as he reluctantly sets you down while nat and steve approach.
"miss romanoff," clark tips his head in polite greeting but then his voice drops slightly, taking on the 'superman' voice when he turns to steve. "captain, happy birthday."
"thank you, superman," steve greets as he offers his hand. clark takes it with a solid 'clap' and a firm shake. your eyes flitter between each of them in slight anticipation because in this moment, it isn't superman and captain america facing off.
it's clark kent and steve rogers with you caught right in the middle.
something lights up in natasha's eyes and you suddenly fear for the weekend ahead.
—
fortunately, the main living space of the compound is cleared of any superheroes in favor of setting up for the outside where the main party's happening. it leaves you and clark the space to settle in and when you step in your old room, nostalgia feels like a punch to the gut.
it's still the open space layout as before, patterned after a luxury studio apartment with your own mini kitchenette. cold and impersonal for the first few minutes of stepping in but then clark walks past you to set your luggage in, his large frame somehow bringing light to the place you could barely call home. when he turns to you, gives you that smile that you've fallen so hard for, it feels like you're back in metropolis. "what?"
you shake your head with a smile, step into clark's space and giggle at the blush that he never can tamp down when you're near, and kiss his dimple. "nothing. i just love you."
"love you too, honey."
—
after changing into something more comfortable (and doesn't smell like plane) over your bathing suits, you and clark walk hand in hand towards the noise that crests and wanes from the other side of the compound. where there had been an open field meant for training (specifically for any flight simulations or volatile powers that should not be indoors), it's been fashioned into an americana-esque backyard with an actual inlaid pool.
"what the— when did you guys install a pool?" you gape at the giant, bean-shaped pool complete with a patio and a giant cabana built above it. beside it is a familiar face manning the grill.
tony flicks his sunglasses down to peer at you above them. "a week ago. had to go all out for dear ol' cap's birthday. nice of you to join us, sweet cheeks. you gonna introduce us to your hunk of a man?"
your eyes roll but the pride in your smile is undeniable as you bring clark forward. "everyone, this is clark kent. my fiance."
an impressed whistle escapes from rhodey who tips a beer up in salute towards you. "nice rock, kid." he gives a nod to clark next. "you did good."
"gosh, thanks." clark says, rubs his neck in that sheepish way that you've found endearing every time you see it. however, it has the rest of the avengers staring in utter befuddlement. tony mouths 'gosh' in emphasis to bruce who waves his judgement away.
"cap, you got someone out for your title for boyscout," tony crows happily as he flips a patty with ease. steve, who has been lounging beneath the shade with his own lemonade, looks up from his conversation with clint and laura. when his eyes find yours then clark's, something unnameable passes through his eyes before he's striding to his feet. all six foot two of him.
clark straightens his posture. all six foot four of him.
immediately, your eyes roll. "i'm going to go say hi to the girls. you two? behave."
"honey—" clark splutters but his priority will always be you so he concedes, quietly takes the offered glass of lemonade from steve before he attempts to play nice. if he can keep civil with steve lombard at work, he can be the nicest guy in town for the super soldier that may as well be an ex with how his eyes follow you.
—
to his credit, clark gets along well with all of your friends from new york. tony's crass but he's got a heart of gold with his closest circle of friends. bruce and clint had teased him the least about his midwestern countenance while laura had been interested in his career as a journalist and as a superhero. natasha had been very impressed with his ability to juggle his secret identity on top of everything.
"so how'd she find out about your other identity?" rhodey asks later on as the two of them sit at the chaises by the pool. clark is polite but his eyes cut to you occasionally where you're splashing in the shallow end with laura and clint's kids, your laughter providing a soothing background to the chaos of tony and bruce arguing over what music to play.
"ah, well. i was fighting an imp with the justice gang, should've been an easy fight but it was evening and i'm not really at my strongest at that time. i fell on her roof and she was there reading. she… healed me." a besotted smile grows on his lips. "the day after that, she ran into me as clark but i didn't realize my biology had been something she could sense. she pulled me into an alley and just asked if i healed right."
rhodey laughs quietly. "she's a little spitfire, ain't she?"
"i wouldn't have it any other way," clark muses. the both of them turn their attention to you, nearly missing the way tony hits the top of the grill with his tongs to call out—
"soup's on!" he hollers as he gestures to the cheeseburgers laid out to the table beside him. clark gets to his feet, ready to serve you, except—
"got all your favorite fixin's," steve cuts in, that boyish half grin that's made nearly all of america swoon, as he offers you a plate. with clark's heightened vision, something ugly turns with indignance that steve did get all your favorites.
but clark will not be beat so he rushes over to the coolers, pulls out your favorite drink, and all but flies over to offer it to you. "can't forget your usual, honey," he smiles sweetly, popping the tab for you and everything. you're still halfway out the pool, one foot out and on the edge with the other still in the water, with both men offering you a plate and a drink.
"thanks, guys… mind if i dry off first?"
you carefully sidestep away from both of them, refusing to enable or participate this odd dick-measuring contest they've started. once you've dried off, you settle into an available chaise and nearly startles when steve and clark kneel on either side of you. you could barely get a word in as captain america himself carefully sets the plate down on the small table beside you and your darling fiance adds in a straw as well.
"okay, both of you shoo—" you wave them off. "seriously. i know both of you, you two can eat tony out of all of his homes so go. you must be starving."
when both men trudge off, natasha takes their place but she's got enough sense to at least wait for you to take a few bites of your food before she starts.
"you know, it's kinda cute."
"don't you start, nat."
"no, no. it is! you got america's heroes fighting for your attention like overgrown puppies. it's cute."
your eyes narrow. "… you know something."
she zips up her lips before she dives into the pool, effortless without making a splash.
you huff goodnaturedly. "show-off."
—
"come on, you two. nathan, lila, out of the pool." clint claps his hands to grab his two youngests' attention. the sun's setting behind him and even you can't deny there's a slight chill beginning to settle in.
you nod and raise your arms slightly with the intent to herd the little ones out. "you two heard your dad, let's head out. if the grown-ups say yes, we can get some s'mores started, maybe set up some lights like a campfire… what do you say?"
that gets them out and when clint gives you a thankful grin, you wave him off before padding out to clark where he's already got your towel out. "thanks, baby," you smile as he wraps it around you, bundling you into his arms to press a soft kiss to your lips.
behind your back, steve stands with a fresh towel and clark fights the urge to stick his tongue out at him. no, that'd be very immature of him.
—
despite the chill that's threatened to drive the party indoors, tony gets a bonfire started in a fire pit he had dug out from the giant warehouse storage along with some string lights from a box labeled 'christmas?'.
the kids are drawn up in a tizzy at the thought of having christmas in july, their little hands diving into the box with the sole intent of decorating the giant cabana. you're in the middle of it all, helping them all detangle the wires while tony's sent back inside to look for an extension cord of all things.
"hold on, sweetheart," you laugh as nathan tries to climb your back while you draw yourself back to your feet, watching as his little arms try to reach up and hook the lights up. in the corner of your eye, steve approaches your periphery, hands nearly raised as if he's got the intention to lift you by your hips but—
clark's hands find you first, his chest brushing against your back. "i got you, honey," he murmurs in your ear before giving nathan a little grin. you feel his strong grip brace your waist, firm but not uncomfortable, and lift you high.
then… lifts you higher.
you turn your head to see clark levitating to help you hook the lights up at eye-level. nathan gasps in excitement and nearly drops the lights in his own hand. "oops— careful, buddy," you chuckle as you hand back the wire.
"me next, me next!" lila squeals from below and you laugh as clark does as asked, nathan reluctantly set down for you to carry his older sister next while clark lifts you back up with ease.
by the time the entire cabana's decorated, the kids are returned safely to their parents.
"that was nice of you," steve hums to clark once the two of you are back on solid ground, offering two s'mores on a plate.
clark takes it, almost wary, but he sees something you don't and his spine relaxes imperceptibly. "thank you," he murmurs while he places a warm hand at the base of your spine. steve nods his head and when he turns to you, he ruffles your head.
"be good, kid," he tells you instead before he walks off.
—
although tony had intended steve's intention to be an absolute rager, it still turned out to be a family-friendly event. something that steve had been banking on.
"kid just landed," tony had remarked earlier, the both of them setting up the cabana after FRIDAY had updated him on your flight status. "you gonna say something?"
steve just chuckles to himself, readjusting the stability of the cabana's legs. "tony, i don't know how many times i have to say this. nothing ever happened between me and her."
tony's eyes roll. "i know. you two cost me $300 because of it, by the way."
"serves you right for betting on your friends' love lives, stark."
"yeah, yeah, whatever. but back to the question at hand— have you met her fiance?"
"superman? i don't know him personally, but he seems like a good man, someone good for her," steve shrugs, unsure of what tony's getting at.
"hm. sure, the media definitely paints him that way," tony says. "but as her closest friends and honestly— the closest thing she has to a family— we need to make sure he's good for her."
steve pauses for a moment, gives his friend a sidelong glance. "what do you have in mind?"
"easy." both men startle at the sudden appearance of one natasha romanoff. "make him jealous. see how he reacts when steve moves in on her, it'd be enough to see his true colors."
tony snaps his fingers. "operation: battle of the boyscouts is a go."
"… i resent that name."
—
on the morning of july fifth, the avengers compound is the ultimate postcard of serenity. sun's sitting high, a gentle breeze wafting through to carry in the scent of nature. a butterfly settles upon a blooming flower bud—
"ANTHONY EDWARD STARK."
your shrill voice cuts through the peace. the butterfly flies off.
"you tried making my fiance jealous for some inane dick-measuring contest for your own fucking entertainment—?!"
"language."
"language, sweetheart."
steve and clark share a surprised glance and right as they're about to exchange a little chuckle, maybe even bro it out with a fist bump in their matching flannel pajamas, you direct your glare to the both of them.
without a word, steve backs out with a sheepish grin while clark approaches to give you an apologetic kiss to your forehead.
"it's a habit, i'm sorry," he mutters against your hair and despite tony's stupid games, you melt in your fiance's arms. "i love you."
"i love you too, sweetie." tony takes the chance to inch away as you decompress in clark's arms but you huff against his chest. "clark, i'm gonna kill him."
"... it wouldn't be very 'superman' of me to let you get away with murder, honey."
thank you for reading! likes and reblogs and comments are highly appreciated!
‘bread is bad for you’ ‘rice is bad for you’ sorry im not subscribing to the idea that staple grains that have been integral to cultures for centuries are evil. i love you carbs
request reader who acts as a healer for the team, and their ability on paper [and seemingly in practice] is just that they can heal anybody, no matter the damage or cause, except their power actually works by stealing the wound and inflicting it upon themselves. they can take any pain, mental, chronic, sometimes even emotional depending on circumstances and the degree of it. no one knows until they take on something far too bad: losing a limb, breaking their spine, guts spilling out, etc.
content gn! reader x bruce wayne, healer! reader, reader gets hurt, graphic injury, severe spinal injury/paralysis, internal bleeding, blood, medical trauma, magical injury, pain transfer, self-sacrificial healing, near-death experience, emotional distress, guilt, panic/fear over a loved one’s injury, brief discussion of consent around healing, hospital/medbay scenes, temporary loss of mobility, angst with hurt/comfort
masterlist
word count 7.3k
Bruce Wayne did not believe in miracles.
He believed in preparation. He believed in weight distribution, Kevlar threading, six exit routes minimum, and the ugly mathematical certainty that if a human body hit concrete at the right angle, it broke. He believed in blood loss by volume. Heart rate by exertion. Pupil response. Grip strength. Respiration.
He believed in pain because pain was honest.
Miracles were not.
Miracles arrived too clean. Too bright. Too easy. They stood in the middle of a battlefield with blood on their hands and said, I fixed it, like the body was a machine and suffering was a loose screw.
Bruce did not trust miracles.
Which was unfortunate, because the Justice League had one.
You.
You were not the loudest member of the League. Not the strongest, not the fastest, not the one reporters chased with microphones and wide eyes. You did not wear a cape or a symbol bright enough to turn hope into branding.
You were usually found in the aftermath.
In the ash. In the medbay. In the quiet corner of the Watchtower, where someone was trying not to scream.
You would kneel beside them, place your hands carefully over the damage, and breathe in like you were bracing for winter. Then the wound would close. Poison would vanish from the bloodstream. Bones would knit. Burns would fade. Panic would ease. Pain would leave.
On paper, your ability was simple.
You could heal anyone. No matter the wound. No matter the cause. Human, alien, magical, divine, chemical, psychic — it did not matter.
The League called you a gift. The Titans called you a lifesaver. The Outlaws called you a cheat code.
Clark once called you “mercy with a pulse,” and you had laughed so hard that Bruce had looked up from his tablet just to watch.
Bruce called you reckless.
Mostly because you were.
You would walk into active fire to reach an injured teammate. You would ignore direct orders when someone was bleeding. You would put your palms against flesh torn open by things that should not exist and say, “I’ve got you,” as if that alone were enough to bully death into backing off.
The worst part was that it usually worked.
The second worst part was that Bruce could never decide whether he hated you for it or loved you for it.
Tonight, he decided he hated it.
Mostly because you were bleeding. Again.
Not severely. Not enough for anyone else to notice. A thin line at your temple. A split on your lip. A tremor in your left hand that you kept hiding against your thigh.
You stood in the Watchtower medbay beneath cold white lights, smiling softly while Clark thanked you for sealing a kryptonite burn across his ribs. The wound had been ugly enough to make even Diana go quiet. Green veins. Blackened skin. Clark’s breathing gone ragged and wet.
Now he stood whole and sheepish, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.
“You didn’t have to take care of it so quickly,” Clark said. “I could’ve waited.”
“No, you couldn’t,” you replied, like this was obvious. “You were turning a shade of green that even Hal couldn’t pull off.”
Hal, from the next bed over, raised a hand. “Rude, but fair.”
Clark smiled. “Thank you.”
You smiled back.
Bruce watched the tremor in your hand worsen.
He said your name.
Your eyes shifted to him immediately.
It always did something strange to him, that. The way you heard him, no matter how softly he said it. The way your attention arrived like a hand settling over an open flame.
“You need to sit down,” Bruce said.
You blinked. “Hello to you too.”
“Sit.”
“Wow. Full sentences tonight. I’m honoured.”
Hal made a low whistle. “Careful, Bats. They’re armed with bedside manner.”
Bruce did not look away from you. “You’re injured.”
“So are half the people in this room.”
“Not after you get to them.”
Your smile thinned.
There it was. A flicker. Small enough that anyone else might have missed it. But Bruce had built a life out of noticing what people tried to bury.
You looked away first.
“I’m fine,” you said.
Bruce hated those two words more than almost any others. They were a locked door. A smokescreen. A blade held behind the back.
Jason used them like armour. Dick used them like a performance. Tim used them like a spreadsheet refusing to load. Damian used them like a dare.
You used them like a prayer.
Bruce stepped closer. “Let Alfred examine you when we return to Gotham.”
Your expression softened in that infuriating way it always did when he worried about you. Like his concern was something precious and breakable. Like you had no idea what to do with it except hold it carefully until he looked away.
“Bruce,” you said quietly, “I’m okay.”
He lowered his voice. “You’re lying.”
Your gaze held his.
For a moment, the medbay noise faded around you both. No monitors. No League chatter. No hiss of sterilisers or distant hum of the Watchtower’s engines.
Just you. Just him. Just the secret Bruce knew you were keeping and the terrible feeling that one day it would cost more than either of you could pay.
Then the alarm screamed.
Red light washed over the medbay.
Clark straightened instantly. Diana reached for her sword. Hal cursed.
Batman was already moving.
“Report,” Bruce snapped into comms.
J’onn’s voice came through, strained. “Breach in Gotham. East End. Magical signature. Multiple civilian casualties. Zatanna is unreachable.”
Bruce’s blood went cold.
Gotham.
Of course, it was Gotham. The city had a way of calling him home with broken teeth.
He turned toward the exit, cape snapping behind him. He heard your footsteps follow.
“No,” he said immediately.
You scoffed. “Excuse me?”
“You’re staying here.”
“I am absolutely not.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m useful.”
“You’re compromised.”
“And you’re emotionally allergic to common sense, but we all cope.”
Hal muttered, “Damn.”
Bruce turned on you fully. The others moved around you, preparing, but he could only see the blood at your temple. The way your hand still shook.
“You are not going into another combat zone.”
Your face sharpened. “People are hurt.”
“That doesn’t override your safety.”
“It usually overrides yours.”
“That’s different.”
The moment the words left his mouth, Bruce regretted them.
Your expression went still.
Not angry.
Worse.
Understanding.
“Right,” you said. “Because you’re Batman.”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
You stepped closer, lowering your voice so only he could hear. “And I’m just the person who puts everyone back together afterwards.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“But it is what you believe.”
“No.”
“Then move.”
He did not.
Your eyes flashed.
“Bruce.”
His name in your mouth was not a plea.
It was a warning.
Diana’s voice cut through the tension. “We need to go.”
Bruce looked at you for one more second.
You looked back, chin lifted, blood drying at your lip like a signature.
He knew that look. He had seen it in mirrors.
There was no stopping you.
Only failing to protect you loudly enough to pretend it counted.
“Stay behind me,” he said.
Your smile returned, quick and grim. “Cute.”
Then you were gone, following the League into the red-lit corridor.
Bruce let himself breathe once.
Only once.
Then Batman took over.
Gotham was burning blue.
Not orange. Not red. Not the familiar hungry gold of fire eating through old wood and older sins.
Blue.
The flames crawled along brick walls without consuming them. They licked over pavement, curled around street lamps, danced across windows with a strange, weightless hunger.
Magic.
Bruce hated magic.
A creature stood at the centre of the East End intersection, too tall to be human and too thin to be alive. Its limbs bent wrong. Its face was a polished black surface with no features except a mouth full of white light.
Around it, civilians lay scattered across the street.
Some moved. Some did not.
Batman landed hard on a rooftop overlooking the intersection. Clark hovered to his left, jaw tight. Diana landed beside him, sword already drawn. You dropped from the Javelin last, boots hitting gravel with a muted scrape.
Bruce glanced back at you.
You were already looking at the wounded.
Of course you were.
“Assess first,” Bruce ordered. “No engagement without—”
The creature opened its mouth.
The sound that came out was not a scream.
It was worse.
It was every scream at once.
Every person in the intersection arched in agony. Civilians. Police. Firefighters. A young paramedic dropped to their knees, hands clawing at their own throat. Clark grunted and clapped both hands over his ears. Diana staggered.
Bruce’s vision went white.
Pain ripped down his spine.
It was sudden. Absolute. Like something had reached inside him and pulled every nerve taut until his bones sang with it.
He hit the rooftop on one knee.
You shouted his name.
He tried to answer.
Couldn’t.
His comm crackled with overlapping voices.
“Batman—”
“Bruce—”
“Status—”
He forced his head up.
The creature’s mouth widened.
The street split.
A line of blue fire shot through the asphalt, up the building, across the roof beneath Bruce’s feet.
He moved too late.
The roof collapsed.
For a moment, there was only falling.
Not fear. Bruce rarely had time for fear during impact.
Only calculation. Distance. Angle. Debris. Cape. Grapple. Left hand functional. Right shoulder compromised from earlier strain. Avoid exposed rebar. Protect head. Roll through—
Something hit him midair.
Not stone. Not steel.
Magic.
Invisible force slammed him downward like the hand of a god.
He crashed through three floors.
The first impact shattered his ribs. The second stole the air from his lungs. The third broke something deep.
Something final.
Bruce hit concrete and knew before he tried to move.
His legs were gone.
Not gone from his body. Worse.
Present. Silent. Dead weight below a line of fire in his spine.
The world narrowed to breath.
In.
Broken glass.
Out.
Blood in his mouth.
He blinked at the ceiling far above, where blue flames crawled like veins through the cracks.
His cowl’s diagnostics flickered.
Spinal trauma: severe.
Lower limb response: absent.
Internal bleeding: probable.
Respiration: impaired.
Bruce closed his eyes. Only for a second.
When he opened them, you were there. Dust in your hair. Blood at your temple reopened. Eyes wide, terrified in a way he had never seen from you.
He tried to say no.
It came out as a wet rasp.
You dropped to your knees beside him.
“Don’t move,” you said, voice shaking.
He would have laughed if he could.
You pressed your hands to his chest, then stopped.
Your gaze flicked downward.
You knew.
Of course, you knew. You always knew where the pain lived.
“Don’t,” Bruce managed.
Your face crumpled for half a second before you controlled it. “Bruce—”
“Don’t.”
The word cost too much. Pain flared behind his eyes. His fingers twitched uselessly against the concrete.
You swallowed hard. “Your spine—”
“I know.”
“You’re bleeding internally.”
“I know.”
“Your lung is—”
“I know.”
You stared at him.
The building groaned around you.
Above, Clark shouted your name. Diana called for Batman. The creature screamed again, and the whole city seemed to twist beneath the sound.
Bruce forced his fingers to curl around your wrist.
Weakly. Not enough to stop you.
Never enough.
“Evacuate,” he breathed.
Your eyes filled. “No.”
“That’s an order.”
“You don’t get to order me to watch you die.”
“I’m not—”
His breath hitched. Something inside him shifted wrong.
Agony tore through him so violently his vision blacked out at the edges.
When the world returned, your hands were on either side of his face.
“Stay with me,” you said. “Bruce, stay with me.”
He wanted to tell you that he was trying. He wanted to tell you to leave. He wanted, absurdly, to apologise.
For the blood on your hands. For the fear in your eyes. For every time he had treated your kindness like a tactical flaw because admitting what it really was would mean admitting how much it mattered to him.
You bent closer.
Your forehead touched his.
“Forgive me,” you whispered.
Panic cut through him sharper than pain.
“No.”
You kissed him.
Not like a goodbye.
Like a promise made with shaking hands.
Then your palms pressed over his spine.
And you breathed in.
Bruce’s world exploded.
Not with pain.
With absence.
The fire in his back vanished. His ribs snapped into place. His lung opened. The blood in his throat cleared. Feeling surged back into his legs with such sudden force that his whole body jerked.
He gasped.
The cowl display stabilised.
Spinal trauma: resolved.
Internal bleeding: resolved.
Respiration: normalising.
Lower limb response: restored.
Bruce stared up at you in horror.
Because you were no longer kneeling.
You were collapsing. Your body folded exactly the way his had. Your breath broke on a sound he would hear for the rest of his life.
Blood spilled from your mouth.
“No,” Bruce said.
This time, the word came out whole.
He caught you before your head struck concrete.
You convulsed in his arms, eyes blown wide with agony. Your hands clawed weakly at his cape, not pushing him away. Holding on.
Your legs did not move.
Bruce’s mind went quiet.
Not calm.
Quiet. The kind of quiet that came before violence. Before grief. Before the part of him that wore a bat-shaped shadow took all the pain in the room and turned it into a weapon.
“What did you do?” he whispered.
You tried to answer. Only blood came out.
Bruce pressed two fingers to your throat. Pulse rapid. Weak. Too weak.
Behind him, debris shifted. Clark dropped through the hole in the ceiling, eyes blazing red until he saw you.
The heat vanished from his stare.
“Great Rao,” Clark breathed.
“Get us out,” Bruce said.
Clark moved instantly.
Bruce held you against his chest as Clark lifted them both through the wreckage. Diana met them on the street, blue fire reflecting off her armour.
Her face changed when she saw you.
That was when Bruce understood.
The horror did not belong to him alone.
Everyone was watching. Hal hovered above the intersection, ring dimming. Flash stood frozen near an ambulance. J’onn’s expression had gone remote with shock. Civilians stared from behind barricades.
And you lay in Bruce’s arms with his broken spine.
His blood. His death.
The creature screamed again.
Bruce did not look at it.
“Diana,” he said.
His voice was Batman’s. His arms were Bruce’s, shaking around you.
Diana’s gaze hardened. “Go.”
Clark reached for you. “Bruce, I can fly them faster.”
“No.”
Clark stopped.
The word had come out too sharp. Too raw.
Bruce adjusted his grip carefully, terrified to jostle you. Terrified not to.
“I have them,” he said, quieter.
Clark looked at him, and Bruce knew he understood.
Not everything. Not yet.
But enough.
Clark nodded once and turned back toward the blue fire.
Bruce carried you to the Javelin.
Every step was steady.
Every breath was not.
The Cave had never felt so cold.
Alfred met them before the landing platform fully opened. He did not ask questions. That was one of the many reasons Bruce trusted him more than anyone alive.
One look at you, pale and bloodied in Bruce’s arms, and Alfred’s face became very still.
“Medbay,” Alfred said.
Bruce carried you there.
Your head rested against his shoulder. Your breath came in shallow, uneven pulls. Every few seconds, your body trembled as if some invisible current was passing through you.
His injury. His pain. His consequences.
Alfred cut away your suit with clinical precision. Bruce stood beside the bed, cowl pulled off, gauntlets still on, blood drying at his jaw.
Your blood. His blood.
He could not tell anymore.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said, “I need room.”
Bruce did not move.
Alfred’s eyes lifted to his. “Now.”
The word cracked like a whip.
Bruce stepped back. Barely.
Alfred worked.
Scans. IV. Oxygen. Stabilisers. A spinal brace. Blood transfusion. Drugs strong enough to knock out most people and still not enough to fully touch what you had taken.
Bruce watched every monitor like it owed him obedience.
Heart rate too high. Blood pressure too low. Inflammation along the spine. Nerve shock. Internal trauma.
All copied from his body.
No. Not copied.
Stolen.
No, not stolen.
Given.
No.
Taken.
His mind circled the word like a predator unable to find the throat.
He had been healed. You had been hurt.
It had to go somewhere.
The thought arrived fully formed, and Bruce nearly staggered beneath it.
It has to go somewhere.
Every mission. Every miracle. Every closed wound. Where had it gone?
He turned sharply and crossed to the Cave computer, fingers flying over the keys.
“Master Bruce,” Alfred said.
He ignored him.
Mission reports. Medical logs. Watchtower footage. Your check-in records. League debriefs. Gotham patrol incidents. Titan Tower emergencies. Outlaws extractions.
A pattern bloomed across the screen in timestamps and blood.
You healed Clark’s kryptonite poisoning on March 4th. Later that night, you requested private quarters and refused medbay assistance. The next morning, security footage showed you leaning against a corridor wall, vomiting into your hand.
You healed Dick’s fractured femur after a Titans mission in Blüdhaven. Two hours later, you were limping.
You healed Jason’s gunshot wound in Qurac. You vanished for three days afterward.
You healed Tim’s concussion and neural toxin exposure. You spent the next week avoiding bright lights.
You healed Damian’s broken wrist. The next morning, your hand shook so badly you could not hold a mug.
Your smile in every debrief. Your “I’m fine” in every recording. Your steady hands on everyone else.
Your hidden suffering afterwards.
Bruce gripped the edge of the console until the metal groaned beneath his fingers.
He had built systems to monitor everyone. He had missed this.
No. Worse. He had accepted the miracle because it was useful.
Because the people he loved came back whole when you touched them. Because when Jason’s breathing evened out, Bruce had been too relieved to ask why your hands shook afterwards. Because when Clark stood healed, Bruce had looked at you bleeding from the lip and let you say you were okay.
He had let himself believe you.
A sound came from the medbay.
Small. Broken.
Bruce was at your side before he realised he had moved.
Your eyes were half-open. Unfocused.
“Don’t try to move,” Alfred said immediately.
You made a faint, pained noise.
Bruce leaned over you. “You’re in the Cave. You’re safe.”
Your gaze dragged toward him.
Recognition flickered.
Then relief.
Relief.
Bruce nearly broke.
“You’re alive,” you whispered.
His throat closed.
Alfred adjusted the oxygen cannula beneath your nose. “Against his better judgment, yes.”
Your mouth twitched.
Even now. Even like this.
Bruce wanted to beg you not to smile.
“Can you feel your legs?” Alfred asked gently.
Your expression shifted.
Not fear.
Knowledge.
You already knew.
Bruce watched the answer settle behind your eyes before you spoke.
“No,” you said.
The word hollowed out the room.
Bruce turned away for half a second, jaw clenched so hard pain shot through his skull.
Alfred’s face remained composed, but his hands were not quite steady as he checked your reflexes.
“This may be temporary,” Alfred said. “The injury was transferred through metahuman means. We cannot assume it will behave like standard trauma.”
You looked at Bruce. He hated that you looked at him. Hated that you cared more about his face than your body.
“You’re angry,” you murmured.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
His eyes snapped to yours.
You swallowed, wincing. “Means you’re okay.”
Bruce stared at you.
Then he said your name so softly it sounded more like damage than language.
You closed your eyes. “I had to.”
“No.”
Your eyelids fluttered open.
Bruce leaned closer. His hands gripped the rail of the bed because if he touched you, he did not know whether he would hold on too tightly or fall apart completely.
“No,” he said again. “You chose to.”
Your face went still.
“And you didn’t tell me the cost.”
Your gaze slid away.
That hurt more than he expected. Which was absurd. Everything hurt more than he expected. He had spent years training pain into something useful, something clean, something he could fold into mission parameters and scar tissue.
This pain was not clean. It had your blood in it.
“I never tell anyone,” you said.
Bruce’s voice dropped. “I’m not anyone.”
Silence.
Alfred paused.
Your eyes came back to his slowly.
Something raw moved through your expression. Something soft and terrible.
“No,” you whispered. “You’re not.”
Bruce could not breathe around it.
He wanted to touch your face. He wanted to hold your hand. He wanted to shake you. He wanted to wrap you in every blanket in the Manor and lock every door between you and the world.
He wanted, uselessly, to go back. To stay broken. To stop you.
Instead, he said, “How does it work?”
Your mouth tightened. “Bruce—”
“How does it work?”
Alfred gave him a warning look. Bruce ignored it.
You were quiet long enough that the monitors filled the space between you.
Then you sighed. “It transfers.”
Bruce closed his eyes.
There it was. The word he already knew and still did not survive hearing.
“When I heal someone,” you continued, voice thin, “I take the injury into myself. Usually not permanently. Most things pass faster in me than they would in someone else. Burns fade in hours. Breaks heal in days. Poison burns out. Pain drains eventually.”
“Eventually,” Bruce repeated.
You gave him a tired look. “Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Sound like you’re about to cross-examine my bloodstream.”
Alfred, traitor that he was, murmured, “A fair description of your tone, sir.”
Bruce did not look away from you. “You’ve been suffering every injury you healed.”
“Not suffering.”
His stare hardened.
You exhaled. “Not always for long.”
“That isn’t an answer.”
“It’s the only one I have.”
“You lied.”
“I omitted.”
“You lied.”
Your eyes flashed, a spark beneath exhaustion. “And you don’t?”
Bruce went silent.
You tried to shift, and pain tore across your face. The monitor spiked. Alfred moved quickly, adjusting medication, his voice low and calming.
Bruce stood frozen as you breathed through agony that had belonged to him.
When it passed, sweat shone at your hairline.
You looked very small in the medbed. You had never looked small before.
That frightened him more than the blood.
“I didn’t tell you,” you said, quieter, “because all of you would have stopped letting me help.”
“Yes.”
You laughed once. It sounded like it hurt. “Exactly.”
“You should have told us.”
“So you could make the choice for me?”
“So we could make an informed choice for ourselves.”
That landed.
Bruce saw it in the way your mouth parted slightly. In the sudden guilt that crossed your face.
He pressed on, because he was cruel when afraid. Precise when wounded.
“Clark would not have asked you to take kryptonite poisoning into your body.”
“He was dying.”
“Jason would not have asked you to take a bullet for him.”
“He was bleeding out.”
“Tim would not have asked you to absorb neurotoxin.”
“He was seizing.”
“Damian—”
“Would rather cut off his own hand than let someone else suffer for him,” you snapped. “I know.”
Your breathing hitched.
Bruce looked down.
Your hands were clenched in the sheets.
“I know,” you said again, softer. “I know who they are. I know what they’d choose. That’s why I don’t ask.”
Bruce felt something in his chest fracture.
Not because he understood.
Because he did.
You were surrounded by martyrs who would rather die than be saved at a cost. So you hid the price tag. You became the loophole.
Bruce looked at you and saw every terrible part of himself reflected back through gentler eyes.
Sacrifice dressed up as duty. Pain hidden under competence. Love turned into a weapon and aimed inward.
No wonder he had missed it.
It looked too much like him.
“You don’t get to decide that your life is worth less,” he said.
Your eyes shone. “Neither do you.”
The Cave went quiet.
Somewhere above, rain began to strike the Manor windows. Soft at first, then harder. Gotham weather, dramatic as ever. The city had never known how to read a room.
Bruce lowered himself into the chair beside your bed.
He removed his gauntlets slowly. One finger at a time. Armour coming off always felt like losing an argument.
You watched him warily.
He reached for your hand. Paused. Asked, because he should have asked before, “May I?”
Your expression cracked. Just slightly.
Then you nodded.
Bruce took your hand with a care that felt almost violent in its restraint.
Your fingers were cold.
He covered them with both of his.
“I was dead weight,” he said.
You blinked. “What?”
“In the building. I couldn’t move.”
Your throat bobbed.
“You were dying,” you said.
“I know.”
“No, Bruce. You were dying.”
He held your gaze. “I know.”
Your face twisted with something like grief. “Then why are you looking at me like I did something wrong?”
“Because you nearly died.”
“So did you.”
“I’m used to it.”
The words came too easily.
Your stare sharpened, even through the pain.
“That,” you said, “is the saddest thing you’ve ever said to me.”
Bruce looked down at your hand.
You turned your fingers weakly against his palm. “You think your death would be easier for me because you’ve rehearsed it more?”
He had no answer.
You continued, voice trembling but steady enough to cut. “You think I could watch you die and call it respect? Call it consent? Call it honouring your choices?”
Bruce’s jaw tightened.
“I couldn’t,” you whispered. “I’m sorry if that makes me selfish.”
Selfish. The word was so wrong that Bruce almost flinched.
“You call this selfish?”
“I wanted you alive.”
His grip tightened carefully around your hand.
You looked at him like the confession had cost you more than the injury.
“I wanted you alive,” you repeated. “Not Batman. Not the mission. Not the symbol. You.”
Bruce closed his eyes. In the dark behind them, he saw you kneeling in rubble. Your face above his. Your forehead against his. Your whisper.
Forgive me.
He had thought, for one blinding second, that you were saying goodbye.
Maybe you had been.
When he opened his eyes, you were still watching him.
“You should have let Clark take me,” you said after a moment.
“No.”
“He’s faster.”
“Yes.”
“Bruce.”
“I couldn’t.”
The honesty left him rough. Bare.
Your face softened. He hated that too.
He was not the one in the bed. He was not the one with a stolen wound curled around his spine like a curse. He did not deserve your tenderness right now.
“I couldn’t give you to someone else,” he said.
Your eyes filled again.
“Oh,” you whispered.
Bruce lifted your hand and pressed his mouth to your knuckles.
It was not enough. It was nowhere close. But it was what he could do without breaking every monitor Alfred had attached to you.
“I’m sorry,” he said against your skin.
You breathed in shakily. “For what?”
“For not seeing it.”
“You weren’t supposed to.”
“I should have.”
“No.” Your thumb moved weakly across his hand. “Bruce, no.”
He looked up.
You gave him the saddest smile. “You don’t get to be responsible for my secrets too.”
Something in him rebelled against that. Responsibility was the shape he gave to love when love was too dangerous to name. He could hold responsibility. Measure it. Use it. Bleed for it.
But this? This was only terror and your cold hand and the knowledge that you had loved him violently enough to become his wound.
“I’m responsible now,” he said.
Your smile faded. “Bruce.”
“There will be protocols.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Limits.”
“You’re doing it.”
“Medical oversight.”
“You’re making my spinal trauma administrative.”
“Transfer thresholds.”
“Romance is alive and well in Gotham.”
Alfred coughed. It sounded suspiciously like a laugh.
Bruce ignored him. “You won’t heal anyone alone again.”
Your expression sobered. “That’s not always possible.”
“Then you don’t heal.”
“You know I can’t promise that.”
His voice hardened. “You will.”
“No.”
The word was quiet. Final.
Bruce stared at you. You stared back.
There you were, barely conscious, temporarily paralysed, still prepared to fight him from a medbed.
He should have been angry.
He was angry.
But beneath it was something more helpless.
“You would do it again,” he said.
Your silence answered before you did.
“If it was you?” you whispered. “Yes.”
Bruce’s chest tightened.
He stood abruptly, because sitting still had become impossible. He paced once, twice, then stopped at the foot of your bed.
“You don’t get to say that like it’s nothing.”
“It’s not nothing.”
“You took my broken spine.”
“Yes.”
“You took my internal bleeding.”
“Yes.”
“You could have died.”
“Yes.”
His hands curled into fists. “Why?”
Your eyes widened slightly, like the answer was obvious. Like he was the impossible one.
Then your face softened.
Because of course you knew. Of course, you saw the question beneath the question.
Why me? Why would you choose me? Why would anyone look at the ruin of him, the sharp edges, the locked doors, the blood-soaked mission that had eaten most of his life, and decide he was worth carrying?
Your voice was barely audible.
“Because I love you.”
Bruce stopped breathing.
Alfred became very interested in the IV line.
Rain filled the silence.
You looked away first, cheeks flushed with fever or pain or embarrassment. Maybe all three.
“You don’t have to say anything,” you murmured. “Actually, please don’t if you’re about to be noble and emotionally unavailable. I’m very injured and cannot escape the room.”
Bruce moved before he decided to.
He came back to your side, leaned over the bed, and touched your face.
Carefully. Always carefully.
You went still beneath his palm.
He brushed his thumb along your cheekbone, avoiding the bruising near your temple. Your eyes lifted to his.
“I love you,” he said.
You stared.
For once, you seemed genuinely speechless.
Bruce would have appreciated that more under different circumstances.
Then your face crumpled.
“Oh,” you whispered again, smaller this time.
He bent and kissed your forehead.
Your eyes closed.
He stayed there for a moment, lips against your skin, breathing you in beneath antiseptic and blood and rain-damp Cave air.
When he drew back, you were crying silently.
Bruce wiped the tears away with his thumb.
“I’m still angry,” he said.
You laughed weakly. “Yeah, that tracks.”
“I’m going to be angry for a while.”
“Hot.”
His mouth twitched despite everything.
Then his expression broke serious again. “But I love you.”
Your fingers curled around his.
“And we are going to find a way,” he continued. “A safer way. A limit. A counterbalance. Something.”
“You can’t solve everything.”
“No.”
You gave him a look.
Bruce sighed. “I can attempt to solve many things.”
“There he is.”
“I can also sit here.”
Your expression changed.
He saw the exact moment you realised what he was offering.
Not a plan. Not a protocol. Not a war against the impossible.
Presence.
Bruce Wayne’s rarest currency.
“You hate sitting still,” you said.
“I do.”
“You’re bad at it.”
“I am.”
“You’ll brood.”
“Likely.”
“You’ll scare the nurses.”
“Alfred isn’t scared of me.”
“Alfred raised you. He’s immune.”
“Unfortunately.”
Your smile was small and exhausted, but real.
Bruce sat back down.
He did not let go of your hand.
You woke and slept in pieces.
Pain made islands of time.
Sometimes Alfred was there, changing medication, murmuring dry commentary that made the Cave feel less like a tomb. Sometimes Clark visited, guilt written so plainly across his face that you had to spend ten full minutes reassuring Superman, which felt frankly illegal.
He stood at the end of your bed with his hands folded too tightly.
“I should have known,” Clark said.
From the chair beside you, Bruce made a low sound.
You pointed weakly at him. “Do not start a guilt club. I will revoke everyone’s membership.”
Clark’s mouth twitched.
“I mean it,” you said. “No matching jackets.”
“I could design a logo,” Bruce said dryly.
You turned your head slowly toward him. “That was almost a joke.”
“No.”
“Growth.”
Clark looked between you both, something soft dawning in his expression.
Bruce glared. Clark wisely pretended not to notice.
Diana came next. She held your hand between both of hers and bowed her head over it.
“You have carried warriors without allowing them the honour of carrying you,” she said.
You swallowed. “That sounds bad when you put it like that.”
“It was meant to.”
“Cool, cool, love the honesty.”
She smiled faintly. “You will allow us to help now.”
It was not a question.
You glanced at Bruce. He raised an eyebrow.
You sighed. “You told her.”
“I told the League.”
Your stomach dropped. “You what?”
Bruce’s expression did not shift. “They needed to know.”
Anger flashed hot enough to cut through the pain. “That wasn’t your secret to tell.”
“No,” he said. “It was their bodies.”
You froze.
The anger did not vanish. But it changed shape.
Bruce leaned forward. His voice lowered. “They had a right to know what happens when you heal them. You were not wrong to save us. But you were wrong to take the choice away.”
You looked at Diana.
Her face was gentle. Not accusing.
That made it worse.
“I would not have asked this of you,” she said softly.
“I know.”
“And yet I am grateful.”
Your throat tightened.
Diana squeezed your hand. “Both can be true.”
After she left, you refused to look at Bruce for nearly an hour.
He sat beside you anyway.
Brooding. Predictably.
Finally, you said, “I’m mad at you.”
“I know.”
“You had no right.”
“I know.”
“I understand why you did it.”
His eyes moved to yours.
“That does not make me less mad,” you said.
“I know.”
You watched him for a moment.
He looked exhausted. Not the usual kind. Not the clean-lined fatigue of patrols and board meetings and nights spent chasing monsters through the city’s veins.
This was deeper. He sat like a man keeping vigil at the edge of a grave he had almost been lowered into, except you were the one lying down.
“You’re allowed to sleep,” you said.
“No.”
“Bruce.”
“No.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
His face went still.
You realised your mistake immediately.
Bruce looked down at your joined hands. “You don’t know that.”
The words were quiet. So quiet they hurt more.
Your anger softened, unwillingly and all at once.
“Hey,” you whispered.
He did not look up.
You squeezed his hand as hard as you could. It was not very hard.
“Bruce.”
His eyes lifted.
“I’m here.”
His jaw worked.
“I’m here,” you repeated.
“For now.”
“For now is what everyone gets.”
He hated that. You could tell. Hated it with his whole controlled, grieving, impossible heart.
But he did not argue.
That was how you knew he was truly afraid.
On the third day, feeling returned to your left foot.
It was not pleasant.
You woke from a dead sleep with a strangled gasp, pain lightning up your leg. Bruce was on his feet instantly, one hand on your shoulder, the other reaching for the call button.
“What happened?”
“My foot,” you choked out.
Alfred appeared within seconds.
Bruce looked like he might personally fight your nervous system.
“Pain?” Alfred asked.
You nodded, tears springing to your eyes.
“Scale?”
“Six,” you said.
Bruce’s eyes narrowed.
“Seven,” you amended.
Alfred gave you a knowing look. “Nine, then.”
“Betrayal,” you whispered.
Bruce’s hand remained on your shoulder, warm and steady.
After Alfred adjusted your medication and confirmed the return of nerve response was a good sign, the pain settled into something bearable.
Bruce did not. He stayed tense beside you, jaw locked, eyes fixed on your legs like he could command them back into obedience.
“Stop glaring at my spine,” you mumbled.
“I’m not.”
“You sure are.”
He exhaled through his nose.
You studied him through the haze of medication.
He had not shaved. His hair was messy from running his hands through it. His shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows, and there was a coffee mug nearby that looked untouched and deeply depressed.
“You look terrible,” you said fondly.
“Thank you.”
“Very Victorian widower chic.”
His eyebrow twitched.
“You need sleep.”
“I’ve slept.”
“Microsleep while threatening medical equipment doesn’t count.”
“I didn’t threaten anything.”
“Bruce.”
“A monitor was malfunctioning.”
“You told it to try harder.”
“It did.”
You laughed, and it hurt, but the hurt was worth it because Bruce’s face changed.
Only slightly.
But it changed.
The tightness eased around his mouth. His eyes warmed with something fragile.
“There you are,” he murmured.
Your breath caught.
He seemed to realise he had said it aloud, because he looked away.
Too late.
Warmth spread through your chest, soft and aching.
“Come here,” you said.
His gaze returned immediately. “What do you need?”
“You.”
That stopped him.
You shifted carefully, making room on the narrow medbed.
“No.”
“Bruce.”
“You’re injured.”
“I’m aware.”
“I could hurt you.”
“You won’t.”
“I’m not getting into a medbed with you while you have spinal trauma.”
You stared at him.
He stared back.
You sighed. “Okay. Chair closer, then.”
He hesitated.
“Please,” you added.
That did it.
Bruce moved the chair until it was close enough for you to touch him without straining. You lifted your hand. He took it.
“No,” you said. “Closer.”
He leaned in.
You reached up and touched his face.
His eyes closed.
The sight of it nearly undid you.
Bruce Wayne, who held himself like a locked room, leaning into your hand in the cold glow of the Cave.
“You’re alive,” you said softly.
His eyes opened. “So are you.”
“Yeah.”
“You nearly weren’t.”
“As were you.”
His mouth tightened.
You brushed your thumb over his cheek.
“We’re a mess,” you whispered.
“Yes.”
“Like, a medically concerning mess.”
“Yes.”
“Emotionally, too.”
“Obviously.”
You smiled.
He turned his face and kissed your palm.
Your heart stumbled.
“I meant what I said,” he murmured.
Your smile faded into something softer. “About loving me?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Your voice shook. “Because I meant it too.”
Bruce leaned forward until his forehead rested gently against yours.
No pressure. No demand.
Just contact. Just warmth. Just the mercy between bones.
“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.
“Love me?”
“Let you risk yourself.”
You breathed out. “I don’t know how to stop.”
“I know.”
“You can’t lock me away.”
“I know.”
“You can’t make every choice for me.”
His eyes opened. “I know.”
“And I can’t keep taking choices from everyone else.”
Bruce went very still.
The confession sat between you.
Ugly. Necessary. True.
You swallowed. “I thought if I told people, they’d choose pain. Death. Permanent damage. I thought they’d make the noble choice because all of you are allergic to being loved safely.”
Bruce’s mouth twisted.
“But I think…” Your voice thinned. “I think maybe I was making the same choice for them.”
He did not speak.
His hand tightened around yours.
“I don’t regret saving you,” you said. “I won’t lie about that.”
Pain flickered in his eyes.
“But I’m sorry I made it something you had no say in.”
Bruce closed his eyes.
For a moment, he looked younger.
Not young. Never young.
But younger. Like grief had loosened its grip just enough to reveal the boy beneath the bat. The child in the alley. The man still trying to make every loss mean something.
When he opened his eyes again, they were damp.
He did not let the tears fall.
That was fine. You knew him.
You saw them anyway.
“I would have chosen you,” he said.
Your breath caught.
“If you had asked,” Bruce continued, voice rough, “if you had told me the cost, I would have chosen your life over my legs.”
Your vision blurred. “I know.”
“You don’t.”
“I do,” you whispered. “That’s why I didn’t ask.”
He flinched.
You hated yourself for it, but the truth was there now, sharp and breathing.
Bruce absorbed it in silence.
Then he nodded once.
Not forgiveness. Not yet.
Understanding.
That was a beginning.
“We do it differently now,” he said.
You nodded.
“We make rules.”
“Guidelines,” you countered weakly.
“Rules.”
“Strong suggestions.”
His stare flattened.
You smiled. “Fine. Rules.”
“No healing without disclosure unless the person is unconscious and the injury is immediately fatal.”
“Reasonable.”
“No solo transfers above a threshold we determine with testing.”
“Mostly reasonable.”
“No hiding symptoms.”
You grimaced.
His eyes narrowed. “Non-negotiable.”
“You’re so hot when you’re a bureaucratic nightmare.”
“Deflection.”
“Accurate deflection.”
“And,” Bruce said, ignoring that, “when you are injured, you let us help.”
Your smile slipped.
There it was. The hardest one.
Not the pain. Not the risk. Not the blood.
Receiving. Letting care come toward you and not turning it aside.
You looked down at your joined hands.
“I don’t know how,” you admitted.
Bruce’s thumb moved over your knuckles. “Neither do I.”
A laugh broke out of you, small and wet. “God, we’re doomed.”
“No.”
He said it so firmly you looked back up.
Bruce’s eyes held yours. “We’ll learn.”
The words should have sounded impossible. From anyone else, maybe they would have. But this was Bruce. Bruce, who had rebuilt himself from blood and pearls and gun smoke. Bruce, who turned grief into a citywide vow. Bruce, who loved like a locked door but stayed, always stayed, once you found the key.
If Bruce Wayne said he would learn, then God help the universe, he would.
You let your head sink back into the pillow.
“Okay,” you whispered.
He kissed your forehead again.
Then, after a pause, your mouth.
Softly. Carefully. A kiss shaped around the IV line, the spinal brace, the bruises, the terror. A kiss that did not ask for more than you could give. A kiss that said, with aching restraint, I am here. I am not leaving. I am furious. I love you.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed.
“You need to sleep,” he said.
“So do you.”
“I’ll stay.”
“That wasn’t the argument-ending statement you thought it was.”
You felt, rather than saw, his faint smile.
A blanket shifted. The chair creaked. Then Bruce’s hand was still in yours, his thumb resting over your pulse.
Guarding it. Counting it. Trusting it, maybe.
You drifted toward sleep.
At the edge of it, you murmured, “Bruce?”
“Yes?”
“If you tell Jason, he’s going to yell at me.”
“He already knows.”
Your eyes snapped open. “Bruce.”
“He yelled at me first.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Then he yelled at Clark.”
“That tracks.”
“He’s waiting upstairs.”
You groaned. “I’m critically injured.”
“He brought soup.”
“Jason made soup?”
“Alfred made soup. Jason is taking credit.”
You smiled despite yourself.
The Cave hummed around you. Rain whispered above. Somewhere in the Manor, the family you had saved too many times waited to be angry, relieved, and unbearably present.
You had thought the pain had to go somewhere.
Maybe it did.
But maybe care did too.
Maybe it could move from hand to hand, body to body, not as a wound but as warmth. Maybe, this time, you did not have to be the only place suffering landed.
Bruce’s fingers tightened around yours as if he felt the thought pass through you.
“Sleep,” he said.
“Bossy.”
“Yes.”
“Love you too.”
His breath caught softly.
Then his mouth brushed your knuckles.
“I love you,” Bruce said, like a vow. Like a wound closing. Like the first honest miracle he had ever believed in.
And for once, when you slept, you did not have to carry the pain alone.
I don’t know if this was make sense but the way you wrote pain was p o e t r y 😭🤌🔥 this was so amazing and beautifully written 👏 such a good take on the trope and with batman no less, ugh love that man 💕
Bruce Wayne as your arranged marriage husband means endless shopping budget but a man who disappears every night— only coming back to sleep.
Feeling the dip beside you on the bed, you rotate your head slightly to see his back filled with deep wounds. Some healed while some others are a raging red. You always notice but never ask how he always comes home at the dead of night, always with new gashes that constitutes his whole back.
Every time you ask, it's a look of shame that graces his face and one of sympathy that comes from the estranged butler, Alfred. There's a hint of secrecy between the two that you've always been curious since the wedding. They were always chatting silently with each other when you "weren't" paying attention.
It's the day that you go to call him downstairs that you discover the Batcave.
"Fucking bitch," you whisper underneath your breath.
In which: Bruce Wayne's daughter, Y/N Wayne is a full time party girl. Club hopper, party animal, hedonist. Whatever you want to call it. To full the void her father left, she turns to nightclubs, dingy bars and basement raves.
Chapter thirteen. Step on me.
Fic masterlist!
cw: mentions of addiction, mentions of underage drinking, Reader has bad mental health, withdrawals, Reader has anxious spiral , depressive thoughts, reader is not well mentally, mentions of trauma. - I DO NOT CONDONE OR SUPPORT ANY UNDERAGE DRINKING OR SMOKING, stay safe stay in school
The sleek car glides along the road, butter on toast over the tarmac. It purrs as it sails, betraying the tense atmosphere inside. You’re pressed up against the window, face smushed against the glass. For the last three days you’ve felt unbearably hot, even after two back to back cold showers. You can’t stop sweating. It’s heaven, the frosty cool glass is better than any hit you’ve had before. Almost makes you feel stupid for spending so much money on the stuff when you could’ve just locked yourself in the car until you hit that euphoric high.
Alfred says something from the front of the car but you’re too blissed out to decode it. It’s like he’s behind a thick pane of glass. You can see him clearly, but his words aren’t there. There’s a sour pang of guilt boiling in your chest, because you know it’s rude to ignore him, but the headache and constant sweating overrides your conscience.
In the passenger seat, Bruce steals glances at you through the rear view mirror. You look awful. Weak, small, wrung out. She fought to be here, rings in his head. You definitely look like you’ve been in a fight, and he’d hate to see the other guy.
His palms sweat, when was the last time they did that? Trapped in the car with a tangible reminder of his personal failings. Although, he did think that if he tried to reach out and touch you, you’d melt into a puddle on the spot.
When the double doors to the manor fly open, the blink and you’ll miss it waft of cold, sterile air hugs the exposed skin on your arms and face with all the tenderness of a lover. Not that you’d know.
Eyes. Too many eyes. The first thing you notice. On the paintings, the photos framed on the wall, the ones on yours expectantly watching your next move. Tim’s, Dick and Damian’s. Already overwhelmed by the onset of withdrawal symptoms (you had to google that in the car, but you couldn’t read any more than the first paragraph, eyes too dry to keep them open), you skulk up the stairs.
Hands reach out to help but you shoo them off, saying you just need the Bathroom. Last thing you want is warm, clammy hands touching you and overheating you.
Underfoot, the tile is luxuriously frozen. Impeccable white, thanks to Alfred, and it takes you back to making snowmen when you were a child. The snow wasn’t this brilliant white, but more a slurry of grey, marbled into the snow. Your snowmen always had a scarf and mittens, even though Mother would scold you for “getting perfectly good clothes wet and dirty.”
It makes you wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling guilty. Not just about her. Just in general.
Once you finish splashing some water on your face, you brave a glance at the mirror. In the hospital, you’d been avoiding them. In front of you was a living anti drug PSA. Hollow eyes, sunken skin, shaking, frazzled. You poke and prod at the stranger in the mirror, pulling at her face until it looks like yours again.
You hate the person in front of you. Enraged by her presence, you decide to dive to where it's safe. The end of the bottle.
When you slink out of the bathroom and drag yourself to your bedroom, you know it’s changed. It's something in the air. Broken and undisturbed, like a crime scene.
Preserved but ruined. First your instinct is to dart under the bed and check that the shrine to misery you spent years building is still intact, but then you know it'll be fruitless. Not surprisingly, it's all gone. Not a single bottle left. Or cigarettes. Anything that could’ve been helpful.
The underbelly of the bed is spotless, you could eat off the floor. Alfred must've been meticulous, to the point where you swear you can see your reflection in the polished wooden floorboards. Even your diary is gone. The one you kept hidden under the mattress. A signal broadcasting a plea for help, for no one's eyes but your own.
Soggy anger clogs your throat and pricks your eyes.
Desperate for something, you resort back to the bathroom and throw open the cabinet. Mouthwash. It’s sickeningly sharp, but the minty twang makes you feel a little less hot and bothered.
When you finally shamble downstairs, they’re waiting for you. Alfred fluffs a cushion and pointedly directs you to sit. You feel like a prisoner being marched to death row.
In front of you there's a pamphlet, overturned so you can’t see its title. Truthfully you have no desire to read it, you can already feel the headache growing just by looking at it. so instead you reach for the glass of water next to it.
Sick of everyone looking at you like you’re about to combust, you crack a bad joke.
“What, do I have something on my face?”
It’s forced. Trite. No one laughs. Spare from Dick, who does a theatrical, pseudo supportive half chuckle. You know he’s trying.
“You smell… fresh.” Alfred remarks as he takes the empty glass away. Quickly, you shut your mouth. He gives Bruce a look on his way back to the kitchen.
He’s always so annoyingly perceptive. It makes you feel so small under his watch.
“How’re you doing? Was the trip back okay?” Dick catches the tension between Bruce and Alfred and resolves to mend it.
“S’fine.” You mumble back, fidgeting with the corner of the seat. You hope they can tell how overheated you are. “Was warm in the car.”
“If you told me I could’ve put the air conditioning on.” Bruce offers with hindsight. He’s not trying to sound condescending, but it does come off as a scold, like you misbehaved for not speaking up.
“Didn’t want to bother you.”
“How bout I get a window open?” Dick chirps with false bravado. He wants to be a hero so bad its hurting you.
There’s a brief moment where the voice in the back of your head bites “where was all this before?” but it takes too much energy to be angry and you realise it does you no good now anyway.
It goes around in circles for a few minutes. They ask you smalltalky questions, you answer them as best you can without getting snappy or letting the mask slip. When you talk it’s like your voice is pre-recorded, it doesn’t feel like yours.
The rhythm shatters when the door opens from the outside. No knock, just authority. Jason trudges in and looks surprised to see you there. “Thought you were back tomorrow.” he says gruffly.
“Got discharged early.” You like that Jason doesn’t try to be someone else for you. He doesn’t infantalise you, he just treats you like a person. Not an obligation or baggage.
“You look better.” He kicks his well worn boots off and chucks the weathered leather jacket onto the back of an armchair, which he promptly claims as his.
“I feel it.” You lie.
You back and forth for a little bit, your side of the conversation is weaker than his, burdened with fever and an insatiable itch to have something, anything, in your system. You’ve been scanning the room for something to drink. Normally, Bruce keeps expensive bottles of port in decanters and puts them on display. But now they've been evacuated.
Personally you thought it was tacky. To you, whenever rich people displayed their food instead of just eating it, it was like saying “I’m so comfortable I don’t even need to eat. In fact, I will hoard this resource, just for entertainment.” Bruce, Tim and Damian had never known hunger. As far as you knew. They had never had to put something back in the supermarket, to keep it under budget.
Windows. You measured them through windows. One of your first talks with Tim was about his old house. You asked about the view from the windows, just as a conversation starter (albeit a lame one) and you were floored when he said there were just over a couple dozen. Your apartment had three windows. One in the front room, one in the bathroom, and one in your room.
Damian boasted having more windows than a palace, and the manor spoke for itself.
They never understood what you meant. A window wasn’t supposed to be some kind of entertainment, it wasn’t supposed to be a mirror. It was a thin, brittle thing that reminded you who you were. It said, look outside, this is your life. Look at that overflowing trash can, look, and I mean look, at that long streaky pigeon shit strain right in the middle of me. Windows were a statement on who you were because they would always remind you where you are.
The view from the window reflects your life. If you're surrounded by trash and grime, that is your life. If you open your window and see sprawling acres, then that's your life, that's your potential. That's what Mother used to say anyway.
So when you asked them about the windows, what you were trying to say, without really saying it, was “are you like me?” and you were shown that they weren’t.
You aren’t sure how long you were in that inward spiral. It’s hard to gauge time at the moment. Sometimes a minute feels like a millennia, then an hour feels like ten minutes. The leather upholstery on the armchair you’ve been sinking into starts to feel sticky, dampened with your sweat.
“Gotta shower.” you mumble, sitting up to leave, but Bruce clears his throat. Silent command to sit back down. You follow his order without a fight.
“Y/N, the nurse told me about your habits.” he puts delicately. “I know it's not black and white, but I can’t let this continue.” During the ride home, he had been rehearsing this in his head.
Call it a habit, not an addiction, makes it seem less frightening- absolves some of the guilt, Don’t say “you can’t let it continue”, put all the blame on her. Would scare her.
So on and so forth.
“You need help. You need someone to help you handle this, you can’t do it by yourself.”
Too shattered to speak. You want to remind him that you’ve been handling yourself alone for years just fine, it was one slip up, it wasn’t even your fault, but it doesn’t come out. Your empty eyes stay on his.
You look like a kicked dog. It breaks his heart. He doesn’t let it show.
He turns the pamphlet over with a slow motion, as if it would spook you and send you running. When your eyes lazily trace the text, you’re snapping awake.
“No.”
“Y/N please just-”
“No I’m not going to fucking rehab! I’m fine! I’m not going- you- you just wanna get rid of me! Seriously, right now- right now you wanna get rid of me?” You don’t wait to hear what he’ll say. You grab your phone and storm out, not listening to anything else.
“Cmon we can talk about this.” Tim catches up to you before you can get to the stairs. When you face him, you can tell he’s doing that thing again. Where he analyzes someone right in front of him, mentally noting their posture and anything else of interest. How he treats strangers. Does he even know he’s doing it?
“You’re supposed to be on my side.” it comes out pathetically. You return to the stairs and he lets you go. Once he’s collected himself, he marches to Bruce.
“That was tactful.” sarcasm poisons his tone. “Really, right now? You thought this was a good time to send her away?”
When Bruce doesn’t reply quick enough, he snaps.
“It’s her birthday next week.”
Y/N
I'm sorry if I made it weird.
Please Im sorry
I didn't mean to make it weird between us
please talk to me
R. Harp
I think it's best if we don't talk anymore. Take care. All the best.
Y/N
Please don't do this
Please
Please
The message doesn't go through.
You feel the pressure in your throat, the visceral anger and grief biting at you from the inside. A parasite burrowing. It makes your fingers numb. The back of your head feels too heavy to hold. Without thinking, you throw the phone across the room. The delicate shatter rings out through the room, and when it echoes it hits how just how alone in this you are.
You've always been lonely, but this feels like a new low. How does this keep happening? Every day feels like a new low. The thought makes you sick. How much worse can it get? And so the anxiety spiral begins.
Great, fucking great, the person who normally gives you what you need to stop the anxiety just abandoned you.
What the hell is wrong with you? What did you think was going to happen? You’re too much. You’re a bad person. You’re selfish and mean, you don’t care about anyone but yourself, you’ll hurt people to get what you want, you’re doing all this for attention. You’ll always be this way.
You think you’re gonna be sick. Until someone knocks on the door. You don’t answer it and instead stay tucked into a ball on the floor.
“You okay?”
It’s Jason again.
“No.” you sniffle without any backbone or self respect. Get up.
“You want me in?”
“No.”
The door opens anyway.
“Bruce is an asshole.” He says it like law, like the sky is blue or grass is green. You peel your head up from the floor. You had pressed your forehead against the ground when spiralling thinking it would ground you but all it did was leave a big impression on the tender skin.
“He’s not all bad.” you mope, pulling yourself together to sit up and face him like a human, not a discarded ragdoll. “He’s… I don’t know. He’s there. At least. He’s there.”
Jason invites himself into the room and sits on the bed, not in front of you, behind you.
“If he’s not all bad then what's got you like this?”
“Something else.”
“Huh.”
When the silence extends past five seconds, you speak again.
“My… friend- friend-ish- I don’t know- doesn’t want to see me any more. I made it weird.”
“Some friend.” Jason muses.
“It’s not like that. He was really good to me. He never asked for anything back. He was there. More than Bruce is.”
Jason feels his jaw tightening and the sting in his fists burns a little hotter. “Trust me you’re better off without him.”
“How would you know?” there isn't a challenge or threat in your voice but a genuine curiosity.
“Dunno. I can just tell.”
Roy’s back slammed against the wall with enough force to knock down the frame on his right. It hits the floor with a painful smash and leaves miniscule shards of glass all over the hard floor, an army of tiny daggers poised against anyone who dares tread on them.
“The fuck is wrong with you?!” Jason spat in his face, fist clenched in the red head’s shirt collar, holding him against the wall. “You just left??”
Roy pushed Jason off him, tussling him off. When he caught the breath that was violently knocked out of his lungs, he started. “I didn’t just leave, I waited man. I waited half an hour. She just does that sometimes, she just wanders off and doesn’t tell me anything.”
Jason couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Roy had just admitted to him that letting you meander around Gotham, off your face was completely normal to him.
“She’s fine, she’s probably at home now. She goes weeks without texting, she’s fine-”
He’s punched before he can finish.
“She’s not fine, she's in the hospital you jackass.”
“What?”
“That kid you’ve been leading on got shot because you didn’t keep an eye on her.”
Roy was at a loss for words. What is there to say?
“Is she… yknow-”
“No she’s not, I don’t know. I don’t know if she’s alive because you let a kid get coked out of her mind and gave her free reign. Y’know who fucking shot her? God damn trafficker. If she wasn’t shot in the back, she’d be god knows where with god knows who and we both know what would’ve happened to her.”
Jason looked down at his fists, the skin on his knuckles had scraped and eroded.
“If I find out you ever do something like this again, ever, I will kill you. I will. I thought you were getting better. What the hell is wrong with you?"
For the rest of the night, no one bothered you. There’s a silent agreement that you need time to process being home. Too much too fast. They chalk the silence in your room up to you going straight to bed to sleep off the sweats. No one knows you’re currently on the other side of Gotham.
The curb is forgivingly cold. Sitting on the street corner and looking into your old apartment. You didn’t realise how lame this would be when sober. Never gave much thought as to being sober in general. This plan was half baked at best. You had enough change in your pocket to get the bus out, but forgot to bring your wallet with you, so you couldn’t use cash to get. Couldn’t text Bruce and ask for money without getting caught. If he knew you were here he’d ship you out quicker.
Dick- well Dick would just tell Bruce, Jason- don’t know him well enough to say ‘hey i know it’s midnight but i need a ride, don’t ask why i’m here or how i got here’ you’re a mess but you aren’t rude, Tim- simply, you don’t want to see him look disappointed in you. It would kill you. Damian- couldn’t reach the pedals and even if he could he would also report back to Bruce.
You scroll through the contact list on your cracked phone screen. People from parties you barely remember, mostly. A sea of names without faces. It hits you then, that someone out there probably thinks of you the same way.
Your finger hovers over Roy’s name and you feel yourself freeze up, as if you’ve been caught misbehaving. You scroll on. Nothing.
An idea comes to mind, something desperate but its your last hail Mary.
Y/N
Sorry I ran off, just tired. Can i ask u smth?
Timbob
Yeah of course is everything ok?
Y/n
Im fine i just need to ask- ur friend w the black hair Don? Perchance could u send me his number
Timbob
No
Y/N
What why we’re friends why are you doing this to me?
Timbob
U aren’t in a good space right now I rlly dont think getting involved w a guy is gonna help. Do u want me to come up and talk?
Y/N
Don’t come up
Timbob
If i send u this you have to promise not to text him until we talk ok
Y/N
Ok
Love u
Timbob
Yeah ik ily 2. And its Kon
Y/n
What kinda name is Kon
Timbob
Don’t ask me. Short for Conner or something.
The number arrives shortly after and you’re anxious to message him. It’s a stupid stupid plan but this is all you can think of
Y/N
Hey idk if u remember me but I’m tim’s sister. Rlly sorry to bother u but i rlly need a favour and your literally the only person i could think of
You wait for a response and every second makes you regret this idea more and more. Then the phone buzzes
Kon (delete when home)
Yeah i remember u
Who could forget
What do u need?
You roll your eyes at his attempt at being charming. A tiny part of you thinks its a little bit sweet, despite the fact it's gauche as all hell.
Y/N
I need a ride. Ur in Gotham rn for work right? Could u give me a hand? I’ll pay u back
Kon
Where are you?
You send him the address and hope for the best.
Kon is currently going over his options.
Option one- fly there and back, exposing himself, and blowing his cover. Tim skinning him, and dealing with Batman. Not preferable.
Option two- call you a cab. Nice, normal. Pricey. Somewhat preferable
Option three- fly there and get you back a normal human way. Cost effective. Preferable.
Ten minutes later, he rounds the corner. With a god damn bike. Not a motorbike, a pedal bike.
You stand up and look him up and down. This is your last resort. Maybe this is rock bottom.
Once he starts pedalling, it’s not all bad. You’re clinging to his back like a koala, squeezing onto the rear of the seat with the tact and grace of a three legged bull.
The night air brushes against your cheek and through your hair, cooling and welcome. All the lights of the city, from the corner store’s neon open sign to the lights spooling out from apartment windows blend and blur together.
“So why’re out here anyway?” he asks over his shoulder, keeping his eyes on the road.
“I needed to clear my head.”
There’s a beat. And for some reason you decide to be honest.
“I got shot a couple weeks ago.”
Kon nearly loses control of the handlebar at the news, so shocked he had to whip around over his shoulder as if to double check it was definitely you on his bike, not some new person. He regains control and narrowly avoids swerving into the road.
The shock makes you yelp for a second, but when everything evens out again and his cycling enters its rhythm, you can’t help but laugh. Maybe it’s the adrenaline.
“Are you serious?”
“Yeah- right in the back.”
“Pretty metal if you ask me.”
Maybe it’s because he’s an objective third party, but hearing someone talk about your survival in a way that didn’t phrase you as something delicate, to be broken and repaired, lifted something in your spirit. When they talked about your pull through like it was a shock, it made you feel like no one believed in you. That you being resilient and strong was a juxtaposition to your character.
But now you had a new lens to look through. You were metal.
You ended up talking more as he rode and wove through the streets. About what the hospital was like, the food, the balcony.
“Wait they let you go up there alone?”
“I mean yeah. No one else was in.”
“Kinda weird that the hospital let you do that. Cus what if something happened?”
“What if.”
There’s silence again for a spell. It's awkward and sharp at first but as Kon twists and turns through the street so does the silence, metamorphosing from a pair of hands at your throat into a warm blanket.
You barely register how shit you feel.
When you approach the Manor, you direct Kon to the left side of the wall, telling him about the blind spot. You’ll be able to slip in through the kitchen’s back door and act like nothing happened. Someone caught you in there? Just say you were grabbing some fresh air and a glass of water. Is that a crime now?
You clamber off the back of the bike and nearly fall over yourself. It's quiet again, but the good kind. Kon rubs the back of his neck.
“I’ll pay you back for this.” You promise. Unsure of how best to say goodbye and show thanks, you opt for a handshake. When you hold your hand out he looks at you like you’ve accidentally flashed him, and for a moment you wonder if your shirt lifted itself up by mistake. He then leans down like he isn’t sure of himself, a strange image given his persona and studded jacket, and takes your hand to his lips. He kisses it.
“Oh!” is all you can think to say.
As if your surprise has pleased him, he grins with coy charm. “I told you I’d see you again.”
You roll your eyes without even thinking about it. “Jesus you’re weird.”
“Says you.”
The moment is broken when your phone buzzes. “Shit I gotta go. Thanks. Again. Bye.”
When you finally make it back to your room, careful enough to avoid any prying eyes, you flop down onto the bed and think about the day. You’re going to be sent away, Father’s finally had enough of you. Roy’s sick of you too. You’re disgusting and needy.
But before another spiral can begin, your mind drifts back to that stupid boy with the studded jacket. How his body felt against yours. At the time, the presence of another body was something you could distract yourself with. He wasn’t a cure, you know that. You’re too far gone for that, but it was enough to get your mind off the whirlwind your life had become.
You hadn’t put much thought into your birthday yet. When you start thinking about what kind of cake you want, you aren’t awake enough to realise you’re planning ahead. You’re thinking about a day past tomorrow. You’re looking forward to something. What a nice change.
chat how are we feeling?
this new job is a lot BUT today manager is very nice and I have a lovely coworker so I can't complain too much. Payday end of the week and methinks i'll treat myself to a new comic. could yall gimme some recommendations below? finished absolute flash recently and loved it.
gummygunk
stormborns
pixelskylines
turnnoffyourmind
