some things about me: mai ,, she/her/hers ,, filipino/white,, 20 ,, infj ,, pansexual ,, hufflepuff ,, cabin 7 ,, writer ,, creative ,, nerd ,,
fandoms: (there are so many) pjo, mcu, atla, musicals, harry potter (sort of), anime, movies, tlou, shera, bridgerton, criminal minds, the pitt, dc, off campus... these are more recent fandoms, and all i can think of rn lol.
music tastes: hozier, taylor swift, olivia rodrigo, chappell roan, queen, mxmtoon, conan gray, janani k. jha, beabadoobee, muna, renee rapp, laufey, troye sivan
what i do: writer! this all started in a very self serving way. i create things for the people who need a little scenario before they go to sleep at night lol.
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here is the link to my masterlist!
i am also on AO3 under the same username! requests are always open! i don't have any set guidelines just yet but i will add as i go along!
Summary: The Maxwell-Di Laurentis party pushes you and Logan together (even though you are actively trying to stay apart.
Pairing: john logan x graham! reader
A/N: part two to roadside assistance!! I was really surprised with how much love it got, but as always I am honored. One little note that I have is that reader's nickname is NOT a romantic petname— they call her "Baby" or "Baby Graham" like the character from Dirty Dancing (since it was mama graham's favorite movie, and because I honestly just watched it for the first time and IMMEDIATELY thought about how Johnny/Baby's storyline is like reader and Logan's). Also superbat mention? based off a convo I had with my bestie about how we'd go as superbat if we went to the dyanmic duos party lol.
Word Count: 2.7k
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything related to Off Campus, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot. I do not consent for my works to be reuploaded on other websites, plagiarised, translated, or fed into AI media.
Warnings !: relativelyalcohol consumption, hopeless pining, no use of y/n, i think that's it?
"Baby Graham! Deanie and I are having our birthday party at my folks' place in Cape Cod. You coming?"
Your eyebrows furrow, a small smile playing at your lips. "I didn't get an invite."
Just your luck that they were doing their silly little announcement outside of the building you just finished class in. Beau's got a plastic crown sitting on his head and Dean somehow got a drum. Every year they did a joint party— and every year the theme was more outlandish. Your phone chimes immediately, making you look down. Low and behold, the very extra digital invitation gets sent to your phone. Dynamic duos. Huh.
"Well then, I suppose I will be there. I was gonna be at the game anyways."
At the game, you're right upfront with Jules. You may not really be interested in their gossip account, especially since most of the fifth line's posts are about your brother and his "bunnies," but the two of you have spent years supporting older brothers at hockey games. It feels weird to be without them now.
Garrett spots you immediately during warm-ups, pointing his stick right at you. It's the quiet acknowledgment that he sees you, and that he can feel you supporting him from the stands the same way you always have. You in turn give him two thumbs up for encouragement. You got this. Looking entirely too pleased with your little routine, he skates off.
This is why you come to games.
Not for the hockey, though you've absorbed enough of it by proximity to understand what's happening. You come because Garrett's face does that thing when he sees you in the stands —and you have never once been able to not show up for that.
You settle in as the warmup winds down, pulling your sleeves over your hands, and focus very deliberately on your brother.
Garrett is good tonight. You can tell even before the puck drops — something about the way he's moving, easy and loose, the way he talks to the guys on the line. He scores in the first period and you're on your feet before you've decided to stand, and the student section erupts around you, and you're grinning like an idiot because that's your brother out there and he's brilliant.
You clap until your hands hurt, and scream until your throat feels raw.
You do not think about the fact that Logan got the assist, or about just how well they flow together.
You sit back down and watch the ice and keep your eyes exactly where they're supposed to be.
~
Logan knows you're here before he even steps on the ice.
He doesn't look for you during warm-ups because he knows exactly where you are. Like clockwork, you sit right at the front near the glass, which makes you incredibly hard to miss— even when he's trying desperately not to look at you.
The first period is fine. He's present. He's in it. He passes to Garrett and the crowd cheers and he doesn't look at the stands.
He doesn't.
He skates back to the bench and Garrett drops down next to him, breathing hard, grinning that classic Graham smile.
"She's losing her mind over there," Garrett says, jerking his head toward the stands.
Logan takes a long drink of water.
"Good," he says.
Garrett gives him a look that lasts approximately half a second too long and then turns back to the ice.
Logan puts his helmet back on.
Second period. Third period. The final buzzer. Briar wins and the locker room is loud and celebratory and Logan showers and changes and tells himself the thing he's been telling himself since Arlington.
She's Garrett's sister.
He's been telling himself that for three weeks and it is getting less convincing every time.
~
The drive to Beau's house takes long enough that your roommate has cycled through every opinion she has about the party, the theme, the guest list, and Beau Maxwell's general existence as a person.
"I'm just saying," she says, for the third time, "Batman and Superman is not a dynamic duo. It's a rivalry."
"It's a duo." You adjust your shirt, looking in the visor mirror. "They're in the Justice League together."
"That's so—"
"We look amazing and you know it, so just shush."
She looks at you. Looks at her own costume. Concedes with a noise that means you're right but won't say so. You're Clark Kent, hair pulled half up stylishly with glasses perched on your nose, the classic white shirt pulled open to reveal the S on your blue undershirt. To complete the look, a short black pencil skirt with the classic chunky knee high boots. Your roomate has done the exact same, but with a gray shirt and the bat logo underneath instead.
When you finally reach the door you can hear the chaos of the party. Your roommate links her arm through yours as you push inside, the warmth of the house hitting you all at once after the cold, and immediately the noise swallows you whole. Somebody cheers when they see the costumes. You laugh and wave them off and scan the room for a familiar face.
You find Garrett first, because you always find Garrett first.
He's across the room, wearing a cape with a white shirt underneath. Across from him is a very pretty girl wearing a white outfit and bunny ears. While your roomate immediately leaves to fetch you both something to drink, you approach them curiously.
"Baby!" Your nickname falls from his lips as his face splits into a grin when he sees you. He pulls you into a one armed hug that nearly knocks your glasses sideways. "You made it."
"Obviously." You straighten your frames and look him over. "What are you supposed to be?"
He looks down at himself, then back at you, deeply offended. "I'm a magician."
"You're wearing a cape and a white shirt. You couldn't spring for a wand, or a hat, or something?"
The pretty girl laughs— easy and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you like someone immediately. "That's what everyone else said."
It takes a second for you to connect the dots. "You're his rabbit," you laugh, looking between the two of them with a very wide smile. You've never seen your brother like this before.
Garrett points at you. "Don't."
"I literally did not say a word."
"You were about to say something." The girl interjects, but not in a rude way. Just wanting to make this interaction easier for the both of you.
"I'm Hannah." She offers politely, a shy smile filling her features. You smile back.
"The tutor," you realize. You take one of her hands in yours and squeeze it gently. "Thanks for helping him. He needs it. Like, desperately." Garrett lets out a quick, offended, noise at your words, but you continue to speak, introducing yourself as his sister.
"Love the costume," Hannah offers.
"Clark Kent," you confirm. "My roommate is Bruce Wayne, though she maintains that superbat is not a dynamic duo. I personally think if the characters are getting shipped it's free game." She laughs at that, and Garrett rolls his eyes, gently nudging you away from Hannah.
"Alright. That's enough from you, weirdo." You stick your tongue out at him and he flips you off.
"It was nice meeting you, Hannah. Hope to see you around!" You say with a wink, before leaving to find your roomate amongst the crowd.
You turn away from Garrett and nearly walk directly into Logan's chest.
You take a quick step back, hand coming up to straighten your glasses, and look up at him. He is wearing a Hawks tank top with the s crossed off, a pair of wings strapped to his back, and an expression that suggests he is fully aware of how this looks and has made his peace with it.
You stare at him for a second.
"What are you supposed to be?"
"I'm a bird."
"That's—" you press your lips together. "That's your whole costume."
"Tuck's a bee." He gestures somewhere behind him where Tucker is, as you'd imagine, dressed as a bee. "Conceptually it's very strong."
"Conceptually?"
"The execution may leave much to be desired." He looks you over once, quick and easy, and lands on the glasses. "Clark Kent."
"John Logan." You mirror his tone back at him.
The corner of his mouth moves. "Didn't know you were coming."
"Beau cornered me outside of Aldrich yesterday." You adjust your glasses. "Hard to say no."
"Yeah." Something in his expression shifts, just barely. "It is."
You open your mouth—
"OKAY." Your roomate yells over the music, two plastic cups in hand. She hands one off to you, and encourages you to take a sip. When you do, your tongue is hit with the overwhelming and bitter taste of gin, much to your dismay.
"What, did they run out of soda to mix? That's awful. Warn me next time." She ignores your comment, and hooks her other arm through yours. "We are dancing. Hi Logan. Bye Logan."
Logan raises his cup. The wings shift slightly with the movement and you almost laugh and then you're being pulled away before you can.
You try not to look back, but do anyways, only to be met with his unwavering gaze. God you are so fucked.
Meanwhile, Logan is perched beside Tucker in the kitchen. Despite the fact that he's actively trying to look elsewhere, he easily finds you.
"How's the bird holding up?" Tucker asks, not looking up from whatever he's making.
"Fine." Logan leans against the counter. "How's the bee?"
"Thriving." Tucker slides something across the counter at him. "You look like you need this."
Logan takes it, but does not immediately drink it. Across the room, you and your roomate are laughing and dancing like the world is going to end, the alcohol in your cup already taking affect in your body. You look comfortable, maybe because of the gin, but Logan thinks it has to do more with you. Your personality, the way you walk into a room and how you, like Garrett, seem to charm anyone.
He downs whatever Tucker gave him.
"She came," Tucker observes mildly.
Logan looks at him.
Tucker looks back with the expression of someone who knows exactly what he just did and will not be apologizing for it.
"Yeah. She's Garrett's sister."
"I know that," Tucker picks up his own drink, leaning back against the counter, "Telling yourself that over and over again won't stop whatever this," he gestures with his free hand at Logan, "is."
Logan says nothing. Tucker doesn't push.
Across the room you've abandoned the dancing temporarily, your roommate pulling you toward a group of people she seems to know, and you're laughing at something with your head tipped back and your glasses slightly askew and Logan looks down at his cup.
"I'm gonna go find Garrett," he says, to no one in particular.
"Alright." Tucker says pleasantly.
Logan pushes off the counter. The wings catch slightly on the cabinet behind him and Tucker reaches over without looking and frees them, and Logan goes without another word and Tucker watches him go with the expression of someone who has just watched something very inevitable begin to happen.
The party goes on as they often do— relentless and messy in all the best ways. You're not quite sure just how much you've drank, and neither does anyone else in this house, but it's certainly not stopping you from drinking more.
Garrett and Hannah slipped away about an hour ago for who knows what, so Logan just leaves him alone. He periodically checks on Jules, who is a little buzzed but still coherent, which soothes the weird anxiousness he feels. He grabs another drink.
He finds a spot near the back of the main room where he can see most of the party without being in the middle of it, which is not something he would normally do but tonight his feet just keep finding that particular patch of floor.
You're still with your roommate. Then you're not.
He watches as she gets pulled away from you by some guy, a guy she clearly knows, and her body language shifts when they talk. She leans in to you to whisper something in your ear, and you sober up long enough to make sure this is what she wants. When your roomate nods, you wave her off with the easy generosity of someone who means, go, I'm fine.
Now you're standing alone in the middle of the party with your glasses pushed up your nose and your cup almost empty.
You look around, not lost, but untethered. Not as steady as you were with a friend by your side. Before he can even think about it, Logan is headed straight for you.
"Roomate abandon you?" You turn, and something in your expression does a quick recalibration when you see it's him. Not bad, just— adjusting. Like you weren't expecting him.
"She found someone," you say. "It's fine."
"Mhm." He hums, you down the rest of your drink.
"How much have you had?"
"A very small and classy amount."
"That's not a number."
"It's a concept," you look at him, "I'm fine, Logan. You don't have to babysit me. I'm a big girl."
"I'm not babysitting you."
"Then what are you doing?"
He looks at your for a second, before looking back out at the party.
"Keeping you company." There's a quick pause before you finally respond.
"Okay. You can stay, then."
It's not much later that Logan is gently nudging your shoulder, and pulling you off the wall.
"I think you're done for the night." You slump onto it some more.
"I'm not that drunk."
"I know."
"You keep looking at me like I'm going to fall over."
"You're leaning against a wall."
"I like this wall." You tip your head back against it and look at the ceiling. "It's a good wall. Very supportive."
The corners of his mouth twitch. You don't argue as he leads you up the stairs with a gentle hand on your hip. He finds an empty room at the end of the hall— clean and quiet, with a very large and comfortable looking bed.
"Shoes off before you get in the bed," he says.
"I know how beds work, Logan."
"Glasses too."
You oblige, pulling off the boots and placing your glasses on the nightstand. You blink blearily at the closet across from where you sit, which makes Logan internally melt at the sight.
"Thank you," you say. "For tonight. You didn't have to."
"I know."
"You keep doing things you don't have to do."
He blinks, and doesn't say anything in response.
You look at him from the edge of the bed, tired and honest and warm all the way through, and he's just standing there being so careful and so himself about everything— and you're so tired of the distance between you feeling like something that has to be managed.
You stand up.
It's only two steps to the doorway and he doesn't move when you close them, doesn't step back, just watches you come with that same unreadable expression and his hands very still at his sides. You reach for him and gently adjust his skewed wings, before your hands curl into the tank.
Before you know it, your lips are on his face, pressing softly against his cheek. He lets out a breath you think he's been holding in ever since he jumped your car in Arlington. He doesn't pull away. When you're done, he gently cups your face in his hands, thumb rubbing up against your cheekbones.
"Get some sleep," he says quietly, before pulling back.
It's not a rejection. You know that much. He's just being Logan— careful, and responsible, and frustratingly sweet,— and you're too tired and too honest to be anything but okay with that right now.
You step back. Sit on the edge of the bed again.
"Goodnight, Logan."
He stands in the doorway for exactly one second too long.
sorry i’ve been inactive (im taking summer classes and it was midterms!) so it looks like i’ve accidentally made roadside assistance a series 🫣 any ideas on what should come next for these two?
summary. You think guys that cook are hot.
pairing. John Tucker x Reader
tags. Fluff, crack-ish?
note. I did giggle while writing this at 1am.
ice time. 1.8k
You think that guys that cook are hot.
That’s basically the number one thing on your list of standards for a guy.
And if you add in, John Tucker, #46 of the Briar U hockey team, who not only cooks but does it wearing a pink apron with the kind of earnest, unbothered pride that should not be as attractive as it is — you can therefore conclude that Tucker is hot and totally your type.
Hannah and Allie are 100% aware of this fact, considering that they were there when you started massively crushing on the hockey player back in sophomore year, and were the ones who listened to you ramble about said hockey player early into the year when you found out he could cook.
Unfortunately, your two friends learning about this fact while also actively dating two guys in Tucker’s own friend group meant that you were now in the unique and deeply unfortunate position of being perceived. Specifically, being perceived by people who knew Tucker, liked Tucker, and had absolutely zero reason to keep your little crush under wraps.
Allie, bless her heart, had lasted approximately three weeks before she'd accidentally let it slip in front of Dean that you thought Tucker was, quote, "disgustingly attractive and it's all because of the cooking thing." Dean, being Dean, had found this information deeply funny and had done absolutely nothing responsible with it, ultimately teasing you every time you and Tucker were in the same vicinity of each other, although thanks to Allie, had really did keep the teasing to just you. You still found the whole situation deeply mortifying.
The only thing keeping you from burying yourself in gravel and suffocating was the knowledge that Tucker, as far as you knew, had not been told. Yet.
You were choosing to believe the "yet" was still working in your favor.
It mostly meant that whenever Tucker showed up places that Hannah or Allie also happened to be, you developed an immediate and urgent need to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. Bathroom. Kitchen. The parking lot. You were adaptable. Very much so.
"You're not even being subtle about avoiding him anymore," Hannah had told you once, watching you physically reverse direction in the hallway when you spotted Tucker heading your way. "Like. At all."
"I'm being incredibly subtle."
"You walked into a trash can."
"I meant to do that."
She had given you a look that said, very clearly, that she did not believe you. You had chosen to ignore it on account of self-preservation.
The problem was that Tucker kept showing up. Outside the dorms when you'd come to hang out with Hannah and Allie. At the coffee shop near campus. At Malones — because you worked there and that was literally where the group hung out. At the rink when you'd come to watch a game and hadn't factored in post-game corridor hangouts. And every time, without fail, he was easy to talk to and warm and sincere in that genuine, unguarded way he had, the kind that felt less like a personality and more like a reflex — like being kind was just the thing he defaulted to, same as breathing.
It was even more annoying because he was always like that. Like the teasing from his teammates rolled right off him, and he just kept showing up with food and a good attitude and that small, steady presence that made you feel like whatever room he was in got a little calmer.
It was fine. You were fine. Everything was completely fine.
Which brings you here, to Hannah and Allie's kitchen, helping set up for a casual get-together that you had been assured would be small. Just a few people. Chill. Relaxed.
They were currently hosting eight people and counting, and Tucker's jacket was by the door when you arrived. Hannah had neglected to mention this when she'd asked you to come early and help with the food, even when you asked about the paper bag on the counter, which you later on learned was brought by none other than Tucker.
You were starting to think your friends were not entirely on your side, because the moment you arrived, Allie and Hannah started teasing you increasingly.
The thing is, you didn't know exactly when the conversation in the kitchen shifted to types in men (again), and your crush on Tucker. Which you tried very hard to keep his name as lowkey as possible. They find it amusing. You don’t.
Allie hands you the tablecloth then heads to the sink to wash the dishes left.
Allie hands you the tablecloth then heads to the sink to wash the dishes left, humming something under her breath like she isn't the reason you're currently in this situation.
"So," she says, turning on the tap. "Hannah was telling me you nearly bolted out of the rink last week when Tucker walked into the corridor."
"I didn't nearly bolt. I had somewhere to be."
"You told us you had to go check on your laundry," Hannah calls from across the kitchen, not even bothering to look up from where she's arranging the snack bowls. "At eleven at night."
"Laundry doesn't have a curfew."
Allie snorts. You smooth the tablecloth aggressively.
"Can we not do this tonight?" you ask, with as much dignity as you could muster. "There are guests."
"There are guests because we invited them," Allie says pleasantly. "Including Tucker, who brought ingredients and is currently grabbing something else and will be back in a few, which I know you clocked the second you walked in."
You had, in fact, clocked it the second you walked in. You say nothing.
Hannah finally looks up, the picture of innocence. "You know, it's kind of impressive how much energy you spend avoiding someone you claim to just have a small crush on."
"It's a normal-sized crush."
"You once left through a fire exit."
"The regular door was blocked."
"By Tucker saying hi to you."
A pause. You smooth an already-smooth section of tablecloth. "It was a crowded hallway."
Allie turns off the tap, reaching for the dish towel with the serene expression of someone who is deeply enjoying herself. "All we're saying is that it might be time to, I don't know, exist in the same room as him for more than four consecutive minutes."
"I exist in the same room as him all the time."
"Without a planned escape route," Hannah amends.
You open your mouth. Close it. The tablecloth is extremely smooth at this point. You are doing a great job with the tablecloth.
"My type," you say finally, pivoting with what you feel is remarkable, amazing, grace, "is simply guys who can cook. That is a completely reasonable standard."
Hannah rolls her eyes at you, turning to set down a bowl of snacks while you finish wiping the counter. "Your type is guys that can cook."
“And? I think cooking is hot.” You miss the way Hannah’s eyes drift past you to someone behind you, busy wiping down the counter as you shrug. Your increasing embarrassment had made your tongue loose, and you had in fact given up on being vague. “Why else do you think I like Tucker?”
“Oh?” The voice behind you makes you freeze. Your hand stiffens on the tablecloth, eyes widening as you’re now suddenly acutely aware of the warmth behind you. “Is that so?”
You look up, and Hannah has a hand over her mouth, amusement dancing in her eyes as she speaks to you through your head.
"Hannah. Help me."
"Nah, girl. You got this. Go you."
Fingers gripping the tablecloth, you plaster a smile on your face and slowly turn.
Behind you stands Tucker, his eyes crinkling as he smiles at you. "Hey, Name."
Your cheeks warm. You are pretty sure that you are the definition of a tomato at this point as you clear your throat in an attempt to be nonchalant. "Heeey, Tuck."
His grin only widens, arms crossing over his chest. "So." His brow lifts, and you swallow. "You think I'm hot?"
You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again.
"I think," you say carefully, in the measured tone of someone carefully disarming a bomb, "that the cooking thing is hot. Objectively. As a concept."
"Uh huh." He doesn't look even remotely convinced, which is deeply unfair considering he's the one who snuck up on you. "And I cook."
"Lots of people cook, Tucker."
"Do they cook as well as me?"
You pause. And the horrible, traitorous, honest part of your brain supplies: no, actually, because you'd had his cooking twice now, once at a team dinner Allie had dragged you to and once when he'd brought food to the apartment for no stated reason, and both times it had been genuinely, annoyingly, unfairly good.
"That's not the point," you say.
His smile tips into something a little softer, a little more knowing, and somehow that's worse than the teasing. He takes one step closer, enough that you would have to actively crane your neck to look away from him, and doesn't say anything for a beat.
"I'll cook for you sometime," he says finally, like it's easy. Like he's offering to lend you a pen. "If that's what it takes."
You stare at him.
From somewhere behind Tucker, you hear Allie make a noise that she unconvincingly tries to smother with a cough. Hannah, you suspect, is still standing at the counter with that same hand over her mouth.
"That," you say slowly, "is the most confident thing anyone has ever said to me."
Tucker shrugs, that easy grin back in place. "I'm a confident guy."
"You're a menace."
"You think I'm hot."
"I think your cooking is hot."
Tucker laughs, saying your name in a way that makes your stomach flip as he tilts his head, and there's something warm in his expression underneath all the amusement. "Same thing."
You look at him for a long moment. He looks back, patient, like he has all night and fully intends to use it.
"Fine," you say, because apparently self-preservation has fully left the building. Your face feels like a furnace, and you are hyper aware of every little sound Allie and Hannah makes behind you, plus thawing Tucker this close to you. "Yeah. Okay. I think you're hot."
The smile that breaks across his face is, genuinely, a little devastating.
"Cool," Tucker says. "I'll text you about dinner. This week?"
You're pretty sure your soul briefly vacates your body.
"This week," you hear yourself agree.
He nods, satisfied, like that's settled then. He glances over his shoulder at Hannah and Allie, who are both staring with the barely-contained energy of two people who have been waiting for this for approximately two years. "Ladies." Then, back to you, quieter, "Talk to you later?"
"Yeah. Yep. Sure." you say, a little helplessly.
Tucker smiles. Then he's heading back toward the living room, and you are left standing in the kitchen, gripping the tablecloth, staring at the middle distance, smiling widely.
A beat of silence.
"Look at you!” Hannah says loudly, while Allie rounds the counter to throw her arms around you, giggling at your still flushed face.
"I hate both of you," you tell them, but the smile on your face doesn’t fade.
Summary: The Maxwell-Di Laurentis party pushes you and Logan together (even though you are actively trying to stay apart.
Pairing: john logan x graham! reader
A/N: part two to roadside assistance!! I was really surprised with how much love it got, but as always I am honored. One little note that I have is that reader's nickname is NOT a romantic petname— they call her "Baby" or "Baby Graham" like the character from Dirty Dancing (since it was mama graham's favorite movie, and because I honestly just watched it for the first time and IMMEDIATELY thought about how Johnny/Baby's storyline is like reader and Logan's). Also superbat mention? based off a convo I had with my bestie about how we'd go as superbat if we went to the dyanmic duos party lol.
Word Count: 2.7k
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything related to Off Campus, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot. I do not consent for my works to be reuploaded on other websites, plagiarised, translated, or fed into AI media.
Warnings !: relativelyalcohol consumption, hopeless pining, no use of y/n, i think that's it?
"Baby Graham! Deanie and I are having our birthday party at my folks' place in Cape Cod. You coming?"
Your eyebrows furrow, a small smile playing at your lips. "I didn't get an invite."
Just your luck that they were doing their silly little announcement outside of the building you just finished class in. Beau's got a plastic crown sitting on his head and Dean somehow got a drum. Every year they did a joint party— and every year the theme was more outlandish. Your phone chimes immediately, making you look down. Low and behold, the very extra digital invitation gets sent to your phone. Dynamic duos. Huh.
"Well then, I suppose I will be there. I was gonna be at the game anyways."
At the game, you're right upfront with Jules. You may not really be interested in their gossip account, especially since most of the fifth line's posts are about your brother and his "bunnies," but the two of you have spent years supporting older brothers at hockey games. It feels weird to be without them now.
Garrett spots you immediately during warm-ups, pointing his stick right at you. It's the quiet acknowledgment that he sees you, and that he can feel you supporting him from the stands the same way you always have. You in turn give him two thumbs up for encouragement. You got this. Looking entirely too pleased with your little routine, he skates off.
This is why you come to games.
Not for the hockey, though you've absorbed enough of it by proximity to understand what's happening. You come because Garrett's face does that thing when he sees you in the stands —and you have never once been able to not show up for that.
You settle in as the warmup winds down, pulling your sleeves over your hands, and focus very deliberately on your brother.
Garrett is good tonight. You can tell even before the puck drops — something about the way he's moving, easy and loose, the way he talks to the guys on the line. He scores in the first period and you're on your feet before you've decided to stand, and the student section erupts around you, and you're grinning like an idiot because that's your brother out there and he's brilliant.
You clap until your hands hurt, and scream until your throat feels raw.
You do not think about the fact that Logan got the assist, or about just how well they flow together.
You sit back down and watch the ice and keep your eyes exactly where they're supposed to be.
~
Logan knows you're here before he even steps on the ice.
He doesn't look for you during warm-ups because he knows exactly where you are. Like clockwork, you sit right at the front near the glass, which makes you incredibly hard to miss— even when he's trying desperately not to look at you.
The first period is fine. He's present. He's in it. He passes to Garrett and the crowd cheers and he doesn't look at the stands.
He doesn't.
He skates back to the bench and Garrett drops down next to him, breathing hard, grinning that classic Graham smile.
"She's losing her mind over there," Garrett says, jerking his head toward the stands.
Logan takes a long drink of water.
"Good," he says.
Garrett gives him a look that lasts approximately half a second too long and then turns back to the ice.
Logan puts his helmet back on.
Second period. Third period. The final buzzer. Briar wins and the locker room is loud and celebratory and Logan showers and changes and tells himself the thing he's been telling himself since Arlington.
She's Garrett's sister.
He's been telling himself that for three weeks and it is getting less convincing every time.
~
The drive to Beau's house takes long enough that your roommate has cycled through every opinion she has about the party, the theme, the guest list, and Beau Maxwell's general existence as a person.
"I'm just saying," she says, for the third time, "Batman and Superman is not a dynamic duo. It's a rivalry."
"It's a duo." You adjust your shirt, looking in the visor mirror. "They're in the Justice League together."
"That's so—"
"We look amazing and you know it, so just shush."
She looks at you. Looks at her own costume. Concedes with a noise that means you're right but won't say so. You're Clark Kent, hair pulled half up stylishly with glasses perched on your nose, the classic white shirt pulled open to reveal the S on your blue undershirt. To complete the look, a short black pencil skirt with the classic chunky knee high boots. Your roomate has done the exact same, but with a gray shirt and the bat logo underneath instead.
When you finally reach the door you can hear the chaos of the party. Your roommate links her arm through yours as you push inside, the warmth of the house hitting you all at once after the cold, and immediately the noise swallows you whole. Somebody cheers when they see the costumes. You laugh and wave them off and scan the room for a familiar face.
You find Garrett first, because you always find Garrett first.
He's across the room, wearing a cape with a white shirt underneath. Across from him is a very pretty girl wearing a white outfit and bunny ears. While your roomate immediately leaves to fetch you both something to drink, you approach them curiously.
"Baby!" Your nickname falls from his lips as his face splits into a grin when he sees you. He pulls you into a one armed hug that nearly knocks your glasses sideways. "You made it."
"Obviously." You straighten your frames and look him over. "What are you supposed to be?"
He looks down at himself, then back at you, deeply offended. "I'm a magician."
"You're wearing a cape and a white shirt. You couldn't spring for a wand, or a hat, or something?"
The pretty girl laughs— easy and warm, the kind of laugh that makes you like someone immediately. "That's what everyone else said."
It takes a second for you to connect the dots. "You're his rabbit," you laugh, looking between the two of them with a very wide smile. You've never seen your brother like this before.
Garrett points at you. "Don't."
"I literally did not say a word."
"You were about to say something." The girl interjects, but not in a rude way. Just wanting to make this interaction easier for the both of you.
"I'm Hannah." She offers politely, a shy smile filling her features. You smile back.
"The tutor," you realize. You take one of her hands in yours and squeeze it gently. "Thanks for helping him. He needs it. Like, desperately." Garrett lets out a quick, offended, noise at your words, but you continue to speak, introducing yourself as his sister.
"Love the costume," Hannah offers.
"Clark Kent," you confirm. "My roommate is Bruce Wayne, though she maintains that superbat is not a dynamic duo. I personally think if the characters are getting shipped it's free game." She laughs at that, and Garrett rolls his eyes, gently nudging you away from Hannah.
"Alright. That's enough from you, weirdo." You stick your tongue out at him and he flips you off.
"It was nice meeting you, Hannah. Hope to see you around!" You say with a wink, before leaving to find your roomate amongst the crowd.
You turn away from Garrett and nearly walk directly into Logan's chest.
You take a quick step back, hand coming up to straighten your glasses, and look up at him. He is wearing a Hawks tank top with the s crossed off, a pair of wings strapped to his back, and an expression that suggests he is fully aware of how this looks and has made his peace with it.
You stare at him for a second.
"What are you supposed to be?"
"I'm a bird."
"That's—" you press your lips together. "That's your whole costume."
"Tuck's a bee." He gestures somewhere behind him where Tucker is, as you'd imagine, dressed as a bee. "Conceptually it's very strong."
"Conceptually?"
"The execution may leave much to be desired." He looks you over once, quick and easy, and lands on the glasses. "Clark Kent."
"John Logan." You mirror his tone back at him.
The corner of his mouth moves. "Didn't know you were coming."
"Beau cornered me outside of Aldrich yesterday." You adjust your glasses. "Hard to say no."
"Yeah." Something in his expression shifts, just barely. "It is."
You open your mouth—
"OKAY." Your roomate yells over the music, two plastic cups in hand. She hands one off to you, and encourages you to take a sip. When you do, your tongue is hit with the overwhelming and bitter taste of gin, much to your dismay.
"What, did they run out of soda to mix? That's awful. Warn me next time." She ignores your comment, and hooks her other arm through yours. "We are dancing. Hi Logan. Bye Logan."
Logan raises his cup. The wings shift slightly with the movement and you almost laugh and then you're being pulled away before you can.
You try not to look back, but do anyways, only to be met with his unwavering gaze. God you are so fucked.
Meanwhile, Logan is perched beside Tucker in the kitchen. Despite the fact that he's actively trying to look elsewhere, he easily finds you.
"How's the bird holding up?" Tucker asks, not looking up from whatever he's making.
"Fine." Logan leans against the counter. "How's the bee?"
"Thriving." Tucker slides something across the counter at him. "You look like you need this."
Logan takes it, but does not immediately drink it. Across the room, you and your roomate are laughing and dancing like the world is going to end, the alcohol in your cup already taking affect in your body. You look comfortable, maybe because of the gin, but Logan thinks it has to do more with you. Your personality, the way you walk into a room and how you, like Garrett, seem to charm anyone.
He downs whatever Tucker gave him.
"She came," Tucker observes mildly.
Logan looks at him.
Tucker looks back with the expression of someone who knows exactly what he just did and will not be apologizing for it.
"Yeah. She's Garrett's sister."
"I know that," Tucker picks up his own drink, leaning back against the counter, "Telling yourself that over and over again won't stop whatever this," he gestures with his free hand at Logan, "is."
Logan says nothing. Tucker doesn't push.
Across the room you've abandoned the dancing temporarily, your roommate pulling you toward a group of people she seems to know, and you're laughing at something with your head tipped back and your glasses slightly askew and Logan looks down at his cup.
"I'm gonna go find Garrett," he says, to no one in particular.
"Alright." Tucker says pleasantly.
Logan pushes off the counter. The wings catch slightly on the cabinet behind him and Tucker reaches over without looking and frees them, and Logan goes without another word and Tucker watches him go with the expression of someone who has just watched something very inevitable begin to happen.
The party goes on as they often do— relentless and messy in all the best ways. You're not quite sure just how much you've drank, and neither does anyone else in this house, but it's certainly not stopping you from drinking more.
Garrett and Hannah slipped away about an hour ago for who knows what, so Logan just leaves him alone. He periodically checks on Jules, who is a little buzzed but still coherent, which soothes the weird anxiousness he feels. He grabs another drink.
He finds a spot near the back of the main room where he can see most of the party without being in the middle of it, which is not something he would normally do but tonight his feet just keep finding that particular patch of floor.
You're still with your roommate. Then you're not.
He watches as she gets pulled away from you by some guy, a guy she clearly knows, and her body language shifts when they talk. She leans in to you to whisper something in your ear, and you sober up long enough to make sure this is what she wants. When your roomate nods, you wave her off with the easy generosity of someone who means, go, I'm fine.
Now you're standing alone in the middle of the party with your glasses pushed up your nose and your cup almost empty.
You look around, not lost, but untethered. Not as steady as you were with a friend by your side. Before he can even think about it, Logan is headed straight for you.
"Roomate abandon you?" You turn, and something in your expression does a quick recalibration when you see it's him. Not bad, just— adjusting. Like you weren't expecting him.
"She found someone," you say. "It's fine."
"Mhm." He hums, you down the rest of your drink.
"How much have you had?"
"A very small and classy amount."
"That's not a number."
"It's a concept," you look at him, "I'm fine, Logan. You don't have to babysit me. I'm a big girl."
"I'm not babysitting you."
"Then what are you doing?"
He looks at your for a second, before looking back out at the party.
"Keeping you company." There's a quick pause before you finally respond.
"Okay. You can stay, then."
It's not much later that Logan is gently nudging your shoulder, and pulling you off the wall.
"I think you're done for the night." You slump onto it some more.
"I'm not that drunk."
"I know."
"You keep looking at me like I'm going to fall over."
"You're leaning against a wall."
"I like this wall." You tip your head back against it and look at the ceiling. "It's a good wall. Very supportive."
The corners of his mouth twitch. You don't argue as he leads you up the stairs with a gentle hand on your hip. He finds an empty room at the end of the hall— clean and quiet, with a very large and comfortable looking bed.
"Shoes off before you get in the bed," he says.
"I know how beds work, Logan."
"Glasses too."
You oblige, pulling off the boots and placing your glasses on the nightstand. You blink blearily at the closet across from where you sit, which makes Logan internally melt at the sight.
"Thank you," you say. "For tonight. You didn't have to."
"I know."
"You keep doing things you don't have to do."
He blinks, and doesn't say anything in response.
You look at him from the edge of the bed, tired and honest and warm all the way through, and he's just standing there being so careful and so himself about everything— and you're so tired of the distance between you feeling like something that has to be managed.
You stand up.
It's only two steps to the doorway and he doesn't move when you close them, doesn't step back, just watches you come with that same unreadable expression and his hands very still at his sides. You reach for him and gently adjust his skewed wings, before your hands curl into the tank.
Before you know it, your lips are on his face, pressing softly against his cheek. He lets out a breath you think he's been holding in ever since he jumped your car in Arlington. He doesn't pull away. When you're done, he gently cups your face in his hands, thumb rubbing up against your cheekbones.
"Get some sleep," he says quietly, before pulling back.
It's not a rejection. You know that much. He's just being Logan— careful, and responsible, and frustratingly sweet,— and you're too tired and too honest to be anything but okay with that right now.
You step back. Sit on the edge of the bed again.
"Goodnight, Logan."
He stands in the doorway for exactly one second too long.
a lot of people love jealous!logan (i do too) but can i req jealous TUCKER⁉️⁉️ i think we collectively forget that tucker is a #manwhore as well😭😭 like that man is on the hockey team and is a manwhore!!! do not let the love of cooking distract you!!!!! i feel like jealous!tucker would be the type to be vocal about being jealous!! no miscommunication here !!!!! (or maybe he is a silent jealous person?!!)
A/N: based on this request :) thanks for all the support on roadside assistance! part 2 is coming soon, i swear. here's a little tucker content to keep you fed though. i love my boy down— he's so underrated! needed to give him his flowers. (i have never read the off campus books so this is based solely on show! tucker)
Word Count: 2.2k
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything related to off campus, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot. I do not consent for my works to be reuploaded on other websites, plagiarised, translated, or fed into AI media.
Warnings !: one usage of Y/n, pre-established relationship…kinda (is this what a situationship is?), reader is stunningly gorgeous, tucker is lowkey a cocky whore, jealousy, slight possessiveness (but not in a toxic way!), healthy communication between adults lol.
"Aren't you going to be late?" your roomate chimes from her spot on the couch, craning her head backwards to look at Tucker, who was currently making himself at home in your kitchen.
"She's gonna be late," he says, not looking up from the cutting board. "I am going to be right on time."
Your roommate makes a face at the back of his head that he absolutely feels but chooses to ignore. This is more or less how every Tucker interaction goes— he occupies a space like he was always supposed to be in it and waits for everyone else to catch up.
"What are you even making?"
He shrugs his shoulders, looking over at the small assortment of things pulled from your fridge. Some Ritz crackers, string cheese cut into small cubes, artichoke hearts that were previously jarred, and the apple he's currently chopping into slices.
"Just a little charcuterie board. She doesn't eat at these kind of things. Too busy talking."
You, as a photpgrapher for the school newspaper, and Tucker, as left forward for the hockey team, were invited to the annual Briar U athletics banquet. These kinds of big events always have plenty of networking oppurtunities— and Tucker knows just how hard you work to get your name out there.
Your roommate stares at him for a second. "How do you know that?"
Tucker glances up. "Doesn't everyone?"
The answer is obviously no. The two of them share a silent conversation. Tucker's been around far more than either of them could have imagined— paying attention and taking mental notes on everything about you.
Your roomate opens her mouth to speak, but Tucker beats her to the punch.
"Don't," he says pleasantly.
She closes it.
You emerge from your room shortly after, the click of your door opening making his head turn in your direction. He was ready to say something smooth and charming, but the moment he lays his eyes on you all words are lost.
You are adjusting your earrings, not quite looking at him yet. Tucker realizes he has only a second to fix the awestruck look from his face. He focuses on the cutting board as he feels his ears warm. You look stunning in this dark blue gown. Its got a cowl neckline with blue ruffles hanging off your shoulders.
"You're gonna be late." He murmurs.
"I'm exactly on time." You appear in his peripheral, peering over his shoulder at the spread. "Are you making me a snack?"
He scoffs, shaking his head. "I'm making me a snack…but you can have some, I guess."
You look at the side of his face. He can feel it.
"Tucker." You say, a smirk playing at your lips.
"It's just cheese, Y/n." He attempts to brush off, but you know him better than that. In fact, you'd argue that you both know each other exceedingly well, now two months into this weird talking/dating/fucking stage. Regardless, you pick at the little board, taking your time as to not make a mess of your makeup or outfit.
Tucker uses this time to let his eyes roam over your face.
"You look—" he starts. You look up.
"Ready. Ready to go. We should probably go now, yeah?"
You look back down at the food, slowly nodding. "Gotta put my shoes on." You mutter, before quickly going back to your bedroom to grab your heels. Your roommate makes a noise from the couch that could generously be described as a cough.
Tucker points at her without turning around. "Not a word."
The ballroom is already full when the two of you arrive, everyone in their respective tables and with their normal cliques. Tucker's hand is at the small of your back— something that comes almost as naturally as breathing.
"Okay," he says quietly, close enough that you can hear him over the room. "Who do you need to talk to tonight?"
You scan the crowd. "Sports editor is here somewhere. And I want to get some shots of the award presentations later." You glance up at him. "You?"
He shrugs. "Whoever finds me first, probably."
As if on cue, someone claps Tucker on the shoulder.
"John Tucker! Just the man I was looking for." An older looking guy with salt and pepper hair, likely an alumni booster, smiles at him…which means he must be in for a very long conversation.
Tucker's jaw does something small. You clock it immediately.
"Go," you say, before he can say anything.
"I'll be five minutes."
"Go." You say once more, your hand reaching behind you to pat his reassuringly. He looks at you, and you look back with the specific patience of someone who has watched him get pulled into a hundred conversations he didn't plan for and came out the other side fine every time.
"I'm gonna go find my table. Find me later."
After what feels like an eternity in conversation with the booster, Tucker finally gets to sit down at the table with the others, just about five minutes before the emcees begin to speak for the night. From here, he can see the media table all the way towards the back of the room. His eyes scan the table briefly— you're not there. His gaze carries over three tables away when he finally does spot you. You're speaking with the main sports writer, camera already hanging from your neck to take pictures when the time calls for it. In your hand is a glass of water, which makes him think about whether or not you ate enough of the snack he prepared earlier.
"You're staring."
Tucker's head whips back into place at the sound of Dean's voice. Dean is sat directly across from him, picking at a bread roll with the energy of someone who has been watching this unfold for two months and has run out of things to say about it.
"I'm not staring."
"You've looked over there four times since you've sat down."
"I'm checking on her."
"Mhm." Garrett takes another bite. "That's what that is."
Tucker straightens his jacket and picks up his menu, reading the same line three times without absorbing any of it. Across the room you laugh again at something Tucker cannot hear and he sets the menu down.
"The salmon looks good," Logan offers from his left, not looking up.
"Shut up, Logan."
Logan shrugs serenely. "Just saying."
"Leave Tuck alone. He's hopeless. Almost as bad as Logan." Garrett chimes from Tucker's right. Logan lets out an offended noise at the dig, opening his mouth to protest when their coach interrupts.
"Enough. They're starting now."
The awards seem to go on for what feels like forever. For a majority of it, Tucker has no interest in the recipiants— but he is entirely focused on you. You are on your feet the entire time, crouched down, walking around, doing what you can to get the best shot possible.
You're good at this. He's always known that. But watching your focused expression when you bring the viewfinder up to your right eye, the way your brows knit and your hands do their best to still. The way you check every picture after you have taken it with a level of attentiveness that shows you're already thinking of ways to enhance the image with editing, only ever wanting to portray your subject in the best way possible.
He is, unfortunately, staring again.
He looks back at his salmon.
It's fine. He's fine. You're just doing your job and he's just eating dinner and everything is completely good—
Until he sees someone grab your elbow. You're smiling at him. He has no idea who this man is. Probably someone you know from the newspaper?
"Easy," Dean says, without looking up from his plate.
"I'm fine."
"You're gonna bend fork."
Tucker sets the fork down. Across the room the guy says something and you tilt your head the way you do when something genuinely catches your interest and Tucker picks the fork back up.
"Who is that?" He asks, keeping his voice even.
Dean looks up, follows Tucker's eyeline, and looks back down. "Don't know."
"Garrett."
Garrett glances over. Then back. "I don't know."
"You're useless." Tucker mutters.
The ceremony ends shortly after, letting everybody off to mingle amongst themselves. Tucker eagerly pushes away from the table, muttering something about being back shortly, and does his best to locate you once more. You've gone back to the media table with the unknown guy, happily chatting with your camera in hand, showing the pictures you've just taken. When Tucker gets closer, you catch a glimpse of him, and your eyebrows raise curiously.
You clock it immediately. He's trying his best to play it nonchalant, talking to some guy from the football team you can't remember the name of. To anyone else he looked relaxed. To you, who knows him better, can tell by the set of his jaw that he is not.
You turn back to the conversation and laugh at something Marcus, a photographer for the basketballe team, says about the lighting in the ballroom. He's not wrong, it's terrible for photography, and normally you'd want to complain about it for longer, but your eyes drift back across the room once more and Tucker is no longer looking at the football guy.
He's looking at you.
You look back at Marcus. "I should probably go find my— " you pause, because what exactly is Tucker, "—my people. But it was really nice to meet you."
"You too." Marcus smiles, easy and genuine. "You're covering for Austin at the game on Friday, right?"
"Yeah. I'll see you then."
You pick up your camera from the table and turn around.
Tucker is closer than he was. Not close enough to have obviously moved, just closer. His conversation has apparently wrapped up, and now he's looking at you with an expression that has slipped just slightly from the practiced easy one he normally gives you.
"Hey." You offer first.
"Hey. Get any good shots?"
"Yes. Lighting in this place is god awful, but I can try to fix it in post."
"That's a shame."
"Mhm…" you tilt your head slightly to the side. "You okay?"
He meets your eyes. "Fine…was that a friend?" He says like it doesn't matter to him— but you both know that's not true.
"Coworker of sorts. Shoots basketball for the paper." You shrug, trying to fight the smile playing at the corner of your lips. "He's nice. Good at what he does."
Tucker nods slowly, the way he does when he's processing something he doesn't want to process. "Cool."
"Cool," you echo. Silence lingers between you two as the rest of the banquet buzzes around you. Clinking glasses and dishware, polite chatter, even the occassional loud cheers of whichever athelete is getting a little too rowdy for the space.
"I know I don't have a— I know we're not—" he exhales.
"What?" You tease gently. A shit eating grin has taken up the lower half of your face, and Tucker can only start to laugh at himself too. Fuck, he's whipped.
"You…are the worst."
"Say what you want to say, T. Don't be shy now." You continue, slipping youe camera strap onto your shoulder instead.
Tucker laughs again, quieter this time, and looks down at the floor for exactly one second — the most vulnerable you have ever seen John Tucker in two months — before he looks back up.
"I don't like other guys talking to you," he says plainly. "There. Happy?"
"Getting there."
He narrows his eyes. "Getting there?"
"I mean." You shrug one shoulder. "That could mean a lot of things."
"You're serious."
"I just want to make sure we're on the same page, Tucker."
He stares at you for a long moment. Then he steps closer, close enough that you'd have to make an effort not to look at his mouth, and his voice drops just enough that it's only for you.
"Be my girlfriend."
You try your best to hide just how undone that made you. You hadn't expected him to put it so bluntly. "That didn't really sound like a question."
He smiles. That same, sweet, boyish look he gets sometimes when he knows he's being sweet on you.
"Would you please allow me, John Tucker, the privilege of being your boyfriend?" He says with the utmost patience. You can't help but chuckle, hands coming up to squeeze his shoulders gently.
"Yes. I will." Tucker's arms loop around your waist, careful to not knock around the camera that's hanging there, before pressing a kiss to your temple.
john logan... the people yearn for john logan fan fiction... anything you have cooking up in your brain... probably fluff... thank you... i love you...
hi hi! you can find the finished fic here!! ty for the request love! 🫶🏽
Summary: When your car battery dies, there's only one person who can help you.
Pairing: john logan x graham! reader
A/N: based on this request :) i just finished watching off campus and i am obsessed UGH i love them all so much. kinda thinking about a part two where we get more of Logan's view on reader?? idk what it would be like yet though. reader is written as graham's sister, but as i am a WOC i never think of my readers as white-- so this could be read as like an adopted sibling/half sibling vibe! whatever works for your experience of reading it.
Word Count: 2.3k
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything related to off campus, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot. I do not consent for my works to be reuploaded on other websites, plagiarised, translated, or fed into AI media.
Warnings !: reader is thirsty LMAO, hopeless pining on your part, unclear whether or not john returns your crush?? mentions of hannah. I have also never read the books— so this is solely based off of show logan :)
"G, don't panic." Are the first words out of your mouth when you call your brother. This of course has the opposite effect. In the background, you can hear Garrett hastily quieting the others.
"What happened? Are you hurt? Where are you?"
"I'm fine. I'm not hurt, but I'm—"
"Are you alone?"
"Yes, but—"
"Are you somewhere safe?"
"Garrett, if you let me speak, I could tell you that I'm fine." You sigh, a hand coming up to run through your hair. "I think my car battery died. I'm somewhere on the side of the road in Arlington."
A beat of silence. You can kind of hear the chatter from the other line, the absurd overlap of four, twenty-something-year-old, hockey players, discussing what's happening. Then, somewhere in the background, you hear someone — you don't even have to guess who, you could pinpoint him in any hectic frenzy— say "G, is she okay?"
Garrett ignores him, "What do you mean you think the battery is dead?"
"I mean I was driving back to campus when my lights started flickering and the next thing I know everything in my car is off."
"While you were driving?"
"Yes. What was unclear from the story?" You say bluntly.
"Holy shit, Y/N, did you get into an accident—"
"Relax, Gar. As I said, I managed to pull off to the side. I was the only person on the road. The point is, there's no one around to jump my shit and everything is closed."
"Okay, Okay. I can be there in like, twenty minutes—"
"Thought you were meeting with that philosophy tutor at 9— it's 8:48." You hear him let out a frustrated huff.
"I can cancel—"
"No. You can't, Garrett. Cancelling twelve minutes before a session is fucked up and you need the help." Another pause. You can practically hear him deflating.
"I'll send Logan."
Garrett hangs up before you can protest.
You stare at your phone for a second, then at the road, then at your phone again. Arlington is dead quiet this time of night, just streetlights and the distant sound of the city somewhere behind you. You lean back against the car and try not to think about the fact that John Logan is currently getting in his truck to come and look at your now sad, broken down wrangler.
Which you of course fail at.
Your phone buzzes.
John Logan flashes across the screen and you take one full second to compose yourself before answering.
"I'm in Arlington. Somewhere off Mass Ave, like in the suburbs somewhere? I can send my location—"
"Hello to you too."
You close your eyes. "Hi. I'm about a mile past the intersection off Mass Ave, pulled over by the—"
"Are you alright?"
It's a simple question. One that shouldn't make you lose your breath the way it is right now.
"I'm fine."
"G said you were on the road when the battery died?"
"Yeah." You try to brush off the obvious concern in his voice.
"Must have been scary. Are you alright?" He asks once more. Perceptive as always. There's a pause, but you can hear what sounds like the start of Logan's car. You dodge his question by just staying silent.
"Sit tight. I'm twenty minutes out."
You nod, though he obviously can't see. "Okay. See you soon."
You hear his car before you see it.
The low rumble of his engine cuts through the quiet of Arlington like it owns the street, headlights sweeping around the corner and finding you immediately. You straighten up, cross your arms, and do your best to school your expression. It's just Logan. He's just being a good friend and doing your brother a favor. His car pulls up right in front of yours and he kills the engine, hopping out of the car with both of his hands in his jacket pockets.
He doesn't say anything yet, just looks you over, and then the car.
"Get the hood?"
You furrow your eyebrows. "What?"
"Can you pop the hood?"
"Oh. Yeah, sorry." You mumble, walking to the front of the car where the latches of the hood are, and pop them open. You get the center hook, and Logan is there to put the prop rod up.
You take a step away from the car, giving Logan space. He pulls his phone out,turns on the flashlight, and takes a look at the battery inside. You lean against the driver's side door and watch him work, which feels awkward, so you look at the street instead. Then at your nails. Then back at him because there is genuinely nothing else to look at.
"When's the last time you replaced the battery?" He asks, not looking away from it.
"Um. I don't know."
He does look up at that. Just briefly.
"Garrett bought it used for me about two years ago."
"…So never, then?"
"So never." You pause, approaching his side and peering into the hood as well.
"Is that bad?"
The look he gives you is somewhere between amused and pained. "Yeah."
"Cool." You pull your cardigan around yourself just a bit tighter. "So it's my fault."
"That's not at all what I said—"
"It was implied."
"I implied that your battery was old." He turns to you. "That's not your fault. It's just what it is. Do you have jumper cables?"
"Do I look like I own jumper cables?"
"You look like a car owner, which means you should have jumper cables."
You open your mouth to argue, but close it. He is right. He tosses you the keys to his car, which you narrowly drop.
"Cables are in the trunk."
You take a deep breath, and walk towards his car trying to compose yourself. You can't help just how undone you feel around him. Like all sense of composure ceases being. When you open the trunk of his car, you get a waft of the air inside. It, much to your surprise, doesn't smell like sweaty hockey gear, but like Logan himself. A rich cedar with citrusy undertones to balance it. You locate the cables quickly, which means you have no reason to keep standing there, breathing him in. You grab the cables, and with a little more force than necessary, slam the trunk closed.
When you get back to the Wrangler he's crouched by the front again, looking at something on his phone, and he glances up when he hears you coming. You hold the cables out and he stands, taking them from you.
"Thanks," he says.
"Yep," you say.
Very normal. Totally fine.
"Okay." He holds the cables out toward you instead of the car. "Come here."
You blink. "I don't need to—"
"You should know how to do this." He says it simply, like it's obvious, like he's not just voluntarily extending the amount of time you have to stand next to him in the dark. "Come on."
You oblige.
He walks you through what needs to be done patiently. No condecension in his tone. You imagine if this is how he talks to the freshman boys on the hockey team…or if this is the tone he takes up when talking someone through it.
Pushing that thought to the back of your brain where you hopefully never find it again, he holds the cables out to you. One red and one black clamp.
"Two hands. Don't let these touch. Get into the habit of it." You nod, but reach for the cables with one hand, to which he pulls them out of your reach and shoots you a deadpan look. You shake your head in an attempt to get your mind back.
"Sorry." You take them with two hands, and he continues to talk about how the cables work.
"Red to dead first." He nods toward your battery. "Always."
You crouch down next to him and clip it where he points. "Red to dead," you repeat.
"Then red to donor." He reaches past you to attach the other end to his own battery, and for approximately one second his arm is right there and you are very focused on the cable. "Then black to donor."
"Black to donor."
"Last one goes on bare metal. Not the dead battery." He guides your hand — just barely, just enough — to a bolt on the engine block. "Ground it here."
You clip it.
He doesn't move his hand immediately.
"Why not to the battery?" you ask, because you are super interested in the car, and not the fact that he's so close to you right now. Definitely not that.
"Sparks," he says. "Dead batteries can off-gas hydrogen. You don't want a spark near that."
"Oh." You look at the cables, then at him, which is a mistake because he is still right there. "That's probably important to know."
"That's why I'm telling you. Now, we wait a few minutes before I start my car."
He leans against the front of the Wrangler, arms crossed, looking out at the empty street. Not at you. You mirror him without thinking about it. Leaning against the hood next to him, not close enough to be something, just next to him. The streetlight above you is doing that orange late-night thing where everything looks a little warmer than it actually is.
It's quiet for a moment.
"You doing okay out here? You know, before I got here."
"It was fine."
"I'm sure it was. But that's not what I asked." He turns his head to look at you.
You look at the road. A car passes at the far end of the street, headlights sweeping briefly over the pavement, and then it's quiet again.
"It was a little scary," you admit. "When everything shut off. The car kept rolling and all I wanted to do was get out."
He nods. Doesn't make it a big deal, doesn't say I knew it or you should have said so. Just nods, like he's filing it away somewhere careful.
"You called Garrett right away?"
"Immediately."
The corner of his mouth moves. "Good."
You look at him. "You're not going to tell me I should have roadside assistance or something?"
"Do you have roadside assistance?"
"No."
"Then there's no point in telling you that now." He looks back at the street. "Now you know you should have it."
You almost smile. "Yeah. Okay."
~
"Okay." Logan pushes off the hood. "Let's try it."
He gets in his car first and you get in yours, and when he starts his engine you can feel it faintly through the steering wheel from the cables still connecting you. You wait the way he told you to. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute. Then you turn the key.
The Wrangler shudders, clicks, and then —
Catches.
The dash lights up all at once and the radio comes back on mid-song and you let out a breath you have been holding since 8:48pm.
You get back out. Logan is already unclipping the cables in the right order, black from ground, black from donor, red from donor, red from dead, staring at the way his hands look wrapped around each clamp
"You're good," he says, coiling the cables back up.
"Thank you." It comes out quieter than you mean it to. "Really. You didn't have to—"
"Garrett asked me to."
"Right." You nod, a pang of embarassment filling your chest. Right. This was a favor for his best friend— your brother. Nothing more. "Still."
He looks at you for a second, then holds out the cables. "Keep these in the car."
"What about you? I can just buy some online when I get home."
"Really? Are you actually going to?" He tilts his head skeptically.
Unfortunately, he is correct in his assumption that you will likely forget. You sigh, but take them, fingers lightly brushing his as you pull the cables away.
"I'll follow you home," he says, and then he's walking back to his car before you can tell him he doesn't have to.
You watch his headlights in the rearview mirror the whole way home.
It's a twenty three minute drive back to campus, and you are aware of him for every single one of them. Every turn signal, every stop light, the way he stays exactly two car lengths behind you like he's done this before. You turn the stereo up just a little bit louder in an attempt to drown out any more thoughts of him from your brain, which of course, fails miserably.
You pull into your complex and he pulls in behind you. You were half hoping he'd just — flash his lights and keep going, waving you off into your dorm room. Instead, he parks.
You meet him just outside of the entrance to the dorm hall, pulling your jacket just a bit tighter around your shoulders.
"Thanks again." you say again.
"It's fine."
"I know…but thank you. I really appreciate it, Logan."
Something shifts in his expression. Just briefly, just enough that you notice and then immediately question whether you imagined it.
"…Call Triple A in the morning. They can come replace your battery." You nod obediently, and he tilts his head towards you just a little bit.
"Get some sleep," he says.
You nod. "Yeah."
He doesn't move for exactly one second too long.
You watch him walk off into the darkness of the parking lot. You keep standing there even after you hear his car start, and even after the sound of his engine fades out down the street. Finally, you scan your ID and let yourself into the building taking a deep breath once you're inside.
You are completely normal about John Logan. Completely.
Tucker finally catches you staring at his thighs and decides a cooking lesson isn't what you actually need.
word count : 2.1k — explicit — thigh-riding — dry-humping — praise — tuck being super sweet and cute and a giver — tuck (he deserves a warning cause damn) — my boy tucker deserves the filth so i'm not sorry about that one — enjoy and please tell me what you think !
There was a fine line between patience and sheer torture, and John Tucker had been dragging you across it for months.
It wasn't his fault, that was the worst part. He wasn’t playing games—he was just genuinely, wholesomely oblivious. Every time you wore his favorite jersey, or intentionally leaned close to touch his forearm while he laughed, or made a pointed comment about how he’d make an incredible boyfriend, Tucker would just beam, give you that sweet, devastating dimpled smile, and say something like, "Appreciate you, darlin', always so good to me."
Always so good to him. His polite deflections were a special kind of psychological torture.
Right now, you were sitting at his kitchen island, supposed to be chopping garlic for the shrimp scampi alfredo he was teaching you to make. Instead, you were entirely hypnotized by the view.
Tucker was standing at the counter, leaning over a cutting board. He was wearing a pair of very, very thin, gray athletic shorts. Because he was leaning forward, the fabric was pulled tight, completely mapping out the staggering size of his thighs. They were dense, farm-boy quads carved out by years of heavy squats and explosive skating. You could see the distinct, powerful sweep of muscle definition, and the way they flexed every single time he shifted his weight.
You swallowed hard, your grip tightening on the knife. You wanted to bury your face in them. You wanted them gripping your waist. You wanted—
"Uh, darlin'?"
Tucker’s sweet voice shattered your trance.
You blinked, snapping your eyes up. He was looking at you, a half-bun of messy dark curls sitting on top of his head, holding a block of aged asiago cheese. He was frowning slightly, but his eyes were warm and amused.
"You've been hacking at that same clove of garlic for five minutes, and I think you're about to slice your thumb off," he laughed, stepping away from the counter.
"Oh. Right. Sorry," you muttered, looking down at the mangled garlic.
"Everything alright?" He walked over, stopping right beside your stool. He was so close you could feel the heat radiating off his bulky frame. "You've been quiet all evening. Not like you."
"I'm fine, Tuck. Just... distracted."
"By the cooking?" He smiled, entirely missing the mark. "I can take over the chopping if you need a break."
Amused, Tucker leaned closer, resting one hand on the edge of the counter to look down at your messy chopping board. The movement brought him directly into your space. Because you were sitting and he was standing, his broad chest was right at your eye level, and his solid leg was practically brushing against your knee.
The kitchen went dead silent, save for the low sizzle of the butter and garlic simmering on the stove.
You froze, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm. Up close, the sheer size of him was completely overwhelming, and your eyes helplessly darted right back to the thick muscle of his leg, just inches away from you. The weight of your own dirty thoughts made you dizzy, and a wave of mortification washed over you. You couldn't think, couldn't breathe, and you definitely couldn't handle him being this close while your brain was doing that.
"Tuck," you choked out, your voice tight as you gently pressed a hand against his chest to keep him from getting any closer. "Can you... can you back away just a little bit? Please?"
Tucker blinked, completely caught off guard. He froze, looking down at your hand, and then up at your face. The easy, golden-retriever warmth in his eyes instantly shifted into pure, panicked concern. He immediately took a large step back, his shoulders tensing.
"Did... did I do something wrong?" he asked, uncharacteristically quiet and hesitant. He looked entirely heartbroken at the idea that he’d made you uncomfortable. "I swear I didn't mean to overstep, darlin'. If I said something insensitive, or if I'm being a bad teacher—"
"No! No, Tuck, it's really not you," you interrupted quickly, your face burning a violent, hot shade of red as you looked away shyly. You wrung your hands in your lap, wishing the kitchen floor would open up and swallow you. "It’s... it’s a really silly thing. Honestly. I'm just being ridiculous, but I... I haven't been able to stop thinking about it all evening, and having you right there was just too much."
Tucker frowned slightly, his concern melting into soft, focused curiosity. He leaned forward just a fraction, throwing the dishtowel he was holding over his shoulder, trying to catch your eye, his tone incredibly sweet. "What is it? You can tell me. You know you can tell me anything."
You swallowed hard, your throat completely dry. You tried to find the words to explain the last three months of unrequited pining, but your brain entirely short-circuited. Instead of speaking, your gaze helplessly dropped again.
You just stared.
Tucker followed your line of sight. He looked down at his own lower half, at the thin, gray athletic shorts stretched taut over his quads.
He looked back up at you, his brows arching high in utter disbelief. He slowly raised a hand, pointing a thick index finger directly at his own leg.
You gave a tiny, incredibly embarrassed nod.
"You're... you're thinking about my legs?" he breathed, his voice dropping into a register that was completely new. The confusion on his face melted away, replaced by a sudden, breathless warmth.
He didn't back away this time. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, re entering your space again until your bodies almost touched. Up close, he was so bulky and warm, and as his eyes locked onto yours, his gaze softened into something... different. Heavier. His eyes dropped down, noting the deep flush spreading down your neck, the way your breathing had turned shallow, and the distinct, telling tension in your posture.
Tucker’s breath hitched. A slow realization hit him.
"Oh," he murmured, his voice deep and velvety.
A faint, endearing pink crept up his own neck, but he didn't back down. Instead, a sweet, slightly stunned smile touched his lips. He reached out, his large hands surprisingly gentle as they settled on your cheeks. He leaned in, leaving barely any space between your faces.
"Well, little darlin'," he whispered, his voice low and teasingly soft near your ear. "If it's bothering you that much... do you think you'd let me help you with it?"
You gave a tiny, helpless tremble. You couldn't even breathe, completely undone by the sudden, heavy hunger in his eyes.
"Yes," you whimpered.
The sweet, patient boy didn't hesitate. With one easy, seamless movement, Tucker took a step back, pulling up the barstool right next to yours. He sank onto it heavily, rotating his frame so his back was resting flush against the edge of the countertop.
He looked up at you through his long lashes, his chest heaving as he let out a low exhale. The golden-retriever innocence was far gone, replaced by a quiet intensity that made your pulse skyrocket. Without a word, Tucker raised his hand and firmly patted the top of his rock-hard thigh.
"Come here."
Your breath hitched, a sudden wave of nerves making you freeze. You stared at his leg, then up at his eyes, faltering on the edge of your seat.
Seeing your hesitation, Tucker's expression softened into a look of pure, reassuring patience. He reached out, sliding his hand over yours. His fingers wrapped around your wrist, warm and steady, and he slowly guided you off your stool. He pulled you into the narrow space between his knees, lifting you just enough to guide your legs apart until you were straddling his right thigh.
The contact was electric. Before you could pull away, he took both of your hands in his. He brought them down, pressing your open palms flat against the bare, burning skin at the hem of his shorts. He forced your fingers to curve around the thick, dense sweep of his quad.
"Touch it," he hummed, his voice a sweet command against your ear.
Even now, with the air thick and heavy between you, his true nature didn't change. Tucker was, at his core, a caretaker. He was the boy who always quietly made sure you were looked after, and this moment was another extension of that—him easing the ache you’d been carrying all evening, giving you exactly what you needed. But as your palms settled fully against his skin, his chest rose in a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as he let out a shaky exhale. His thigh flexed under your hands—not to pull away, but leaning up into your touch, completely yielding to it. Because Tucker wasn't just doing this for you; he was sinking into it just as deeply, needing the closeness just as much.
The sheer sensation of his muscle flexing under your fingertips sent a jolt straight to your core. Your hips twitched instinctively, a helpless, desperate movement that ground your center right against the hard ridge of his leg.
Tucker let out a low, ragged growl, his hands instantly locking onto your waist to hold you right where he wanted you. "Do that again. Ride it, darlin'. Let me feel you."
All your built-up frustration broke. You shifted your weight, and slid your hips down against his leg in a heavy, deliberate rhythm. The friction through your clothes was devastating. Tucker leaned his head back, a choked sound escaping his throat as you rode him, his fingers digging possessively into your hips. He braced his foot against the bottom rung of the stool, angling his thigh up to give you more leverage, matching your frantic pace with steady, torturous upward thrusts.
The friction alone was sending him over the edge. Up close, you could feel the sheer, radiating heat rolling off him; he was burning up, a fine sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. Beneath the thin gray fabric of his shorts, his length had grown shockingly hard, straining painfully against his waistband as he watched you work yourself against him.
The pleasure built too fast, coiling tight and sharp in your stomach. You whimpered, your movements turning wild and uncoordinated as the edge rushed up to meet you.
As your body began to tighten and tremble, Tuck reached up. He brought his large hand to your face, cupping your jaw with a fierce devotion. His thumb brushed over your lips, parting them, and he pushed it ever so slightly into your mouth.
You didn't even think. Your eyes locked onto his blown-out pupils as you instantly wrapped your lips around his thumb, sucking on it desperately while your hips shuddered through a hard, breathless climax.
He leaned in close, pulling you up until your foreheads pressed flush together, his hot, heavy breath mingling with yours. As the waves of heat crashed through you, Tucker watched you shake, his attention entirely locked on you as he guided you through it.
"Good girl," he husked, the warm pad of his thumb moving gently inside your mouth. "Look at how perfect you fit against my thighs."
You cried out around his finger, your core pulsing helplessly against his solid quad as the release completely emptied you out. The intense, tight contractions of your climax clamped down on his leg, and the sheer sight and feel of you completely unraveling in his lap shattered whatever remaining restraint Tucker had left.
His jaw went rigid, his eyes rolling back as a harsh, violent shudder tore right through his bulky frame. He choked on a breath, his fingers digging bruisingly deep into your waist as his hips gave one last, desperate, involuntary jerk upward into you. He came hard right there in his pants, the thick heat of his release soaking through the front of his gray athletic shorts, matching the wetness you had left on his thigh.
For a long moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the ragged asymmetry of your shared breathing. Tucker’s forehead rested heavily against yours, his chest heaving as the tremors finally subsided, leaving him thoroughly spent and slumped against the counter.
Gradually, a slow, familiar warmth returned to his eyes. He slipped his wet thumb from your mouth and used it to gently tap the tip of your nose, that devastating dimple finally cutting through his dazed expression.
"You know," he chuckled breathlessly, looking up at you through his messy curls. "Next time you want to skip the lesson, all you have to do is ask."
He gave your waist an affectionate squeeze, his eyes dancing with mischief as he looked down at the dark wetness soaking through his shorts.
"You spent all that time on this one," he teased, his gaze dropping to where your hands were still molded around his right quad. A slow, playful grin touched his lips as he nudged his left leg slightly against yours, drawing your attention to it. "But I promise the other one is just as good."
puerto rican [nuyorican] jason ! as your boyfie. pairing ! jason todd x fem!reader wc ! 1.8k warnings ! fluff to smut. sub!jason. handjob. slight orgasm denial. cum eating. based on these requests and ii. 📓 i really yapped alot on this one y’all my apologies 🙏🏾
art creds : @/realstickii
now playing ! bellacoso — residente & bad bunny 🎧
newyorican! bf jason who grew up around noise. his childhood was loud, sometimes a little messy, dodging cops in Crime Alley but always making it back to his block just in time for somebody’s abuela to call out to him from a window with a jace, come! pastelillos! it’s one of the few fond memories he has, that he was never hungry for long and he never ate alone.
newyorican! bf jason who by extension is naturally a good cook. most of his memories are of tightly packed kitchens at somebody’s house where by the sweat of his brow and a million whacks with a wooden spoon in the hands of somebody’s tía that’s now his tía, he learned.
newyorican! bf jason whose love language is food. he’s an absolute monster in the kitchen, makes the best pernil in gotham and will brag about it because that shit falls off the bone, tendernism! if you’re sick, he’s cooking. you’re sad? he’s cooking. sigh a little bit too loud and he’s already grabbing the pots. he doesn’t play about sunday dinners. he will do meal prep the night before if he needs to. he’s usually the one with random cravings in the middle of the night, so you will be woken up and offered food.
newyorican! bf jason whose texts you can expect like clockwork when he’s out on patrol.
Today, 9:54 PM
jacey 💋 :
mamisota
did you eat yet?
love you ❤️
Today, 9:55 PM
you :
yeah, i got something earlier dw
stay safe, love you too ❤️
Today, 9:57 PM
jacey 💋 :
⤷ replied to you : ‘yeah, i got something earlier dw’
real food?
you :
… i mean, it was takeout so, i think?
jacey 💋 :
put some coffee on and wait for me, i’ll come make u something after
newyorican! bf jason whose love for food — the patience when it comes to preparation, the pride when you compliment him or go for seconds — transfers to his relationship with you. he’s attentive, noticing your every need like when he’s frying plantains and has to make sure they don’t burn. he’s devoted, you’re his only one, his girl, the one that feels like home, so he brings you café con leche in the mornings from his favorite spot with a spoon of condensed milk and a splash of vanilla just like he used to do for his mom. he feeds your body, and your soul.
newyorican! bf jason who understands way more spanish than he speaks. his grammar is bad and he forgets words — he’ll switch to spanish halfway in a sentence only when a word clicks or nod along to someone’s fast paced spanish and respond completely in english. he murmurs diablo, puñeta, me jodí, me mamé at every minor inconvenience though. you learn quickly the difference between cabrón and cabrón.
newyorican! bf jason whose spanglish really does kick in when he’s stressed, tired or worse, turned on. he calls you everything from the classic mi amor and mami to mi vida, mi diosa, and bebesota with that low, needy voice. your name is not even uttered after the first few weeks.
newyorican! bf jason who teaches you slang thinking it’ll be a cute little inside joke but you end up unironically using it against him. suddenly you’re calling him a lambe bicho in his own house.
newyorican! bf jason who is sooo easy to ragebait. call him a no sabo kid please. say something exaggerated and pronounced incorrectly i beg you.
“holaaa,” you drawl, sidestepping him where jason stood in the kitchen, back hunched over the stove and tongue peeking out in concentration — that task at hand being : watch the plantains fry in the pot. “bueños días.”
“stop,” he grumbles, side eyeing you then looking back to the pan. “it’s nine in the morning, please.”
“que paso, handsome?” your arms slip around his middle as you curl up into his side. “i’m gonna burn the plantains again, shoo,” jason complained, bumping you with his hip and you whined.
“my pretty boy’s so mean to me....” you sigh dramatically, then press a kiss to the side of his jaw with a mischievous hum. “but so handsome... muy guapo.” the uptick of his mouth into a little smile gives him away before he turns to you and meets your lips in a sweet kiss, melting immediately at the praise.
the smell of the plantains breaks the moment. “puñeta— the fucking things are burning—!”
newyorican! bf jason who hates silence. he grew up around noise, loud laughter, even louder conversations where everybody talks at once, kids screaming so loud you could hear them from the other end of the block. and music, so much music. he’s playing music while he cleans his guns, mouthing along to the lyrics, while he cooks.
newyorican! bf jason who sings. sings in the shower, randomly bursts out into a song for no reason, makes up random lyrics on the spot, serenades you (badly) and who thinks singing is the solution to get your attention, especially when you’re mad at him. you’re giving him the silent treatment after he pissed you off and the moment you come out of the bathroom he’s on his knees singing, “pleaaaseeee, ohh-ohhh, won’t do it agaaiiin, pleaaaaseeee— give me one more chaaance—”
newyorican! bf jason who swears he doesn’t dance, but once there’s any sort of rhythm, he’s twirling you in his arms and pulling you into his chest for a slow dance, murmuring praises in your ear, oh his beautiful girl...
newyorican! bf jason who falls apart under your touch everytime, and you can’t help but love how scatterbrained he gets when it comes to you.
“Thaaat’s it, look at me in my eyes while I fuck you, baby.”
Jason’s head fell back against the couch at your words, his chest heaving. The moonlight made the walls of his apartment glow crimson, lighting the sheen of sweat on his tan skin, dark curls sticking to his forehead.
His thighs were spread wide, shirt unbuttoned at the front where the heatweave hit him the most during tonight’s blackout, and his jeans shoved down just enough for your hand to work him properly.
“Fuck… baby, just like that,” he groaned, voice rough as your fist twisted around the head of his swollen cock on the upstroke, slick with his own spit and precum, stroking him just how you knew he liked it. “God, you feel so good… shit, it’s so fuckin’ sensitive.”
“Mhm?” You grinned wolfishly, your fingertips smearing the stringy mess of arousal all over the tip of him, and he twitched in your hand as you picked up the pace again. “I said look at me,” you demanded, your other hand grasping his jaw and a whimper left his throat.
“Christ— okay, I’m looking—” his eyes, all glazed over and watery, his eyelashes fluttering, threatening to fall closed with ecstasy stared up at where you straddled his lap with ease. “Just keep doing that, baby, please…”
You squeezed his throbbing cock in your fist once, then twice, and started stroking him faster, the slick, wet sounds of flesh on flesh echoing in the room. “You’re so good when you want it this bad,” you giggled.
Jason’s abs flexed hard, his thighs trembling.
“Ah—ay, fuck!” he hissed, eyes squeezing shut, his hips bucking up without meaning to. “Así, así, así… fuuuck—just like that, ma.” Jason’s hand shot down to grip your wrist, his mind dizzy from the stimulation as his hips fucked up into your fist desperately, chasing it. “Jesus— fuck, you have me talkin’ Spanish—”
“Didn’t I tell you to do something?” You leaned in, your lips brushing the side of his jaw. He let out a broken moan as his eyes opened again, and this time you leaned down to kiss him, his shoulders trembling with each moan released against your lips.
“You’re driving me crazy—” His voice cracked, his other hand moving to grip the back of your neck to steady himself, as if he was on the verge of passing out. “Oh fuck— shit, wait, that’s too much—”
“Shh, take it,” You twisted your wrist slower, up then down, then right over the head again, thumb pressing against that sensitive spot underneath that made him see stars, and he let out a wrecked sound that went straight between your legs.
“Don’t do this to me— please, please, I’m so fuckin’ close—”
“Oh, my big man,” you cooed, a glint of amusement in your eyes. “Say it properly.”
“Me estás matando…” Jason laughed breathlessly, the sound turning into a broken moan as you squeezed him tighter. “Do you wanna kill me? Is that it—”
You kissed him soft and sweet, and he melted against your lips, up until you stroked him faster again, and he shivered from the sudden stimulation just before you withdrew your hand completely, his cock slapping against his stomach with neglect.
“Mamisota…” he whined.
You hissed your teeth at him. “Beg, properly.”
“I’ll be good, I’ll be so fuckin’ good, I swear,” he whimpered, the words slipping out shaky and desperate. His hips twitched, trying to fuck up against your palm, but you only barely grazed his leaky cock with your fingertips. “No me hagas esto… I’m so close already. Please, please, I’m begging you. I need to cum so bad—”
You sighed long and low, feigning annoyance as you granted him mercy. “You’re lucky you sound so pretty…” you grumbled, taking him in your fist again, your palm hot and soft around his aching cock and the feel of you made his eyes water.
“Coño… fuck—” He forced his eyes to stay open and locked on you, as he stroked the short hairs at the nape of your neck. “I’m— yeah, like that— I’m right there— let me cum, please…”
“Cum for me…” you whispered against his ear. “You can do it, it’s okay. I want you to, baby.”
Jason’s head snapped back again, eyes squeezing shut momentarily before his eyes went wide followed by a string of guttural groans. “Oh my God— fuck, mami, I’m gonna cum!” He held you tight against his chest as hips stuttered hard, thighs shaking and cock pulsing violently in your hand as he reached his peak.
Thick ropes of cum spilled over your fist, coating your fingers, dripping down the length of his shaft and he buried his face in your hair, cursing under his breath as his body jerked with every pulse until he was completely spent.
When he finally sagged against the couch, chest still rising and falling fast, he looked at you with a lazy, fucked-out grin, seizing your messy hand by the wrist and bringing it to his mouth.
“Yo voy pa’ encimotaaa,” he sang, voice hoarse and you burst out laughing, watching as he took your fingers into his mouth, licking each of them clean. Then he tugged you in for a messy kiss, singing against your lips once more, “Baby, estás buenotaaa—”
“Enough, oh my gosh…” you guffawed, hiding your face in his neck.
Jason huffed a laugh. “Give me three minutes, I’ll deal with you.”
newyorican! bf jason who is utterly whipped for you.
🗒️ tagging : @unicvnthlle who requested . browser & scroll dividers by @/honeyluvsw, chain divider by @/chrisssiren, art by @/realstickii on x
Heyyy just binged all your batfam fics and I LOVE THEMMMMM
First time I feel kinda seen with a Y/n story, usually i cannot even imagine myself in those situations but these work so weeeell~
I do have a request that is honestly I feel self indulgent: I wanted to ask for another batsis fic with a hurt comfort, I have been feeling rather stuck and stagnant lately career wise and I wondered how Cass or Damian or Jason (honestly whoever jaja no pressure those three are the ones that come to my mind the most) would comfort the batsis!it girl
so sorry to hear about how you're feeling stuck-- i relate to that a lot. just know that everything will get better in time and you will do what you're meant to!
thank you so much for the request. sorry it took so long but the fic is officially posted! you can find it here! hope that this brought a little comfort :)
Summary: When you're feeling stuck, you can count on your big brother to help you feel a little bit better.
Pairing: platonic!jason todd x it girl!batsis!reader
A/N: based on this request! i hope that this is good! it's a little short but i think it's really sweet. i believe in good big brother jason todd!
Word Count: 1,375
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything related to DC, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot. I do not consent for my works to be reuploaded on other websites, plagiarized, translated, or fed into AI media.
Warnings !: Reader is people pleaser coded (i'm projecting), reader can be mean when feeling very emotional, ur just too stressed out period :(
23 years old and five years into being the youngest chair and shareholder in the history of Wayne Enterprises, you have the life that people pray to have…but why do you feel so indifferent towards it?
When you finally made it home to your apartment at 9 pm, you are startled by the sight of your older brother, Jason, making himself perfectly at home in your kitchen. Unfortunately— he knew something was up the moment he walked through your door. Your normally pristine space was absolutely riddled with clutter. He knows you like to organize things so you can see them, but even this was extreme. Several stacks of reports on this months outcomes of charity programs, what he presumed was a dress in a garment bag laid out on your couch, your monitor set up still open to various tabs of analytics on your social media pages, research on new charities, your calendar, etc. He was exhausted just looking at it all.
If the mess wasn't enough, your reaction to him being here really hammered in the point. You didn't make a sarcastic comment about him giving you a heads up, nor did you tease him about running back to your apartment like always. Instead, he was met with a a short head nod as you kicked off your shoes.
"Your place looks like hell, kiddo." He says. You sigh and plop yourself down onto your couch, stretching out your neck.
"Hello, Jason. I hope you're making yourself at home. Dropping in with no warning as usual." You say sarcastically, hoping for some peace. He says nothing in return, and instead opens the tab on your computer with your schedule color coded and blocked off. He audibly winces as he sees your completely booked out for the next two weeks.
"Looks like you're not coming to family dinner tomorrow." He mumbles, and reads through everything you finished today— meeting at 8 am, fitting for a brand campaign at 10, lunch with donors, market research until 3, manager meeting at 5—
"I just finished shooting two different videos for my socials." You mumble, letting your hair out of its tight bun. You think about taking off your work clothes, but you simply can't will yourself off the cushions.
"Why? Not productive enough?" Jason asks, nearly scoffing at how ridiculous it sounds, but you simply ignore him. He rolls his eyes, and grabs something from your kitchen, placing it down onto your coffee table. When you finally bother to actually look, you realize that he's brought take out.
"Didn't know what you had, so I figured Thai was safe." He starts to untie the plastic bag, and your mouth waters at the thought of eating panang curry.
No words are exchanged as the two of you chow down. It's weirdly a habit that the two of you have formed— if Jason is stopping by, you can always expect food. Whether it be home cooked or take out from whatever place he was feeling that night.
The slight spice of the curry helps a little to clear the brain fog. When you finish, you set your empty container down onto the table with a quiet thud. Jason was already done, tossing his trash into the bag with a perfect arc. He leans his elbows on his knees, watching you with that sharp, assessing look he usually reserved for his patrols.
"Alright. Are you done feeling like shit or are you just gonna keep staring at the walls?" He says, breaking the silence.
You pull your knees onto the couch, with an eye roll. "Shut up. I'm exhausted— I think I've earned a little silence and dissociation in my apartment."
"Sure, but I think there's a difference between relaxing and dissociation, as you put it." He gestures with his chin to your glowing monitor. "Looks like you have plenty data, but you still want to throw your computer out the window. Did something happen?"
"Nothing is wrong. That's the problem," you said, the frustration finally slipping into your voice. "I am hitting every metric. The board is happy, the metrics are up, the charities are funded. I’m doing exactly what I'm supposed to be doing."
Jason let out a short, mocking laugh. "…because doing what you're supposed to do has always worked out so well for this family."
"I'm being serious, Jay," you don't have the normal patience to meet his cynicism with radical optimism. "I have…everything that people dedicate their entire lives trying to get a taste of and I feel nothing. I love it, I do, and I used to feel like I was actually doing something…but now I feel like I am on a train I can't get off. A train that certainly isn't going to stop for me. I can't just halt all this work because I'm tired. I'm not like you. I can't walk away when it suits me."
The hit was sharp, a direct jab at his history, but Jason didn't even flinch. He's never been on the receiving end of your lashing out— but he has most certainly heard stories from the others. Rather than meeting your anger, he takes a deep breath.
"I feel for you kid, really I do, but playing the martyr is not a good look on you. Sometimes taking a step back can be the difference between life or death. You think I don't know it?"
You look down at your hands, already feeling guilty for what you said. Tears start to well in your eyes, making you feel small and ridiculous— a bit more your age. Outside of your sniffles, silence fills the room. You hate crying in front of your siblings. In a family full of vigilantes, crying over the job you inherited felt ridiculous.
Jason lets the silence sit for a moment, before putting an arm on the back of the couch behind you. You wipe your tears with the back of your hand.
"Sorry. It was a cheap shot." You murmur. Jason has the audacity to laugh.
"It was…but it's clearly not me you have a problem with, so I'll let it slide…just this once."
He nudges your shoulder with his own. "Look. I know you want to help people. I know that despite this exhaustion— you love what you do…but you owe it to yourself, not just Gotham, to give yourself space. The longer you do this, the more resentment is going to grow."
You let his words sink in, tears drying up slowly ass you really take them to heart. Meanwhile, Jason stands up, collecting all the trash you both have created, and takes his time making your space just a little bit cleaner. Before he comes back to you on the sofa, he reaches around the glowing screen and powers the monitor off.
"The work will be there on Monday," Jason stated, leaving no room for argument. "Your staff was sustainable for years before you were there. They can handle it. If the train isn't stopping, you have to know when it's time to get off." He flicks your forehead, and you let out a surprised noise as he shoves his hands back into his pockets.
"Now go take a shower, finish putting all this stuff away, and then go to bed. I promise you sis, if I come by to check on you while I'm patrolling and you're not in bed, I will steal all of your electronics."
You can't help but chuckle at that, feeling just a little bit lighter from the conversation with your brother.
"…You're laughing but I'm being dead fucking serious."
sorry for disappearing but i’ve been enjoying my week off before summer school 😩 i just started playing the tell tale batman series and it’s giving me so much fic inspiration! i have been writing too and currently have a request in progress so im excited to share with yall eventually. incredibly grateful for all the support im getting!
Pairing: batfam x it girl! batsis! reader (Mainly Bruce Wayne x daughter! reader)
A/N: the way that i was SHOCKED to see how much hype "always, forever, running back to you got." wow. thank you all so much! i didn't even revise it so i know it's probably mid LOL but i am humbled by all the love. we focused a lot on the siblings…but now it's time for bruce. as mentioned previously, reader is bruce's bio daughter so it's implied she's part white but she doesn't necessarily have to be full!
Word Count: 7.9k
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything related to DC, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot. I do not consent for my works to be reuploaded on other websites, plagiarised, translated, or fed into AI media.
Warnings !: Mentions of Jason's death, reader can be mean, lowkey daddy issues? Idk LMAO.
age: 14 hours
The papers are in his hands. The weight of the pen feels staggering, and he thinks maybe if he dropped it he'd be absolved of all responsibility. It could be something he could ignore. Beside him, Alfred, the only parental figure Bruce can remember, is silent. That's never a good sign.
He didn't even know that his ex was pregnant, let alone at a high risk for maternal mortality. She was good for him. Steady, even, but he stopped it because of the life he chose. There's no way he could have a family— not when he risked his life every night for his city— but with the papers in his hands he knew he had no other options. Complicated, real human life all printed in black ink. Legal jargon that all asked the same thing:
Do you want to keep your child?
"The situation has been clarified, Master Bruce." Alfred says at last, gently. “The hospital has finalized identification. The mother’s wishes, as recorded, are… unambiguous.”
Bruce has yet to look away from the papers. "And the child?"
"She is stable."
She. Is the first thing that comes to mind. He has a daughter now. Stable is the second. Stable doesn't mean okay, nor does it mean safe, happy, or healthy. Stable is not the word that should ever be used in the context of children, certainly not his child. He looks down at the document again. Guardianship transfer awaiting approval.
"Where is she?" he asks, hoping for something good, something better than stable. Alfred pauses before responding.
"Mercy general. Neonatal Intensive Care Unit." His chest tightens in the way any parent's would, yet he is not a parent. Not yet. It's the clench in his chest that makes him sign the paper, handing them to Alfred without another word.
A promise, all done up in black ink.
"You could still—" Alfred begins.
"No." Is all Bruce can manage in reply. He tucks his pen back into place on his desk, and before he even knows it, he's on his way to the hospital. It's not a matter of being ready anymore— just a matter of what's in front of him.
~
The hospital lights are far too bright for this moment. The smell of sterile cleaner singes his nostrils, but he is here for one thing and one thing only.
They know him before he even says his name. His suit is pressed and fitted perfectly as it always is, tie loosened in a way that is grabbing the attention of the other people here. His reputation most certainly precedes him. He knows for a fact that this will become a hot topic in the media as soon as he's gone. That's gotta be a HIPAA violation. He thinks to himself. When he finally rounds the corner to the NICU, he's face to face with a glass panel, separating him from the fragile infants.
For a moment, Bruce stops. Everything stops.
A row of incubators, some warm lights, and the sound of machines beeping, but most importantly you. His daughter, laying amongst the others. "Jane Doe" is written on your chart, and the thought of that alone is enough to send him to his knees— yet he can't. Not when he needs to take you home, not when this machine is the only thing keeping you alive.
"She's mine." he says simply. Alfred is there as he always is.
"Yes, Master Bruce."
A beat of silence settles between them.
"I believe that she will be very fortunate for that. In time."
Bruce is hardly thinking about fortune right now. Without any preparation, and without any guidance from his own parents he is now responsible for a life. Your life.
"How long will it take for her to be able to come home?"
"I am unsure, Master Bruce. I have contacted your lawyers to make the transfer go smoothly."
"Can you get the manor set up?"
"I can. Would you like me to prepare a nursery near your room?"
"No. Put her crib in mine."
"Already on it, Sir."
While Alfred goes to get those things settled, Bruce finds himself rooted in his spot. He's still watching you. Leaving would be easy, but staying? Staying is much harder.
~
Later, much later, when the paperwork is complete and the signatures are final and the world has officially agreed that she belongs to him, Bruce stands in his room, staring down at the crib Alfred has prepared.
Alfred adjusts a folded blanket in the crib. “I took the liberty of selecting something neutral,” he says. “In case you object to my taste.”
Object to his taste. Bruce doesn't have a taste for this. Not yet, at least.
Slowly, Bruce puts down the bag he was carrying. He kind of blacked out when he was at the store and just started grabbing. Clothes that felt too small to be real, bottles, diapers, toys, all just objects that he has yet to form an attachment to. He's nothing if not prepared— but preparation doesn't make way for experience. The silence stretches for just a moment.
"She still needs a name, Master Bruce." Bruce looks down at the empty crib. The doctor said you'd need to stay for another week. Regardless, that crib was about to become yours. For the first time since he's signed those papers, he feels a shift. Not dramatically, but it's enough to know that this is irreversible.
"…I know." he finally responds. "I'll think of one."
Alfred inclines his head slightly. "Of course, sir."
For the time being this is what it is. Perhaps he did not choose this life— but he was certainly going to take responsibility.
~
age: 3 years old
When you finally manage to stumble to Bruce's study, the door is unlocked like always. You stand up on your tippy toes and play with the door knob, as you have many times in the past. You've already been fed and bathed courtesy of Alfred, but now you seek him out. When you finally succeed, you push open the door and toddle over to his desk.
Bruce spots you immediately. He's become well acquainted with this little routine of yours, and does not rush to get you to him. He knows you can do it on your own— that you want to do it on your own. Though busy with work, his gaze flickers to you every so often to check on your progress. He feels his heart rate pick up a little when you walk past the open fireplace, but you pay it no mind. The fire is always there, and is not something to be ogled at, not when your father is sat at his desk.
When you make it to him, you see his gaze still on his work, so you pat his knee in hopes of getting his attention. He doesn't look up, but responds.
"You're supposed to be with Alfred, Sweetheart." He says plainly. He's not scolding you, never would he scold you for seeking him out, but he can't drop everything at this point in time.
"No." you reply back with a pout.
He glances down at you, and a beat passes.
"Alright." He murmurs, clearing off the reports on the right hand side of his desk. Without a word, you climb up onto his lap. Bruce steadies you with his right hand, and you, with the skill and grace of a three year old, perch yourself in the space he's created for you on his desk.
"Good?" He asks, just to be sure, and you nod yes. He returns to his work after, every so often checking on you to make sure you're alright. You, on the other hand, care very little about what he's doing and find yourself much more intrigued with the pens resting near his free hand. First you examine it, as if it is something you've never seen before, then start to click it. Wordlessly, Bruce reaches into one of his drawers and offers you a blank legal pad, which you take happily.
It continues for a while, the sound of two pens scratching against paper, the reorganizing of papers whenever Bruce puts one down, and your "sketches" on his notepads. At one point, you lean a little too far into his right arm, and he goes to steady you out of instinct. You don't react. Eventually, you ditch the pen altogether and climb back into Bruce's lap.
He pauses for a second, letting you press your face into his chest, then he wraps his right arm around you, to accommodate you, his left hand continuing to write.
"You're tired." he says after a moment, to which you shake your head against him.
"Noooooo." You whine sleepily. He almost chuckles, but doesn't. Instead, he presses a small, tentative kiss to the top of your head. You stay where you are, half-asleep, draped against him and kind of sitting up.
The room settles around you two. The fire crackles softly.
Bruce continues working, but slower now, more deliberate. Every so often, his attention flicks toward you—not enough to interrupt what he’s doing, but enough to make sure you’re still there, still steady. You of course, are. This is the only thing you know— warmth in the home that has a space carved out for you.
The interruption only comes when you're about to fall asleep. A soft knock on the study door, definitley Alfred. He debates whether or not to ignore it when a second series of knock rapt against the wood, more insistent.
"You may enter." He says outloud. You stir, but not enough to completely wake you up.
When Alfred steps in, he's got his usual sense of composure, but there's something off about it. His eyes dart to you first, then to Bruce.
"Apologies for the interruption, sir," he says quietly as to not disturb you, "but there is something that I believe you'll want to see."
Bruce doesn’t like that phrasing. He shifts slightly, careful not to wake you as he reaches for the remote resting near the edge of the desk. Alfred crosses the room and turns on the television.
“…tragedy tonight at Haly’s Circus…”
Bruce stills.
“…the Flying Graysons—” On screen, shots of the police taping off the scene and guiding the crowd away. Lights are flashing. Cameras are out.
“…leaving behind their young son…” Bruce’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. His left hand comes to cup the back of your head. He's seen this film before— he's lived this film before. A child watches his parents die and can do nothing about it. Public spectacle, private devastation. His gaze flicks down to your little body, small, and safe in his arms. Alfred watches on carefully.
"You're thinking about it." he says, a note of caution that Bruce picks up on. Bruce is smart enough to know that Alfred is not completely on board.
"Just…find out what you can. About the situation." He murmurs. Alfred pauses for just a moment, looking between Bruce and you, cuddled in his embrace. He notices just how tight Bruce's grip on you is.
"This is not the same situation, Master Bruce." he offers. Bruce knows that, but a different part of his brain— the father part of his brain is telling him it is.
"No. It's not…but he shouldn't be alone." His hand shifts slightly against your back in a grounding way, confirming you’re still there. Still his. Still safe. It's this moment where his mind is made up.
No matter how much it takes, no matter how many days he'll have to be in court, he knows he wants to do this. Needs to.
~
age: 9 years old
Wayne Manor is particularly quiet. It's 4:06 am, and it's been storming for the last week and a half. Your father is nowhere to be found and neither is your adopted brother, Richard.
You've noticed this strange pattern in the past— dad tucks you in at 7pm and Alfred stays awake a couple hours before retreating elsewhere. You swear you can hear Dick tumbling around his room for a while before it ultimately stops, a squeaky door hinge and nearly silent footsteps leaving his bedroom. Every time you ask him or your dad about it, they wave you off like they have no clue what you're talking about.
But you know something isn't quite as normal as they make it seem.
So you stayed up. You're perched right at the top of the staircase, a blanket wrapped around your shoulders and clutching your favorite stuffed animal— a red white and round bird shaped to be abnormally round, obviously a gift from your father. Waiting.
Eventually you hear the patter of footsteps, the hushed voices of the very people you were waiting for. The low sound of the door opening downstairs. The quiet, familiar rhythm of someone stepping inside without turning on all the lights. You straighten up immediately, and call out into the darkness.
"Daddy? Dick?" you call out— not loud, but enough to be heard. The hushed voices automatically pause, and you are met with a response from your father from down below.
"Go back to bed." he calls back. You naturally pout at the idea. Dick wasn't in bed, so why should you be?
You grip the railing slightly, leaning forward so you can see them better from where you sit. He’s already halfway across the entryway, jacket still on, movements efficient, like he’s already thinking about the next thing. Dick is beside him, looking a little wind swept and tired, but in normal everyday clothing.
“I was waiting,” you say. The both of them stop, sharing a look. You hate it when they do that. Bruce waves Dick off to his room, and as he passes you, Dick scratches your scalp affectionately, muttering a quick 'Goodnight bug'. You lean into the brief touch, watching him walk away, then look back at your father. Why is he being so weird? Why were they out so late?
Before you can verbalize any thoughts, he scoops you up into his arms, carefully adjusting the blanket around your shoulders and pressing a kiss to your head. Despite the darkness, you swear you can see a bruise forming on his cheek.
He carries you back to your bedroom, and you complain just about the whole way there.
"I wanted to see you."
"You saw me. It's time for bed now."
You frown a little at that. "You know that's not what I meant."
When he pushes your bedroom door open, he gently walks you over to your bed. You half expect him to just leave you here and not say anything else, but instead he reaches for your blanket and helps to tuck you in. Your eyes already feel heavy, but you're on a mission.
"Where were you?" for a moment, Bruce's heart stops. He nearly mistook the sleepiness in your voice as disapointment— but when he looks down at you all he can see is your furrowed brows on your tiny face. He hesitates before finally responding.
"Sweetheart?" he says softly. You hum in response, leaning into his side while he's still here. Bruce can't help himself, can never say no to you, so he sits on your bed. He's a little bit too big, but to save space he pulls you onto his torso.
"Have you ever…do you know…" he trails off. What the fuck is he even doing right now? Is this the way to go about this conversation? He wavers in his confidence before finally just blurting out.
"I'm Batman." He mentally facepalms himself. You probably don't even know what he's talking about, or that he's joking. How could you possibly understand the weight of those words?
"…Is that why you and Dick are always leaving me out?" you mutter sleepily, face nuzzling into his chest even more.
If Bruce doesn't feel like the biggest asshole ever right now. You noticed— of course you had noticed something was up. Every parent-teacher conference, instructors had sung your praises, highlighting just how inquisitive and kind you were. A natural leader, they had said. Someone who rotates who she plays with at recess just so nobody in class ever had to be alone. He told himself he wanted to keep you safe, but really, he underestimated just how well you understood.
"I thought that it'd be better if you didn't know. If I could just be dad when I am with you. I didn't think about how it might affect you— seeing us be so secretive." he says honestly. You prop your chin onto his chest, looking straight at him.
"That's dumb." you say lightly, sleep still on the verge of taking you. He can't help but laugh, his hand gently patting your back. For someone so sweet, your blunt observations always took him off guard. You could see right through your heart and know exactly what you were feeling, and were always able to clearly voice it. He had a feeling that same ability helped you to be so attuned with other's feelings as well.
"…I'll try to be more honest, sweetheart. All of us. You can't tell anybody, okay? Only the people in the house."
"Alfie knows?"
He nods emphatically.
"Okay…Do you always get hurt?" Your hand gently swipes at the bruise forming on his cheek.
"Yes," he answers honestly, "But I'll always try to get back home." he pushes back some of the hair from your face.
"Okay." you don't exactly seem reassured by his words— but he's always come home thus far. Whether it be after work, or a gala, or apparently, fighting crime in Gotham, he has always returned home to you. You have no reason to not believe him.
As you slowly drift off, you whisper. "I love you daddy. Be safe." His heart clenches once again, and he could almost get choked up. There's something about the way you operate this is just so inherently different from himself, in a good way, he thinks. He can only take a deep breath to steel his emotions. He's never been good at that— but he hopes he can be different with you. For you.
~
age: 13 years old
Alfred is the one to tell you. Not Bruce. That's enough to set you off.
"Your father has requested that you begin training." You stare at him, blinking. You're completely unamused.
"For what?"
Alfred hesitates to answer. Within seconds, you're bounding to the study where your father has been for hours, anger burning in your chest and just about ready to spill out at your nearest target. Of course he would make Alfred tell you. Of course this is how he chooses to continue on.
The door rattles when you slam it open. If you heard a crack in the perfect mahogany door you wouldn't care. Bruce's head immediately whips to you.
"You're making me train?" you demand. There's no greeting, no buildup. Straight into it. Something akin to surprise flickers across his face, but disappears just as quick. Ever stoic.
"I was going to discuss it with you, yes."
"Through Alfred, apparently." you snap. His face tightens just a little.
"That wasn't the intention."
"Then what was?"
He sets whatever he was working on aside, attention fully on you now. “I want you to be prepared,” he says.
"For what exactly?"
"For this city," he says your name so sharply you forget he never calls you by it, "For the realities of it."
"You mean like Jason was?" The silence is immediate, and certainly deafening. You were going there. You feel it hit him, but you don't relent.
"That didn't really work out for him, did it—"
"That's enough." It's firm and controlled, the tone of voice he only ever takes up with you when he's serious. Normally, it would be enough to stop you, but this time you keep going. You want to push. To get a reaction, to get something, anything, from him right now.
"From where I stand, it looks like you're trying to fix something that already happened."
Bruce's jaw tightens, the same way yours is tightened now. "I'm trying to make sure it doesn't happen again."
Something in your chest twists painfully at that.
“By doing what?” you demand. “Putting me through the same thing?”
“You will not be in the same position he was.”
“You don’t know that! You don't know what could happen to me at every given moment! You say you know what you're doing and that you've thought it through and then—" you cut yourself off, but it's too late. The implication is in the air.
"I will not lose you." he says. It should be comforting. He's actively trying to comfort you. Yet, the words do nothing for you. Mean nothing to you.
"You don't get to choose that for me. You certainly couldn't choose it for Jason." That lands harder. You see it this time, and you nearly find yourself relenting for his sake…But you’re too far in to stop now. You run your hands through your hair, the culmination of every emotion becoming a river creating canyons out of something that was once steady.
"I'm not going to let you turn me into some—"
Soldier. Some risk. You don't say that.
Bruce stands, slower, trying to be purposeful. "This isn't a punishment."
"That only makes it worse." you say honestly. A beat. Your voice doesn't soften, but it drops. "You think this will help you, but it won't." Bruce doesn’t answer right away— because he does think that. And that’s the problem.
You swallow hard, something tight and burning climbing up your throat. “I don’t want this,” you say, quieter now but no less firm. “I don’t want to do what you do.”
"You won't be." he replies, just as firm.
"Then why?" You press on.
"You need to know how to protect yourself in a world that will not hesitate to hurt you." You do your best to swallow down the lump in your throat. Your eyes sting from the sheer will you are putting in to not cry.
"The world has already hurt me." you say. It's softer.
Bruce doesn't speak. For a second, you hope that your dad will say something to make it better. Something that will fix this. He doesn't.
“I expect you in the training room tomorrow,” he says instead.
You stare at him. If you were in a cartoon, there'd be steam floating off of you. Fine. Bruce Wayne, maker of all important decisions, has chosen for you. He decides, and then you just have to deal with the consequences. You shake your head, heading towards the study door.
"I'm not Jason." you say, the words slipping out of your mouth.
"I know." Bruce says. It doesn't sound like an agreement. You don’t stay long enough to figure out what. You turn and leave, the door slamming harder than you intend behind you.
The second you're out of the room you run to your own, tears already streaming down your face. The yelling did fuck all to make you feel better. It didn't even fix the problem. Dick isn't home, Jason is dead— and he will never be back. Now you're stuck with that. Bruce will continue to act as if this is the best way to go about things. Like training will make you feel any safer or sure about his promise to keep coming home to you.
However,
You do show up the next morning to train. You glare daggers at your father as he tries to teach you defensive stances, and how to throw a punch. You hate this— you might even hate him— but you can't change how he grieves. In the sick, twisted, and emotionally repressed logic of your father, this is how he can keep you safe.
So you do it. Not because you want to or because you want to be okay with him— but because you can't get over the part of yourself that aches for him.
~
age: 16 years old
"Dad, your son is fucking crazy." Bruce heaves a heavy sigh, pinching his eyebrows in exhaustion at your words. He's sat in front of the batcomputer, working on a case, and you have chosen here to ambush him. He says your name in the familiar warning tone, but you continue in your rant.
The day that Damian got here, he had been silent. He never knocks— always just appearing out of thin air. To be fair, Cassandra had been the same way, but that was unintentional. This kid? He just materializes around you.
Then it was the blunt digs. The insults about your abilities, your intellect, even your posture— what ten year old cares about posture? You do your best to ignore it, really, you do, but it's been weeks and it has yet to relent. You're tired. You can tell the others are tired of it too. Another shift, another adjustment. One more petty insult that you should be taking in stride.
"He's adjusting." your father says. But you know that already.
"I know." You nod, one hand leaning onto the desk of the Batcomputer so that you can encase his attention. The words come easy. The feeling behind them doesn’t.
"He's had a very different upbringing." Bruce says. You deadpan at him, tone becoming slightly sharper.
"Yeah. I think I noticed that." You take in a deep breath in an attempt to chill, bring more softness to the front, like you're trying to level yourself out.
"I'm trying with him, really I am, but fuck he is giving me nothing in return." you stop in an attempt to find words to convey your feelings.
"My patience is wearing thin." you decide. That makes Bruce stop what he's doing.
"You've always been good at meeting people where they're at, sweetheart." he offers in return. You sigh, hand coming to run through your hair.
“Yeah,” you murmur. “I know.” It’s not agreement, not really. Bruce can tell. He waits for you to say how you're really feeling.
"It's just…a lot to ask from me. All the time." you admit. The words hang in the air for a little bit as he processes them. He shifts, then continues, his tone not defensive— but not entirely understanding either.
"He's a child." Bruce says, quieter.
"I know he is." You snap back in response. Your father pauses, shoulders looking just so slightly more tense. You reel it back. You didn't mean for it to be so sharp, but admittedly, you're at your limit.
"I just—" you shake your head lightly, trying to reset, "I'm trying to keep up. You keep bringing new kids in— and that's fine, I want to be good about it, and I try to…but it feels like I have to be good about it always, and I really don't want to make them feel unwelcome, but I can't be perfectly understanding and a role model when I am barely keeping my shit together…I guess…" you trail off. Your rant is spiraling into something that could be even more complicated.
"I don't want to get it wrong." You finish.
That’s the part that matters. Not the frustration, not even the resistance.
That.
Bruce’s gaze softens, just slightly, something more grounded settling in. "You're going to get it wrong." You whip your head to look at him, surprised by his words.
"Great. Amazing pep talk. I guess I'll go fuck myself—" You start, feet already heading towards the elevator, but Bruce stops you with both hands on your shoulders, turning you back around to face him.
"First of all, watch your language. Second of all, I don't say that to discourage you." He gestures towards the desk chair he was previously on. You dramatically plop down in the seat. He almost chuckles at the action.
"You have always had a lot of eyes on you. From the moment I brought you home, from when you were a toddler in my arms at galas. I know how you felt when I brought Tim home. I watched it play out. You were angry, and grieving, and then you became an older sister. I know that was hard for you."
You think about the time, just a couple years ago at this point, when Tim was adopted. You hate to think about it considering you were not a good sister. You were icing him out— scared to lose another sibling if you grew attached, and honestly? You hated no longer being the youngest. Your gaze falls to your hands as you think about it, but Bruce doesn't let you wallow in it for too long.
"But— you made the choice to be better. You realized you were being unfair, and you corrected it. Apologized, and proved to him that you are better than that."
"I didn't do a good job. It's hardly something to look up to, not like Dick." Bruce almosts laughs at that. You don't even seem to see the irony in this situation.
"Sweetheart, the point is that you did it. You changed. You learned. When Cass came you did considerably better…" He puts his hand on your head and shoulder, simultaneously correcting your posture and comforting you. He hates to see you look so closed in on yourself, unsure and not confident in your own abilities. His smart and kind little girl.
"I know it's not easy. I'm sorry that you are put back into a position of discomfort because Damian is here— but I know you. I'm not telling you to be nice to him because I expect kindness from you— but because you have shown just how compassionate you can be even when you're hurting."
He doesn't say the rest of it— how you are the only reason that he has learned how to model it. That you are the reason he knows what's good for the others. That it's because of you he even started adopting kids in the first place. He smooths down your hair in a comforting manner.
"You are going to get it wrong. Yet, it is you I trust to recover from it."
You close your eyes and nod, standing from the chair to wrap your arms around his torso. If Bruce is taken aback by the hug he doesn't show it. It feels like forever since you have initiated a hug. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head, like always, and lets you pull back first.
"…I'll be nicer tomorrow. I'll…get used to it. Eventually…Probably." you add lightly, just to lighten the mood a bit.
It earns the faintest shift in his expression.
“Thank you,” he says.
You nod, then slip back out of his embrace, and into the elevator back in the manor. Bruce sits back down at the batcomputer, thinking about you and Damian. He too, feels unsure about this. He silently wonders if having Damian here will continue to change the dynamic the both of you have now— but deep down he feels that Damian can adjust. That he too, despite his hard upbringing, can grow and become more like you…and hopefully a little less like him.
~
age: 18 years old
You have been posting content for a year now. Nothing too crazy— studying, getting ready with me's, anything really— and Bruce still knows nothing about it.
It's you senior year of high school, about a month out from graduating from Gotham Academy, and you're about to go to college. You'd already been accepted into GU, so you weren't scared…except for the fact that you have no idea what you're going to major in. After a long day, you're stumbling in the manor and up to your bedroom— something that does not go unnoticed by your father. You toss your bag somewhere and immediately flop down onto your back in your bed.
This uniform blazer is too tight around your shoulders. You should change. You force yourself out of bed just to put on a sweatshirt and sleep shorts, and then get back in bed. Your desk is a mess— you're gonna have to clean it later. Your head is pounding from staring at your computer all day. Maybe your bun is too tight? You try and let it out but nothing. Your makeup is still on, and you can't be bothered to wash your face. That's when you hear a knock, and then are met with the sight of your father.
"You alright? You look tired." You do nothing in response but hum. Wordlessly, he navigates into your ensuite bathroom, grabbing makeup remover and some cotton rounds. When he returns he holds them up.
"Can I?" You nod, letting him sit on the edge of your bed. He soaks a cotton round in remover and begins to gently swipe at your face, removing the makeup for you. When he finishes, you offer him a small smile.
"Thanks, dad."
He nods in response, letting his hands continue in your hair. This feels like a weekly ritual at this point. Sometimes, you will seek him out, or he will just show up. He likes to hear you talk about your day— you're his only normal child. The only one who is unburdened by the need to play vigilante.
"Have you thought about majors?" He asks curiously, but not pushing. He trusts you to find your own footing.
"Yeah. I'm just indecisive. There's so much I could be." Bruce listens calmly, but entirely focused on you. He doesn't offer any advice because you're not seeking it. Honestly, you're right. He knows you could be anything. Doctor, lawyer, artist, business, psychology, journalism. You're brilliant. Not just academically intelligent, but also emotionally. You have been vocalizing your emotions (and criticizing his lack there of) since you were young.
"Take your time. It's not a decision for tomorrow." You nod in understanding, heading his advice.
"I've been…posting videos online. They do well. It's fun too…not really related to this, but I thought you should know." He hadn’t known that. Not the details, anyway. He’d seen you filming sometimes—quietly in your room with lights set up, phone on a stand—but he assumed it was for school projects or something casual. He's intrigued. Truth be told, he's not very internet savvy.
"What kinds of videos?" He asks, curious. He's not being judgmental. His own people at Wayne Enterprises say he should be on social media but he can't really be bothered.
"I don't know. Studying. Life. Beauty." You try to shrug it off nonchalantly.
Bruce’s mind immediately jumped to logistics—audience, engagement, brand potential—because of course it did. But he quickly reined that in. This wasn’t a business pitch; this was his daughter’s passion.
"People like it?"
“Yeah, I think so. I like it too. I guess…” you pause, trying to figure out why you're bringing it up in the first place.
“I thought you should know. It’s like a big thing for me right now. Maybe it won’t be in a year but I care about it. I want to keep doing it, but it makes me worry too— cause it also reflects on you.”
"…You don't have to worry about that." Bruce has never cared what the headlines had to say about him. He had a team of people who would make something go away in a second if it were ever too slanderous, but he's never hit that point. Why dignify rumors with a response?
“I know. I guess i’m just thinking about what happens if I keep going— like visibility I guess. I’ve always been in the headlines but the headlines were about you.”
It's then that he understands what you're getting at. For 18 years you've been a Wayne— golden girl of Gotham Academy, daughter of the billionaire. Your name was only ever written in articles in mention. But this? Your content was entirely based around you. You are the personality that the audience keeps coming back for. You're right in the other regard too. High visibility comes with negatives too— Stalkers, online hate, paparazzi— and he understood. You were scared of being judged on your own character.
"I am not worried about how your presence online will affect the perception of me."
"Why not?"
"Because you are my daughter. If you want to post online I support you. I know you well enough to say that you have likely ran through the risks of it through your own mind millions of times— but you keep doing it. Don't you see why?"
And you did. You just needed the reassurance. Feeling a little bit more sure of yourself, you lean into him. The weight on your chest feels completely gone now. You're happy.
The next day, you tell the family at dinner how you decided to major in communications— a perfect fit for the online sensation you were quickly becoming. You studied branding, digital media strategy, public speaking… all while actually living it. Your content evolved alongside you, but more importantly, your platform became a way for you to champion and uplift others and yourself. The way you lit up and started to excitedly tell him about the invites you got for charity galas only made him that much more sure of what he was about to offer you next. A position at the Wayne Foundation.
~
age: 21 years old
You don't bother knocking on the study door. You honestly, never have. Bruce looks up the second you enter, taking in your facial expression. You seem okay— maybe a little frazzled, but okay, but the way you fidget with the rings on your fingers tells him something is up.
"You're still awake." You note, leaning against the fire place. There is no fire, but you can feel the warmth radiating off of it like it was just on.
"I could say the same."
You don't smile in return, which is how he knows something is really up. He gestures to the chair in front of his desk. You walk over but don't take a seat, putting your phone face down on his desk with a little more force than either of you anticipated. You shoot him an apologetic look, but all he does is sit a bit straighter.
"What happened?"
"There's a donor— covers three of our major programs, housing, sustainability, and waste management,— but they're tied to something. I don't know if it's necessarily something shady but I have a sneaking suspicion the money isn't as clean as it seems. If I keep them on it goes against the foundation's principles of serving our community for all people. Not just the ones who can afford it…"
"And if you don't keep them on?"
"The funding gets pulled immediately. Our most vulnerable beneficiaries get hurt. Programs get stalled, at least in the short term." You finally sit down, but your foot taps incessantly on the rug below you.
“I’ve already talked to legal. PR. They all gave me the same answer.”
“Which is?”
“To wait. Be careful. Don’t make a move without proof.” Bruce hums quietly.
“And you don’t agree?" he assumes. You snap back.
"Of course I don't agree. I've asked them to pull records, I have been searching news outlets, public declarations, court documents and it's just not adding up—" He raises a hand to cut you off, not in a rude way, but because it's clear you're spiraling.
Your arms cross, and you rein it back in. "So," you sight, "What would you do?" It's his turn to cross his arms. His brows furrow as he looks at you.
"You're asking me?"
"It's your foundation."
"Which you work at and play a major role in."
"You're the boss."
"This is your project as much as it's mine. You are in charge because I know you can handle it." You huff, frustrated by his lack of substantial response.
"Well I am doing a shit job of it right now, and I am looking for your advice." He leans back and studies you.
"What happens if you do nothing?" he asks again, to which you groan.
"I just told you—"
"Answer me." You exhale, annoyed, but say it again anyway.
"We keep our funding. Everything continues running as it should."
"And?" he presses.
"…And I ignore all the evidence that tells me I shouldn't trust this man."
"Which means?"
"…I'm allowing someone with our company who doesn't have pure intentions— that might actively be working againsst ehat we stand for." He nods in agreement.
"And if you cut them off?"
"We lose a major share holder. We have to find new ones. People are affected immediately." At this point, you know exactly where this conversation is going.
"And long term?" You look away, eyes flickering towards the portrait of your paternal grandparents above the fireplace's mantel. The very reason that the foundation was started was to honor their legacy as philanthropists. Two people who wanted what was best for the people of Gotham, and whose lives were stolen from them before they could see it through. Two people who despite only getting to raise your father for six years, taught him the value of humanity.
"…It shows that we actually practice the principles we push." There it is. You both know that it's settled as soon as you say the words. He doesn't tell you what to do— but you know which choice he believes is correct.
"You don't get both outcomes." he says. You huff out a laugh.
"I figured."
"You choose whichever consequence you can live with." He's kinda got you there. You know for a fact that it would keep you up at night to continue with receiving funds from the donor. Immediately, your mind jumps to optics and strategy— What will you need to do immediately in order to cover the losses?
You stare at the desk for a second, then nod slowly. “…Okay.”
Not confident, not comfortable, but decided. You reach for your phone again, ready to contact everyone. Bruce speaks again, just as you turn.
“You’ll need to move quickly.”
"I know."
He speaks quieter, "Not everyone is going to support you on this." You shrug, a little bit more determined.
"Then they're not people I want working with me." He nearly smiles at that, something in his face looking like approval. Maybe even pride. He nods one more time.
"Then your decision is final."
~
The next morning you hold an emergency meeting with your team. You give the leads a heads up, and sit them down for a very hard conversation about what was going to happen going forward. Decidedly, you stop receiving your own paycheck. It's not like this is the only source of income you have— and you'd much prefer that your employees are taken care of.
When the news goes public, you stop looking at the notifications. Emails, articles, comments on your personal social media unrelated to the foundation. You do your best to ignore it, the pre-written statements you did making their rounds. Yet, you can't shake the feeling. If you did what was right, why is this so hard?
You're currently sat in your office in the Wayne Foundations' building. Your phone is facedown, silenced, and out of your way. You're doing what you can— transferring funds, answering all emails, even preparing statement posts for your own social media accounts if it gets to that point. You hear a knock, followed by a familiar voice calling out to you. It's your father. You let him in.
“…You’re avoiding it.” he says simply.
"Great observation." You dont look up from your desk, doing your best to not dissociate when really all you want to do is crawl into your bed and never get out.
"Programs are slowing down. I decided it would be best to focus on housing." Silence. You take that as a sign to keep going.
"Staff is split. Half of them think I'm doing the right thing— the other half think I'm wasting years worth of efforts to the graveyard for the sake of optics." you shake your head softly, laughing quietly, "and the people who benefit? They don't understand the good it will do long term. They just know they don't have what they need now. They're scared. Fear makes way for anger because of a lack of knowing." That’s the part that sticks. Your voice dips slightly.
“I made a decision that hurt them.” you finally look at your father, waiting for a response.
"Yes." You blink, chest tightening.
"That's it?"
"Would you rather I tell you it didn't?"
"No," you say quickly, "I just—" You stop, because you don’t actually know what you want. He steps a little closer.
"You made a choice knowing what the consequences would be," he continues, "They're happening."
You exhale sharply. "Not helpful."
"It isn't…but it's honest."
You wait for a second, considering his words.
"I've been thinking about what you said. About choosing which consequences I could live with…" You glance down at your hands, playing with the rings once again.
"I thought I could."
"You are, sweetheart."
"Then why do I feel like shit?"
"You don't measure your choices based on how comfortable you feel after them," he walks around your desk to place a comforting hand on your shoulder. "You measure choices based on whether or not you'd make them again."
Your jaw tightens slightly, thinking about all the people whose lives you have affected. Right now it sucks, but you know for a fact you'd choose it all over again.
"I would." you say quietly.
"Than it's not the choice that's the problem." It makes you feel a little bit better.
"It still sucks."
"Of course it does." He agrees, squeezing you gently. "But you won't let it stay like this." You look up at him.
"I won't?"
"No. You're a Wayne. We learn to adapt. To pick up the pieces and rebuild despite all of the broken parts. You will find another way to support these people." He says the words like it's inevitable— like he truly knows exactly how this is going to play out. When you were a child, it felt like his certainty was a taunt, an expectation that you were sure you were going to fail. But now as an adult? You know that in some twisted, Bruce Wayne, way, this was him showing you just how much confidence he had in you.
You let out a little breath, slower this time. "Okay."
He gently leads you to lean into him, which you do happily.
It's not perfect, but it's yours.
a/n: the problem with me and writing fics is that I always get ideas for new fics in the process of writing and this one is no exception!! i will write them but if there's something interesting that you wanna know more about send a request in the inbox pleaseeeeee. thank you again for all the love! <3
Summary: six times you were there for your siblings, and one time they were there for you.
Pairing: batfam x it girl! batsis! reader
A/N: cute little (well, big lol) fic! originally was gonna be just the younger siblings but nah all of them love you. this is based on my it girl! headcannon's but can be read as a standalone without any of that contxt lol. reader is also bruce's bio daughter but is not just white (i am a woc, so it is important that my readers also fit for woc! if there's any issues with diversity in my fics pls let me know!) this is lowkey a crack fic at some points LOL
Word Count: 8.2k
Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to anything related to DC, I am merely a nerd who hyperfixates a lot. I do not consent for my works to be reuploaded on other websites, plagiarised, translated, or fed into AI media.
Warnings !: some physical injury, dick feels pressured to be perfect, jason is implied to have PTSD, jason's death is mentioned, self isolation, tim is tim, duke feels unsure of his place in the family, and reader is a baddie that struggles with balance.
You were so ready to get into bed and crash. It was almost 4 in the morning, and you had finally gotten home after spending the night at the Velvet Collective— some new bar that just opened in the nightlife part of southern Gotham. They were trying to gain some clout, and you could respect the hustle in that sense. Plus you got free booze, and music loud enough that you could feel the bass in your ears and chest which meant having a blast dancing.
When your car drops you off at the front of Wayne Manor, you instantly spot how your bedroom light is on. Weird. The rest of the family are supposed to end patrol right about now— but they usually come inside around 4:30 after taking their time to get back into civilian clothing. You frown, gripping your keys just a bit tighter.
Once you're inside, you don't really notice anything amiss in the halls. Alfred is there to greet you as always, and you make your way upstairs suspiciously. Pushing open your door you scan the room. The lights are still on, balcony door is slightly open, but nothing is touched. You know better than to assume it's one of your siblings— your father made sure of that— but it is the sight of a familiar blue domino on your desk that makes you relax a bit.
You start to take your heels off, leaving them on the floor neatly beside the door. "You're gonna let bugs in, bubs. Close my door all the way next time." You sigh in relief as your feet, now flat, hit the floor, and walk over to close your balcony door. It is then that you see Dick, randomly walking on his hands in your walk in closet.
"Bugs build character." He says cheekily, finally standing upright. He looks great, especially for someone who's been upside down for who knows how long before you got here. He's go the same, shit eating grin on his face as always. His escrima sticks are tucked into place on his back in an X shape. You raise your eyebrows in a sort of tired amusement.
"Did you leave patrol early?" Your hands make busy work of taking off all of your jewelry, going for the bracelets and earrings first. Dick, ever helpful, goes behind you to help you with your necklaces.
"No. The others are in the cave but I was bored. Wanted to see what you were up to." That sentence almost makes your brows furrow, but you manage to keep a neutral face as he hands you your necklaces. You put them back onto their organizers carefully. If Dick is seeking you out, it's usually to annoy you or to relax after something awful happened, and your sibling senses are going off. You avoid asking just yet, not wanting to assume.
"Did you eat?" You ask, walking out of the closet. Dick trails after you like a lost puppy, and you take a seat on the edge of your bed.
"Yeah."
"Liar." You roll your eyes, making a fuss of getting back up from your seat on the bed and walking across the room to where your desk is. There's a basket of various snacks over there along with a mini fridge, and you dig through it, eventually holding a bag of goldfish out to your older brother. He wordlessly takes it, the same smile never leaving his face. Weird.
For a while, you both sit in silence. The city hums and you think you can hear the rest of your siblings settling in their own bedrooms. Dick watches the city lights twinkle from your window, like he's supposed to be back out there.
"Everyone's getting better." He says finally. breaking the silence.
"Yeah?"
He nods with a hum. "All of them. Tim is sharp as ever. Cass's stealth is only getting better. Duke is getting his footing and Damian—"
"Is still a little bit crazy?" You joke. He laughs.
"I was going to say impressive." You smile at him.
"Same thing?" He smiles back, this time it feels a little forced.
"They all watch me, you know." You blink. This is not news to you. You can't tell why he says it, but it doesn't seem like a complaint. More like he's stating a fact.
"I know." You respond carefully, gauging his reaction.
He sighs, the goldfish wrapper crinkles in his hands as he fidgets. "I fucked up earlier." He admits quietly, pouring the goldfish into his mouth in one shot. The words intrigue you, and you gently take the wrapper from his hands and throw it into your trash bin.
"Dick," you sigh, but he starts talking again.
"I don't get to mess up. I can't afford to, not with these stakes not with everyone looking to me—" You cut him off with a raised hand. You don't see your older brother in this moment— only the very scared, anxious person that he can be even with all his confidence.
"Stop. You're a person. People fuck up."
"I know that-"
"No. You don't." You stare him dead in his eyes, and he breaks the eye contact, looking out to the city. Always so concerned about the city.
"I can't do it again."
"You will." He blinks, startled at your words.
You shrug, continuing to speak. "You're gonna fuck up again. So will our siblings. When it happens it's not on you. You do everything that you can for them, but you can't do everything for them." He studies her like he’s trying to decide if he’s allowed to believe that.
"You make everything look so easy."
"I make it all look intentional." You smirk, snapping your fingers and pointing finger guns at your brother. He can't help but laugh.
"Stay here. You can go back to Bludhaven in the morning."
"Awwwww is my little sister offering up her space? Do you want to cuddle?"
"God, no. I just spent, like, 7 hours in a club. You are not getting in my bed." He wraps his arms around you, and you groan.
"You smell like ass, go take a shower! How did Bruce Wayne raise such a clingy man?"
~
It was normal for Jason to keep to himself. Sure, he was a lot more open to family things now, but he also valued his privacy…arguably to his own detriment. Once it hit around week five with no word from Jason, and about a week of not showing up for patrol you couldn't hear the end of it. All of your siblings were talking to each other about it, but none of them knew what to do. Jason may be their older brother too, but they could feel the tension, the distance between the rest of you and Jason.
On the other hand, you had known Jason when he was alive the first time. You were ten when Bruce brought him home and 13 when he passed. Ever since then, you've been fighting to show him that you care.
Which is exactly how you end up in Crime Alley.
Jason had previously gone through great lengths to make sure that the rest of you didn't know where he lived, but you're admittedly stubborn. If you're trying to find Jason you will. It only took you a couple hours, and then you were on your way there, not mentioning your little trip to any of your family members.
Your knuckles rapt on the chipped paint of Jason's door frame. The hallways have a multifaceted smell of dank mold and smoke, and there's uncovered pipes that are burning hot to the touch. You swear you can hear rustling inside. "Jason?" You call out. You're not trying to be too loud on account of the other tenants, but you also need him to hear you. Silence, before someone calls back out.
"Go away." His voice is rough. Not angry, just a bit worn down.
You only knock some more. "You've been ignoring everyone's texts."
"Good."
"You stopped patrolling a week ago."
"Even better."
You press a hand flat against the wood, as if you could get through to him with the touch.
"Open the door." You say calmly. He replies back, voice a bit sharper.
"I said, go home." You roll your eyes, annoyed. You just want to be there for him…if he'd let you.
"I'm not going anywhere. I'll stand here all day if you don't let me in."
It takes a couple minutes after that, but the lock unclicks, and the door is opened just about halfway. You gently let yourself in, and then you're face to face with Jason.
He looks awful. He's normally pretty pale, but he looks even more pale than usual. You can't tell if it's just the lighting, but he's got some pretty noticeable dark circles. Your eyes asses him quickly. He's not injured, at least not that you can see, and he's breathing evenly. His eyes flick past you one time, two times, before finally going back to you. Always looking, always making sure that there's nobody else coming to cause harm.
"You came alone?" He asks, and you nod in response.
"Anyone know you're here?"
"Nope." There's a pause before he takes a step back, sitting on his couch that he is clearly too big for. There's little to no light in the room, the curtains are drawn and a single lamp is on next to the armchair across the couch.
The stats of his apartment seems to reflect his own mental state. Dark and closed off. It's not complete chaos, but there's trash scattered. It's quiet too, but not in a good way. You walk over to his curtains and let a little bit of light in.
"Have you slept at all?"
"Please don't start."
"So that's a no, then." You offer, walking over to his kitchen. You open up the cabinets and the refrigerator. Theres nothing really- in the cabinets there's some ramen noodles and in the fridge a pack of water bottles and a box of baking soda.
"You have nothing in here."
"Wasn't expecting company."
"So you weren't planning on eating either?" He doesn't answer the question. You sigh, and walk back over to him, pulling on his arm. The touch makes him flinch, and he desperately pulls his arm out of your grasp.
You realize that there's likely a reason he's been missing. You put your hands up, like you're trying to reassure a frightened child.
"Sorry, birdie. No touching. But get up. and go get dressed in some clean clothes. I'm buying you lunch."
"Don't-"
"Jason." He stops then. Not because you raised your voice at him, but because of the steady way you say his name. It's the kind of tone that makes him realize that you're not willing to let him sink.
"…Fine." He murmurs, standing up from the couch and retreating into his bedroom. It takes him a couple minutes to pull some new clothes on but when he does he already looks a little bit better. You hold your hand out for the keys to his motorcyc and he protests.
"No."
"Well it's either I drive or I hold onto you during the ride."
"It's fine…you just caught me off guard." He tries to play it off, but you take the keys anyway, and he lets you. He reluctantly hands you a helmet and you take it gratefully.
The ride to the diner is short. It's a typical 24/7 american diner— greasy comfort food, generally crazy customers, and some of the sweetest older waitresses you'll ever meet. When the two of you sit down at a booth, your order a burger and fries for both of you. When the food comes out, you intently watch him scarf it down. He's clearly starving.
"You gonna watch me the whole time?"
"Yes."
"Thats fucking weird."
"You're weird."
A beat passes, but he actually chuckles. It's a sound that frequently goes unused for him.
"You really don't tell them you were coming to see me?" He asks quietly, avoiding your gaze.
"No." You reply back, pushing your full plate to him. He clearly needs it more than you— and you can always order more. He takes it hesitantly, before putting another fry in his mouth.
"Why not?" You shrug.
"It's not about them." Silence fills the air between the both of you again, the ambient noise of the diner and its patrons the only thing filling it.
"You don't have to tell me anything, but if you want to…you can…You've been isolating, and overwhelmed." You don't tell him that you know why. That you can guess it's because that particular something from the past has been weighing on him with full force— he doesn't need to hear that right now. He just needs to not be alone.
Jason keeps his head down, looking at his plate. He keeps going until the second plate is cleared, eating like he's not gonna get food ever again. Your heart aches for him.
"It's stupid."
"It's not."
"It was just a—" He stops himself, eyes squeezed shut. You won't force him to talk. You won't be mad at him for pushing you away. You won't hurt him. He knows that.
"You gonna go home after this?" He pivots. He can't talk about it yet. He's not ready, you can tell.
"No."
"…I'm not very good company."
"Well it's not like I'm here for the stellar conversation." He shoots a deadpan look at you.
"You're so annoying."
"So I've heard." He lets a ghost of a smile take over his lips, leaning his head back against the red pleather of the booth. For the first time in a while, his eyes don't dart towards the nearby noises or the strangers on the street walking past the two of them outside. His breath evens once again.
He's not magically better, nothing in his life is ever so kind in that regard, but you think this is a good start.
~
You were doing homework in your room when Cass came inside. You never know when she comes in. Half the time it's as if she appeared out of thin air. One second it's just you and your CD player, writing notes on your tablet, and the next Cassandra is sitting on the edge of your bed, watching you silently. Unannounced, certainly unintruding, and always present.
When you finally turn around after hearing your bedframe squeak, you see her, perched quietly. "Hi." she says, eyes blinking at you. You can't help the fond smile that fills your face as you look at your younger sister.
"Hello." You answer like it's normal, because it is. You let her be silent for a moment before checking in.
"You alright?" You ask just to be sure. Knowing her, she wouldn't tell you otherwise, but you figure it's good to ask regardless. She nods her head, and signs to you in response. Long day. You hum in understanding, signing and speaking to her purely out of habit. You're well aware she can hear you, but you need the practice anyway.
"I'm almost finished. Do you want some tea?" You gesture to the empty mug sitting beside you. "It's chamomile. Good for relaxing." When she nods, you stand up to guide her to your ensuite bathroom where your kettle is plugged in. She follows with no hesitation, walking with you. You prepare the tea for her, unwrapping the bag and pouring the hot water in. You adjust a tea coozy around it as well to keep it warm for longer. She signs a quick thank you, before sitting back on your bed, mug in hand. Shes's completely content to watch you work for the time being, the soft scratching noise of your stylus against the tablet.
When you finish taking notes, you walk over to your bed, tablet still in hand and lay down on your stomach beside her. Gently nudging her knee, you gesture for her to look at the screen.
"The Gotham Ballet Theatre is doing a production of Firebird. Have you ever seen it?" You ask, showing her the digital flier for the event. Her eyes widen in barely contained excitement. She shakes her head, signing back to you. We go? You scoff, and sign back to her.
"Of course we can go! I knew you'd want to. They're doing it tomorrow at 7pm. It's only an hour, so you could still go to patrol too." She smiles at that, just buzzing with excitement.
"I'll get us tickets. Not sure if they still have some available…but I know people. We can get in no matter what. Do you wanna borrow something of mine to wear? Oh! You could also use one of your gala suits…this is so exciting. Give me like five minutes and I'll have it settled."
Cass's enthusiasm is only spurred on by yours. She watches on happily as you take a phone call with a "friend"of yours. She's always admired your ability to make things happen, always going out of your way to make her and the others happy. A pang of guilt washes through her, but she does her best to push it away. She knows that you'd only ever reassure her that this is what you want.
"Okay! Tickets are secured. I even managed to get us box seats!" You sit down beside her again. Cass carefully place the mug down onto your side table, and hesitantly signs her next words.
You do my hair and makeup? You can't help the way you gape at her. She's never been a fan of getting done up for events— really, you've booked some of the best stylists for her and she's always felt uncomfortable with it— but now she's asking you to do it? You could cry happy tears.
"I'd love to, Cassie. Are you sure you're okay with that?" She nods, insisting that she wants it.
The two of you spend the rest of your night planning your outfits to match. You don't doubt that there will be eyes on the two Wayne daughters, but you're not really concerned about it. All you want is to bring your sister out for a ballet. She deserves some fun too.
The next day, you get to work straightening her hair and styling her bangs. You do your best to go light on the makeup, because Cass doesnt like the feeling of cakiness on her face. By the time you're done, you hand her a little mirror. She stares at herself, like she isn't sure what to make of it. You gently squeeze her upper arm. "You look beautiful. You always do— but isn't it fun to just get done up every once in a while?" She makes eye contact with you through her reflection, nodding happily. You murmur a quick good, before showing her the outifts you talked about the night before.
For Cass, it's a white and gold vest and pants set. It fits perfectly and is cut in just the right ways. Her toned arms are on display, and you add a couple of gold accessories to match the clothes. For your outfit, you wear the exact same thing but in black and silver. Together, the pair of you are bound to turn heads. You look at the two of you in your full length mirror, smiling wide.
"I need a picture, we look so good!" You pull out your phone and Cass leans in a bit closer so that you both are in frame. Once you've snapped the picture, you squeal at it. "You need to let me post this tomorrow. We look so good! It'll be cute, I promise."
Cass watches you for a moment after you say that, but not at the picture—at you. You grin, nudging her shoulder lightly. “What do you think?”
She signs slowly, more deliberate than usual. Pretty. Both. Your smile softens a little. “Yeah.” But she doesn’t look back at your phone. Her hands move again, slower this time.
You… too much. Work. Smile. Talk.
You huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Occupational hazard.” Cass doesn’t react to the joke. She steps closer instead, lifting a hand to fix a piece of your hair, smoothing it back into place like it actually needed it.
Now. Together. Quiet, she signs. Your expression softens, something quieter settling in your chest. “Yeah,” you admit. “It is.”
She nods once, like that answers everything. Then she leans her head lightly against your shoulder.
You hesitate for half a second before relaxing into it, careful not to move too much. After everything—the calls, the planning, the constant talking—it’s nice to not have to fill the space for once. The city hums faintly outside your window, but neither of you pay it any mind. You just enjoy the quiet. Once you get to the theatre, it will be loud again.
~
It's another late night for you, currently bouncing between the tasks of practicing your presentation for your marketing class and writing a proposal for which charities you want the Wayne Foundation's funds to benefit for the year, when you hear your phone chime. It's on do not disturb, so it shouldn't be notifying you…unless it's one of your family members. You take off your blue light glasses, and walk over to where your phone is perched, picking it up. It's only about 11 pm, so it likely isn't a life or death message from your father or siblings who are still safe at home. You are proven right when you see the familiar icon of Tim's contact.
Are you free rn?
You furrow your eyebrows.
Door's unlocked.
You respond back, bringing your phone back with you to your desk. You begin typing away once again when you hear Tim opening your door.
"You are busy." He says simply, you roll your eyes, and stop typing.
"I can be not busy. What's up?" When you lay your eyes on him, he looks particularly put together, which raises a red flag in your mind. Usually when Tim looks very put together on the outside, it's because he's spiraling on the inside. You gesture towards the little seating area in front of your walk in closet, picking up your laptop and bringing it with you as you sit. Tim stands and starts pacing.
The silence lasts about a second before he starts yapping.
“I’ve been tracking this pattern—break-ins, but they’re not random, and I thought it was isolated at first but it’s not, it’s—there’s overlap, and if I’m right then it means—”
“Tim.”He keeps going.
“—which would explain the gaps but that doesn’t account for—”
“Tim.” That one makes him stop. He exhales, running a hand through his hair, messing it up.
"Sorry." He says quietly.
"You don't have to apologize. Just take a breath." You set your computer on the coffee table.
"I'm breathing fine." You simply shoot him a look. He chuckles in an hoarse way, his hands coming up again to rub at his face before finally plopping into the other chair. You watch him as he takes a couple deep breaths.
He looks at you, something sharper underneath the exhaustion now. “I just—” he starts, then stops, pressing his lips together. “If I don’t figure this out—”
“You will,” you cut in.
He shakes his head immediately. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“That I should’ve already,” he says, a little too quickly. “I missed something. There’s a gap and I can’t find it and if I can’t find it then—”
“Tim.” He hates it when you use that tone with him. It makes him feel like a child, which makes him feel powerless. You don't let him continue.
"You look like shit. You haven't gotten any sleep." He goes to argue with that, and you shut it down.
"A 15 minute nap does not count as going to sleep- it is a nap. Those are two completely different things. Do you even take breaks when you're stressing like this?" You know the answer is no.
"That's not relevant to this topic."
"It is to me." You stare at him, unwavering on your stance. He exhales sharply, his elbows going down to rest on his knees.
"I don't have time to slow down right now." You don't argue, you just look at him. Steady, and unimpressed by his behavior. He fidgets before looking away.
"Just tell me if I am overthinking this-"
"You are." You say plainly.
"I didn't even say any other details about the case, you literally have no idea what I am talking about."
"Yes. But I know you." You shrug. He just stares at you.
"So that's it?"
"That's it. Take a sec, stay in here if you like, pace a hole in the floor if you must. You'll think of it soon." You offer, picking your laptop back up and placing it in your lap.
"…Okay." He says in acceptance. He's not quite defeated, but he's accepted that this is what it is for now.
"Go make yourself some tea or something. You know where everything is in here." You say as you type, staring at your screen. Someone just emailed you about something going amiss with catering and now you have to handle it tomorrow morning with what will likely be a long phone call. Tim obliges, muttering a sarcastic "Yes ma'am." and making himself some tea. Once it's finished he takes his seat across from you again, sipping on his tea which, irittatingly enough, makes him relax a little into the seat.
"You look tired." He says suddenly.
You stop typing, but don't look up from your computer. "You came here to talk about you." He cups the mug in his hands and stares at you.
"I can multitask." He murmurs with a shrug. You brush off his concern by rolling your eyes, looking back up at him.
"I'm fine. Don't you have to get ready for patrol soon?" That is true. He should probably go, but he doesn't want to. He mentally files away how tired you look, and the incessant way you tell him you're okay. He hums, unconvinced, but not willing to push you right now.
"You can stay if you like. I'm sure you can miss one patrol to finish your case- it's supposed to help you guys right? Dad won't mind."
"You sure I'm not bothering you?"
"You always bother me. You should just commit to the bit." You joke, your gaze flicking away from your screen just to see his reaction. He, in turn, flips you off, which only makes you laugh. He can't help but join in on your laughter. It's just something that you always manage to do.
He actually does stay home for patrol that night. You let him use your white board, and once you've settled what you can with school and work— you give your input.
And wouldn't you know it? You were right. He did figure it out. All he needed was to pause.
~
"Alright everyone! Hi! Welcome in, we're gonna start in a second so people can slowly file in." The viewer count goes from 0 to 200k really quick. You're not surpised in the slightest— you've been posting about doing this stream for days— but it's always a little bit daunting.
You're currently sat at your vanity in your walk in closet, a large stack of various PR packages sitting in the background. You intend to open all of them on camera, try them out, but you're also doing a giveaway. There's some pop music playing in the background so the silence doesn't feel so intimidating.
"Okay, so I wanted to explain how this is gonna work first. There's a pinned comment from me in the chat that links to an online giveaway form. Essentially it's just gonna ask questions about what kind of products you like, sending in color matches so I can pick the products that are suitable, etcetera. PR is always really grand, and I obviously can't use all of these, so 20 of you will be recieving little care packages from me. If there's anything that I am not keeping, or not giving away to you all, it is going to be donated to Oasis which is a DV shelter for women and children in central Gotham. Now is also a good time to mention that all proceeds from the Wayne Foundation this year will be going to Oasis— so if you'd like to, I encourage you to donate or volunteer."
You smile cheerily at the camera, and start going through the packages one by one, giving your two cents about the various formulas, packaging, and literally anything that chat asks you. You get about an hour into the stream when you hear your closet door opening.
"Ugh no, yeah! I really liked their formula too, but their shade range was just…so not cute. For that reason alone, it's a no from me— Ope…someone's coming in…" You peek curiously around the corner to see Duke standing there.
"Oh— hi!" Your head moves out of frame, making the chat go wild, suspecting who it could be. Duke freezes, like he's been caught doing something wrong.
"I'm so sorry— I didn't know…" You cut him off with a heas shake, waving him over.
"You're fine! Come here." He hesitates. You try to get him to come again.
"Seriously, you're good." He hesitates again. You raise your eyebrows.
"Duke." That is all it takes to get him to walk over to you. He tries to stay out of frame, but you gently pull him in.
"Alright everybody, we have a special guest…" You mimic sing a royal entrance fanfare, giving twinkle fingers as he steps into frame.
"This is my brother Duke!" You say, like it's the most obvious news in the world. Duke shyly waves at the camera.
"Hi…everyone…" You chuckle a little bit, but shoot him a subtle look. You don't want to force him to be on camera if he's uncomfortable with it. He gives you a thumbs up, and you go right back into influencer mode. You read the comments on your phone, a lot of them gushing over how cute he is.
"Yes, yes, my little brother is adorable. Watch yourself with these marriage proposals, he's a child." You say in a joking tone, but Duke can tell you're not joking.
"Since you're here, do you wanna help me open a couple of these boxes? Some of them are ridiculously large." He nods shyly, ready to help you.
“This one?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah—let’s see what they sent.”
He flips it around, checking the label. “You get all of this at once?”
“Unfortunately,” you sigh dramatically. “It’s a hard life.” You say sarcastically. He puts the box down on the ground, and you attempt to rip the package open with the tape still off. Duke watches you struggle with it for a bit, before reaching over.
"Here." He says, and pops it open easily. You stare at him, gaze moving between him and the box. "Show off."
He spends the rest of the stream with you, and in the midst of it he relaxes, becoming a bit more goofy and comfortable.
“They’re asking if you have a skincare routine,” you say, scrolling.
“I—no?” he laughs, caught off guard.
“Drop the routine, Duke.”
“Water,” he says flatly. “And being unproblematic.”
“Period…but seriously, I should help you with a skincare routine—”
He watches you try on different products and laughs when you rant about things that you hate. He even gives his own opinions in what suit you, and interacts with the chat.
“They said that shade washes you out,” he says.
You gasp. “Rude.”
“They’re right.”
“Duke!” He laughs, softer this time—but easier.
It's fun and surprisingly, normal feeling. By the time you both have opened all the packages, you almost forget that you're even streaming. You both say your goodbyes to the viewers left, and end the live.
"I still feel bad for interrupting, I'm really sorry." You wave him off.
"It's alright. It was really fun getting to do it with someone!"
"I probably wasn't supposed to be there."
"Maybe not originally, but you're welcome to come bother me anytime. Everyone else does." You joke, but it seems like he's not completely reassured by it. Instead, you gently squeeze his arm.
"You're family. You need me, I'm there." Duke goes quiet for a second, like he's considering it.
"…Yeah." He says softly. Like he too is sure of it. He gestures to the now empty boxes, and the various organized piles on the floor.
"Can I help you break these down?" You blink, just a little surprised before a wide grin fills your face.
"Yes, actually. Please." He nods, and leans down to start grabbing at them, pulling them apart effortlessly.
The two of you spend the rest of that time talking and breaking down boxes. When Bruce sees the two of you, laughing and carrying armfuls of cardboard, he doesn't even question it. He's just happy to see that you're being yourself— and helping everyone to gain their footing in the house.
~
You're home in the manor when a phone call, once again, interrupts your thoughts. You're back on your tablet, creating the layout for event logistics and you nearly let the phone call go to voicemail—you've got enough shit to deal with—but when you see that the call is coming from Gotham Academy, you brace yourself.
Your mind instantly starts doing loops. Why would Gotham Academy be calling? Is it Duke? No, he's a perfect student. Gets along with classmates, natural leader, all the bullshit that teachers put on student's report cards. It has to be about Damian.
"Hello?"
"Hello. Am I speaking to Ms. Wayne?" A male voice comes through the speaker. You know it kind of, after all you too attended the academy.
"This is she."
"This is Gotham Academy. We're calling regarding Damian Wayne—"
You're already on your feet and grabbing your car keys. Tablet and computer abandoned as you rush downstairs.
When you arrive, the front desk is already quiet. The kind of quiet you hear when something bad has happened, and they staff is anticipating some kind of situation. You see Damian sitting in the hall behind the desk, posture perfect and hands folded in his lap. You can see a blue-ish bruise starting to form on his jaw, and you're instantly heated. Damian doesnt look up when you walk in, only the administrators do. One of them, the vice principal who spoke to you over the phone, addresses you.
"Thank you for coming in so quickly, Miss Wayne—"
"What happened to his face?" You point to your brother, which makes him look up, eyes watching you intently.
He exchanges glances with the female clerk behind the front desk. You survey the both of them.
"There was an altercation."
"I see that."
"It escalated…Damian's response was disproportionate." You almost laugh at the wording. You doubt that. He probably wouldn't have started a fight for no reason. You tilt your head, looking to Damian.
"Anything you want to add?" A beat. Then he replies, "They were wrong." Okay. A little cryptic, but fine, sure.
"I'm sure they were." You hum. The administrators do not take a liking to your casualness of the issue. The VP stutters.
"Regardless of how it started, this behavior is unacceptable. We expect—" You nod emphatically, and do your best to sound serious.
"I understand. It will be handled." With that, Damian stands and you do what you must as the acting guardian in this situation. After a few more formalities, you sign what needs to be signed, thank them for their time, and turn toward Damian.
“Come on.” he follows you immediately.
The car ride back to the manor is silent. Your hands on the wheel, and Damian's gaze is trained forward. You don't ask any questions, because you know he'll tell you in a little bit. You try not to stew in your anger at the prospect of somebody hurting your little brother.
"The boy initiated the confrontation." He says finally.
"I assumed as much." Your eyes flick over to him briefly. He's still sitting up straight, but his fists are curled on his thighs.
"They made a series of unfounded accusations."
"About?"
"…Our family. My mother, father, you. All of us."
"Ah." you nod in understanding. You've had to handle your fair share of rumors about the family as well. Hell, you are single-handedly protecting the Wayne reputation just by doing your socials.
"They were wrong. And I corrected them." He insists.
"With your fists." You offer.
"It was efficent."
"That's certainly one way to see it."
He shifts in the seat, pulling at his seatbelt. "…You disapprove?"
You consider it for a moment.
"I think," you say carefully, "there were other ways you could have handled it."
"They were ineffective." You let out an unsure sound, tilting your head side to side in a weighing motion.
"Debatable."
He exhales, looking out the window. You frown, eyes running over him.
"You hurt?"
"No."
"What about the bruise on your jaw?"
"It is minor."
"…I'm still gonna look at it when we get home." He clicks his tongue, seemingly unenthused by the idea, but he doesn't protest.
"Fine."
Back at the manor, you guide him into your bedroom, and sit him on the edge. You grab a first aid kit from the bathroom and an icepack from your mini fridge. Damian silently questions why you would keep such things in your room when you have a whole medbay in the cave, but he doesn't dare question you right now.
You stand between his knees, taking his chin in your hand and tilting it upwards to get a better look. He still sits a little bit too straight. You take some antiseptic and dap it on a small scratch where the bruise is forming.
"You're lucky he didn't get you in the eye."
“I was aware of my positioning.”
“I’m sure you were.” You wrap the icepack in a cloth and then press it up against his cheek. He does not flinch at the contact. You let silence linger for a moment before finally asking.
"You called me."
"I did."
"You could've called dad." You offer. He considers it for a moment.
"Father would have overreacted."
You hum in agreement. "Probably. I almost did."
Another pause.
“I required someone who would resolve the situation efficiently.” He says.
You smile slightly. “High praise.” You joke, hoping to get him to crack a smile. He is never really amused by you, but that wasn't gonna stop you from trying anyway.
“I did not say that.”
You laugh under your breath, finishing up and stepping back. “Hold still,” you add, adjusting the angle of his jaw one last time. He lets you do your final look.
"Could have called any other adult. You've got four other choices. Dick would have been good, maybe Tim."
"I didn't call them."
"I know." You don't need him to elaborate on his thought process. You're just glad you could help. Keep your siblings safe.
"Next time, try not to punch your classmate." You plead, handing him the icepack so he can ice his own face, and gathering all the supplies from the first aid kit.
"They should refrain from being incorrect." You can't help but laugh.
"You can't punch every idiot you come across. Believe me, i'd like to too."
"You handled that adequately." He compliments. or at least it seems like it is supposed to be a compliment.
"Adequately?"
"Effectively, then?" Good enough. You nod in agreement, accepting it. He stands, smoothing out his clothes. As he's about to leave, he says one more thing.
"…I knew you would not make it worse." To any outsider, the words could sound cruel, but you understand the weight behind them. You heart clenches in your chest just a little, and you turn your head.
"Anytime, Damian." He nods once, and then he's gone, quiet filling the space he had just taken up.
~
This is the third call you've taken in the past two hours. “—no, I understand the concern, but we’ve already accounted for that in the budget allocation. If we re-route the funds now, it’s going to affect—” You stare down at the spreadsheet open on your tablet, rereading it carefully. The numbers and words are starting to blend in to each other. With one hard blink, the blur goes away and you can read again.
"It's going to affect our outreach efforts," You manage smoothly, "which we are trying to avoid…" You listen to the voice on the other end, nodding as if they can see you. "Yeah. I'll finish the revisions and have it sent in by morning. Yup…okay…bye." You hang up the phone, already grabbing your tablet charger and setting up camp at your desk.
Your phone pings. Email notification. Then it pings again. Calendar notification for your exam at 2 tomorrow. Then a message. It's your manager. You put your phone down on the wood face down, and lean back in your desk chair. Your hands shoot to your head, and you take a deep breath.
There's still things that need to get done.
You open your laptop up, and get back to work. Revise the spreadsheet. Email them back. Study for your exam. Message your manager back. When one task finishes a new one takes its place, and you're back to square one.
~
The next day you take your exam, and you feel like it went alright. As soon as you're home you're striaght back into your bedroom. Tim overhears you on the phone with your logistics chair for the gala. He peeks his head to look at you but your door is slammed closed by the time he does.
Once the phonecall is over, you're working on your essay, tweaking and revising. It reminds you of the spreadsheet, so you jump back to that. You tweak things here and there, despite the fact that it was approved earlier in the day. It has to be perfect. It always has to be.
Your phone lights up again. The tiktok you filmed the other day and posted earlier is bowing up. Good. That reminds you, you need to send out the giveaway prizes by this Friday. You write it down in your planner. Your chest tightens just a bit, and you take another deep breath.
It's fine. You're fine.
~
Hours pass. It's 3 in the morning. You're standing in front of your vanity, just staring into your own reflection. What were you even doing? You stop, and turn around, leaving your closet and walking back into your bedroom. Your eyes linger on your desk. Right. That's what you are supposed to be doing.
You sit down at your desk, eyes roaming back to your phone. Maybe you should call someone. Dick, maybe? No. He's patrolling right now. All of them are patrolling right now. It's not the time to call them. You swallow thickly, and toss your phone onto your bed. You don't call.
~
Jesus christ. What time was it? For a second you wonder why it's so bright in here, only to realize it's daytime. Shit. Maybe you need to take a break? You refer back to your todo list. There's only three more things on there. You can handle three more things.
You stand up and sit on your bed to change up your work place, unaware that your phone that you threw here hours ago is lit up with several missed messages from your family members, and even a call from your father. You open your tablet and stare at the words in your report, reading the same line three times until you realize you have no idea what the hell this is about. Your grip tightens around the stylus.
"…Okay." You set it down. Then pick it back up. Focus. Focus. Focus—
Then your stylus slips out of your grip. It falls onto the mahogany hardwood floors with a clatter, and you can do nothing but stare at it.Something in your chest gives—not all at once, not dramatically, just… enough.
Enough that your shoulders drop.
Enough that you don’t immediately pick it back up.
Enough that you just sit there.
Staring at nothing.
~
You honestly have no idea how long you've been sitting there, staring at nothing. Maybe minutes, maybe hours. Time starts to melt into one big mess when you get like this. It's so quiet your ears are starting to ring.
Knock, knock, knock. Someone is here. Someone is knocking softly on your door. You don't answer, but it opens anyway. Then Dick is there.
"Hey—" He stops himself after taking a look at you. He approaches the bed where you are sitting, and tries again, but softer this time.
"Hey…" You blink, forcing a small smile to your older brother.
"Hi."
He does not buy it for a second. He doesn’t say anything about it, though. Just steps further into the room, slower now. “Door was open,” He says lightly. You hum, nodding in confirmation. Then, you hear another voice from the hall.
"Yo, is she in there or— oh." Jason. You close your eyes and smile for a second time.
"Hi." you say again, softer. Your older brothers share a glance but neither comment. Dick moves a little closer.
"What's going on?"
“Nothing,” you reply automatically. Jason snorts under his breath.
“Right.”
“Seriously, I’m fine.”
“You look like shit,” he says bluntly.
“Jason,” Dick mutters.
“What? She does.” You chuckle at that, your hands coming up to rub at your face. Before you can think of a response, another person slips into the room, and takes a seat beside you. She cups your face and turns it towards her. Cass. She surveys you with a frown, and you nearly push her away, but you really don't have the energy.
Tim comes in next. "You didn't answer your texts. I knew you looked worse lately." Dick pinches the bridge of his nose.
"Tim." Tim mouths what, his arms coming out to his sides in a questioning gesture. Jason chuckles again. Duke lingers in the doorway behind Tim.
“…Hey,” he says softly.
“Hi,” you manage.
And then— “…What happened?” Damian. Of course. He steps in last, gaze sharp and direct as it lands on you. You open your mouth, then close it.
“I just—” you start, then stop, shaking your head slightly. “It’s nothing. I’m just tired.” Six pairs of eyes look at you, but you don't feel judged. You know they're concerned.
"You're overwhelmed." Damian puts it plainly. You blink.
"Maybe."
Dick sighs, moving immediately. He picks up your stylus from the floor and hands it to Tim to set on the desk. "Okay. I think it's time for a mental health day."
"But my—"
"No." Jason says firmly, shaking his head. He walks over to the bed and takes a seat on the floor in front of it. Tim disappears into your bathroom, making you some tea while Duke grabs a pack of Goldfish from your snack basket. Cass takes a seat beside you on the bed. Damian watches all of it, then looks back at you.
“You give far more than you allow yourself to receive,” he says.
Your throat tightens. Tim comes back with tea at the right time, handing the mug to you.
“You’re allowed to need us too,” Dick adds, softer now. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.
And for once— you don’t argue. You don’t deflect or try to fix everyone. You just exist, and so do they. None of them make a move to leave. In fact, Damian tosses your TV remote to Jason, who puts on a random movie.
Outside, Gotham continues to demand things from each of you. But here, in the sanctity of your home, of your bedroom, there is peace. It's quiet. It's full. For the first time in forever, you let yourself breathe again.
A/N: This is the longest fic I have ever written. I hope ya'll liked this ending! I know its a little cheesy but I am a sucker for fluff and comfort. Thanks for reading!
I have read a lot of great Batfamily fanfics but it is so rare to find great Batfamily x reader fanfics and this is one of those rare fics for sure!!! 🥹❤️
very overwhelmed with the love for always forever! incredibly humbled as well. i would love to use this to tell yall that my asks are open if you’d like to use it to ask questions or make requests ! i am also working on a similarly played out style to this one but with bruce and reader throughout their lives. lmk if that’s interesting to yall :D
