Jason’s just gotten off patrol. As soon as he enters the apartment, he sees his moping girlfriend—snuggled in a fluffy pink robe, paired with a warm mug of tea. Her favourite soap opera is playing on the TV and she’s wearing her signature pout that has him biting back his amusement.
“What’s wrong, baby?” Jason pretends to ask, entertaining her daily drama. He pretends as if nothing is ever wrong, as if she doesn’t complain at every chance. And he pretends he doesn’t love to listen when it’s secretly his favourite thing to do.
“Everything, Jay! Everything’s wrong.”
“Tell me about it.”
Picking her up to straddle his lap, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. Jason hums contently like he’s paying attention when he’s really just enjoying gawking at his pretty doll huff and puff, a ‘serious’ knit on her face.
Tilting his head, Jason then continues to hide his grin as she begins to rant, telling him about her terrible day and all the people who did her wrong.
“First, the barista messed up my drink,” she frowns. “He gave me two pumps of caramel instead of one.”
“When I got to work, Lisa was being such a bitch. She told me my hair actually looks so good today, but they look great every day!”
“Then, then Jay, that’s not even the worst part!” Looking even more upset, she whines, “my parcel said its delivered, but when I came home, it wasn’t by the door!”
And of course, like the caring, dutiful boyfriend that he is, Jason plays the part of comforting her. He brushes a brisk kiss on her temple, thumb caressing at pink cheeks. “Oh no, my poor baby.”
It’s not like he means to sound condescending, but luckily, all ditzy and moody, she doesn’t notice.
Jason can’t help but find it a teensy bit ridiculous that whilst he’s busy beating drug lords and delinquents to a pulp, his girl has the privilege of sulking over a wrong coffee order.
In a way, it’s almost refreshing. Though mostly comical.
Yet, like always, Jason’s hands wander beneath her smooth robe and silken nightdress to find even softer skin. He flashes her a criminal smirk with a suggestive glint in his eyes.
“Let me help you feel better, yeah?”
“Have had such a bad day, lemme show you how you deserve to be spoiled.”
Despite her irrational moans and bad case of princess fever, Jason is sure to indulge his girl like no one else does.
The key clicked in the lock, a sound both familiar and strangely alien after weeks of metallic hisses and the dead silence of hard vacuum. Hal Jordan shouldered the apartment door open, the weight of it heavier than he remembered. The cool, still air inside hit him like a physical presence after the recycled sterility of the cruiser. Home. The word felt too small, too simple for the wave of exhaustion and something else – a raw, hollow ache – that crashed over him.
He dropped his duffel bag just inside the threshold. It landed with a dull thud on the hardwood floor, a lone artifact of the impossible distances he’d crossed. The muted greys and blues of his bedroom, visible through the open door, were a stark, welcome relief after the garish, alien light of the Vega system and the oppressive, fear-stained darkness that followed. It felt clean. Quiet. Real.
He didn't bother with the lights. Starlight, faint and diluted by city glow, filtered through the blinds, casting long, lean shadows. He moved on autopilot, shedding the civilian clothes that felt like a flimsy costume over the tension humming beneath his skin. A shower. He needed a shower. To scrub away the phantom grit of asteroid dust, the clinging scent of ionized plasma, the echo of screams that weren’t his own but echoed in his bones regardless. But first… stillness. He sank onto the edge of the king-sized bed, the dark linen sheets cool against his palms. He closed his eyes.
A chaotic montage flashed behind his lids. The sickly green pulse of a dying sun. The jagged silhouette of a pirate frigate against the void. The wide, terrified eyes of refugees packed into a transport hold. The brutal, methodical efficiency of the Red Lanterns. Rage made manifest. He’d pushed it down, compartmentalized. Focused on the mission parameters: secure the sector, protect the civilians, neutralize the threat. Singular mission. No distractions. No room for the tremble in his hands or the knot of dread in his gut.
Now, the silence of his own apartment was deafening. The adrenaline had bled out, leaving behind a profound, bone-deep weariness and a terrifying emptiness. He needed… connection. Proof he was still human. Proof warmth existed beyond the cold fury of the Power Ring.
The soft creak of the bedroom door hinge snapped his eyes open. You stood silhouetted there, backlit by the faint light from the living room. Hal’s breath hitched. Seeing you was like finding solid ground after freefall. Your expression shifted from tentative concern to something deeper, understanding the unspoken weight he carried in the slump of his shoulders, the shadows under his eyes.
"Hey," you murmured, your voice a soft anchor in the quiet room. "You made it back."
He didn't trust his voice. Just nodded, a sharp jerk of his chin. The ache intensified, a physical pull deep in his chest. He pushed himself off the bed, crossing the distance between you in two long strides. The smell of your shampoo, something clean and uniquely you, cut through the lingering phantom smells of space. It grounded him.
His hands found your waist, fingers digging in almost reflexively, needing to feel something solid, something real. You didn’t flinch. Your own hands came up, cool against the overheated skin of his neck, tracing the tense line of his jaw. There was no preamble, no slow burn. The raw need was too immediate, too overwhelming.
His lips crashed against yours. Not gentle, not teasing. Desperate. Possessive. A reclaiming. It was less a kiss and more an anchor point, a frantic connection to something vital he’d been starved of in the vast, indifferent cold. Weeks of tension, fear, and isolation poured into that contact. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting the familiar warmth of you, a stark contrast to the recycled water and nutrient paste rations. He groaned, the sound low and ragged, muffled against your lips.
"Hal," you breathed when he pulled back just enough to gasp for air, your forehead resting against his.
He didn’t answer. Couldn’t. His name on your lips, whispered like that? It unraveled the last thread of control. His hands moved urgently, sliding up your back, bunching the fabric of your shirt, needing skin. He fumbled with buttons, his usually precise Lantern coordination abandoned. The shirt gave way. His palms flattened against the smooth plane of your back, pulling you impossibly closer, erasing any space between you. The heat of your skin seared him, a welcome brand.
"Missed you," he managed, the words rough, scraped from his throat. They felt inadequate. Monumentally insufficient. He buried his face in the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply, grounding himself in the scent of your skin, the solidity of your body against his. "God, missed this." His lips trailed hot, open-mouthed kisses along your collarbone, teeth grazing lightly, needing to map every inch, to confirm you were real and here.
You arched into him, a soft sigh escaping. Your fingers tangled in his short hair, holding him close. "I know," you whispered. "I felt it. Every time you were gone. Every silence."
He lifted his head, meeting your eyes in the dimness. The starlight caught the flecks of green in his own, usually so bright, now shadowed with something deeper than fatigue. Pain. Relief. A vulnerability he rarely showed. He saw your understanding reflected back, a mirror to his own ache. It shattered something inside him.
His kiss this time was different. Still hungry, still claiming, but laced with a profound, aching tenderness. Slower, deeper. A silent conversation of shared absence, shared relief. His hands slid down, gripping your hips, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist as he carried you the few steps to the bed.
He laid you down amidst the cool, dark sheets, following you down, his body covering yours. The weight, the heat, the presence of him was overwhelming. His hands were everywhere now – sliding up your thighs, tracing the curve of your waist, skimming the swell of your breasts. Every touch was a rediscovery, a desperate cataloging. His thumbs brushed your nipples, drawing a gasp from you that ignited a fresh wave of heat in his blood.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice thick. He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze tracing your form in the faint light. It wasn't just desire; it was near reverence. "So damn perfect. Real." He leaned down, his mouth replacing his thumb, sucking gently, then harder, his tongue swirling. You cried out, fingers tightening in his hair. The sound, raw and unrestrained, shot straight to his core.
He moved lower, his lips blazing a trail down your stomach. His hands hooked into the waistband of your pants, dragging them down your legs with impatient urgency. The air was cool on your exposed skin, but his breath was hotter. He paused, looking up the length of your body, his gaze dark, intense, possessive. "Mine," he growled, the single word rough with emotion. Then he lowered his head.
The first touch of his tongue drew a choked gasp from you. Your back arched off the bed. Hal groaned against you, the vibration sending shockwaves through you both. He wasn't gentle. He was thorough. Devouring. Like a man starved, relearning a taste he thought he might never have again. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you open, his mouth working with a focused intensity that left you trembling, breathless cries escaping with every stroke, every suck.
"Hal... God... please..." you begged, the words dissolving into incoherent moans.
He didn't let up. He drove you relentlessly towards the edge, his own need a secondary pulse beneath the fierce focus on yours. He needed to see you come apart, needed the proof of life, of pleasure, of connection in the face of the death and destruction he'd witnessed. When your body finally clenched, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as the climax crashed over you, Hal watched, mesmerized. The tremors running through you, the way your fingers scrabbled against the sheets, the absolute surrender – it was the most grounding, human thing he'd experienced in weeks.
Only then, as the aftershocks still shuddered through you, did he move. He stripped off the rest of his clothes with clumsy haste and settled between your legs. He was hard, aching, the urgency returning now, sharpened by the sight of you undone beneath him. He positioned himself, his gaze locked on yours. There was a question there, beneath the raw need. A silent check-in.
You reached up, cupping his cheek, your thumb brushing over the stubble. "Yes," you breathed. "Hal. Now."
He thrust into you in one deep, powerful stroke, burying himself to the hilt. A low, guttural groan ripped from his chest, an animal sound of pure relief and overwhelming sensation. Tight. Hot. Alive. He held himself still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. The feeling of being sheathed inside you, surrounded by your warmth, after the cold, empty void... it was almost too much. A tremor ran through him.
"Christ," he choked out. "Feels like... coming home." He kissed you again, slow and deep, tasting himself on your lips. Then he began to move.
There was no finesse, no practiced rhythm. Just raw, driving need. Deep, powerful thrusts that pushed you up the bed, the headboard thudding softly against the wall. His hands gripped your hips, fingers digging in, holding you exactly where he needed you. Every slide in was a reclamation, every withdrawal a promise of return. He buried his face in your neck again, murmuring your name against your skin like a prayer, over and over. "So good... you feel... needed this... needed you..."
You met his intensity, nails raking down his sweat-slicked spine, legs locked around him, pulling him deeper. The sounds you made, gasps and moans mingling with his ragged breaths, filled the quiet room, erasing the echoes of alien screams. The physicality of it, the sheer, overwhelming sensation, was a lifeline. The tension that had been a constant knot in his gut since the first distress call began to unravel, replaced by a building heat, a desperate climb.
"Look at me," you gasped.
He lifted his head, his eyes blazing with an intensity that was almost frightening. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripped onto your chest. His thrusts became harder, faster, losing their rhythm, driven purely by instinct and the desperate need for release. The bed frame protested. The connection was electric, primal. He was teetering on the edge, the pressure coiling unbearably tight in his core. The void, the fear, the relentless focus of the mission – it all seemed to funnel into this single point, this desperate joining.
"Come with me," he demanded, his voice strained, raw. "Now."
The command, the sheer vulnerability beneath it, pushed you over. Your body clenched around him, a second, stronger wave crashing through you. The feeling of your muscles tightening, the sharp cry ripped from your throat, was the final trigger. Hal’s control shattered.
He drove into you one final, shattering time, his body locking rigid. A harsh, wordless cry tore from his throat as the climax detonated through him. It wasn't just pleasure; it was a release of weeks of pent-up tension, fear, and isolation – a violent expulsion of the void. He collapsed onto you, his weight heavy and welcome, burying his face in the crook of your neck. His breath came in ragged, shuddering gasps that vibrated against your skin. He felt boneless, spent, the frantic energy drained away, leaving a profound stillness in its wake.
Silence settled over the room, thick and warm, punctuated only by the heavy rhythm of your combined breathing and the distant, muffled thump of the city outside. Hal didn't move. His arms tightened around you, holding you close as if afraid you might dissolve. He pressed a soft, lingering kiss to the sweat-damp skin below your ear. The raw edge had dulled, replaced by a deep, trembling exhaustion and a fragile sense of peace.
"You okay?" you whispered after a long moment, your hand stroking slowly up and down his back. The concern in your voice was gentle, grounding.
He lifted his head just enough to meet your eyes. The frantic need was gone from his gaze, replaced by a weary tenderness and a vulnerability that still felt unfamiliar on his features. He managed a small, shaky nod, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Yeah," he rasped. His voice was wrecked. "We’re okay?" The question was quiet, carrying the weight of everything unsaid – the mission, the fear, the loneliness.
The manor was quiet — the kind of quiet that felt almost sacred.
Far beyond its tall, stone walls, Gotham still pulsed with restless life: the low hum of traffic, the distant wail of sirens, the faint electric crackle of a city that never really slept. But here, in the heart of Wayne Manor, the air was still and heavy with the lingering scent of rain on the gardens outside. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked with slow, measured patience, the sound echoing through rooms so vast they seemed to swallow it whole.
It was well past three in the morning.
And still, you waited.
The fire in the sitting room had burned low, the logs collapsing into glowing embers that cast trembling ribbons of orange across the polished floorboards. You sat curled on the end of the long couch, a soft blanket wrapped around your shoulders, your legs tucked beneath you. The mug of cocoa in your hands had long gone tepid, but you held it anyway — for warmth, for comfort, for something to do with your hands while you listened to the house breathe.
There was something strange about waiting for him — something simultaneously unbearable and grounding. You hated the empty hours between midnight and dawn, when every creak of the old mansion could be a footstep or an echo, when you caught yourself straining to hear the sound of the Batmobile’s distant growl. But you also knew this was what you were made for — the stillness after his chaos, the calm he came home to.
When the hidden door behind the grandfather clock finally slid open, you didn’t jump. The faint whirr of the mechanism, the soft hiss of the stone giving way to shadow — you knew those sounds like your own heartbeat.
You didn’t look up right away. You simply smiled faintly into the flicker of the fire.
“Rough night?”
There was a beat of silence — one of those pauses he always took, as if calculating how much truth you could handle tonight. Then came the familiar sound of boots against wood, deliberate and heavy, followed by the low scrape of armor plates brushing together as he moved.
“Define rough,” Bruce’s voice said finally, low and dry, the hint of amusement tugging at the corners of words weighed down by exhaustion.
You turned then, and there he was — half shadow, half man. The cowl was gone, tucked loosely under one arm, and his hair was a dark, damp mess, the curls flattened by sweat and rain. His jaw was rough with stubble, and the faintest streak of blood cut across his cheekbone — already drying, nothing serious, but it made your chest tighten anyway. The cape dragged slightly along the floor behind him, heavy with the damp of the night.
You let your gaze linger on him for a moment — the tired slope of his shoulders, the quiet in his eyes — and then you sighed softly. “You look like someone picked a fight with a wall.”
His lips twitched. “The wall won.”
You patted the space beside you on the couch. “Come here before you fall asleep standing up.”
For a moment, he hesitated — a lifetime of discipline, of walls built against everything soft, making even a simple act like sitting down beside you feel like surrender. But then he exhaled, and the faintest smile ghosted across his face before he crossed the room, each step slow, deliberate, silent despite his size. The armor creaked faintly as he lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the weight of him shifting the cushions so that you automatically tilted toward his warmth.
You set your mug aside and turned toward him, tucking one leg beneath yourself. “Did Alfred patch you up?”
“He tried,” Bruce said, running a hand through his hair. “I told him to get some rest.”
You arched a brow. “And you’re avoiding medical care again because…?”
“Because I’ve had worse.”
“Of course you have.” You gave him a small, indulgent smile. “You’ve probably said that after every bone you’ve ever broken.”
Bruce’s lips quirked again, just faintly. “You’re getting sarcastic.”
“You bring it out in me.” You leaned closer, voice softening. “Hold still, would you?”
He blinked, confused for a moment, until you reached up and brushed your thumb along his cheek, wiping away a faint smear of dried blood. His breath caught, just barely, at the touch — and something in his shoulders seemed to unravel. You took that as permission and began to work at the clasps of his armor, one by one.
The clicks echoed softly through the room, a slow rhythm, almost tender. You’d done this a hundred times before — helping him peel away the persona, layer by layer, until only the man remained beneath it all. When the final piece fell away, you set it gently aside and let your fingertips rest against the now-exposed fabric of his undersuit, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“There,” you murmured. “Better.”
Bruce’s voice was quieter now. “Do I look less terrifying?”
“You look like my husband again,” you said, smiling softly. “Though I can’t say the whole brooding thing doesn’t work for you.”
He chuckled lowly — that deep, rare sound that felt like the reward for every hour you’d ever waited up for him — and leaned back into the couch. “You have terrible taste.”
“Maybe.” You tucked yourself against his side, pulling the blanket around you both. “But I think it’s working out for me.”
For a long while, you just sat there, pressed against him. The fire popped quietly, and the glow danced across his face, softening the sharpness that Gotham demanded of him. You could feel the faint tremor in his muscles beneath your hand — not weakness, but the aftershock of adrenaline leaving his system. His arm came up around you, slow, hesitant at first, and then firm, his hand resting at your waist like an anchor.
“Do you ever wish you could stop?” you asked eventually, your voice so quiet it almost vanished into the hum of the fire. “Just… one night where Gotham doesn’t need you?”
He didn’t answer right away. He rarely did. You could almost hear the thoughts shifting behind his eyes — that constant calculation, that unyielding instinct to protect, to fix, to fight.
Finally, he spoke. “Sometimes. But then I remember what happens when I do.”
You frowned slightly. “Bruce—”
He turned his head, just enough that his breath brushed against your hair. “I stop,” he said quietly. “When I come home to you.”
The words hit harder than he probably meant them to. You felt your throat tighten, the edges of your heart melting just a little under the weight of them.
“That’s not fair,” you whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t just say something like that at three in the morning when I’m half asleep.”
He smiled, just enough that you felt it against your temple. “You asked.”
You made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, curling closer to him. “You win.”
“I usually do.”
“Don’t push it, Batman.”
His laugh — quiet, real, and warm — rumbled through his chest. The sound made something deep inside you unclench. You rested your head against him, your body sinking into his warmth as if it was the only safe place left in the world.
Outside, rain began to fall again, soft and steady against the windows. The sound of it was hypnotic — the perfect lullaby for a night like this. Bruce’s hand moved idly against your back, drawing slow, lazy circles, the roughness of his fingers gentle in a way that never failed to undo you.
“You should sleep,” he murmured after a long while.
“So should you.”
“I will,” he said. “Right here.”
And for once, you believed him.
Because Gotham could wait — for a few hours, for one night, for however long it took for Bruce Wayne to simply exist without the mask, without the weight, without the noise.
In the end, you both drifted off like that — the fire low, the rain whispering against the glass, and the first faint hint of dawn beginning to touch the sky. And though the world outside would wake soon, heavy with its usual chaos, inside Wayne Manor, there was only peace — the kind that could only be found in the spaces between battles, in the quiet heartbeats shared after the night had finally ended.
And in that fragile, perfect stillness, Bruce Wayne slept — not as Gotham’s vigilante, but as a man who, for a little while, was home.
The manor was quiet — the kind of quiet that felt almost sacred.
Far beyond its tall, stone walls, Gotham still pulsed with restless life: the low hum of traffic, the distant wail of sirens, the faint electric crackle of a city that never really slept. But here, in the heart of Wayne Manor, the air was still and heavy with the lingering scent of rain on the gardens outside. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked with slow, measured patience, the sound echoing through rooms so vast they seemed to swallow it whole.
It was well past three in the morning.
And still, you waited.
The fire in the sitting room had burned low, the logs collapsing into glowing embers that cast trembling ribbons of orange across the polished floorboards. You sat curled on the end of the long couch, a soft blanket wrapped around your shoulders, your legs tucked beneath you. The mug of cocoa in your hands had long gone tepid, but you held it anyway — for warmth, for comfort, for something to do with your hands while you listened to the house breathe.
There was something strange about waiting for him — something simultaneously unbearable and grounding. You hated the empty hours between midnight and dawn, when every creak of the old mansion could be a footstep or an echo, when you caught yourself straining to hear the sound of the Batmobile’s distant growl. But you also knew this was what you were made for — the stillness after his chaos, the calm he came home to.
When the hidden door behind the grandfather clock finally slid open, you didn’t jump. The faint whirr of the mechanism, the soft hiss of the stone giving way to shadow — you knew those sounds like your own heartbeat.
You didn’t look up right away. You simply smiled faintly into the flicker of the fire.
“Rough night?”
There was a beat of silence — one of those pauses he always took, as if calculating how much truth you could handle tonight. Then came the familiar sound of boots against wood, deliberate and heavy, followed by the low scrape of armor plates brushing together as he moved.
“Define rough,” Bruce’s voice said finally, low and dry, the hint of amusement tugging at the corners of words weighed down by exhaustion.
You turned then, and there he was — half shadow, half man. The cowl was gone, tucked loosely under one arm, and his hair was a dark, damp mess, the curls flattened by sweat and rain. His jaw was rough with stubble, and the faintest streak of blood cut across his cheekbone — already drying, nothing serious, but it made your chest tighten anyway. The cape dragged slightly along the floor behind him, heavy with the damp of the night.
You let your gaze linger on him for a moment — the tired slope of his shoulders, the quiet in his eyes — and then you sighed softly. “You look like someone picked a fight with a wall.”
His lips twitched. “The wall won.”
You patted the space beside you on the couch. “Come here before you fall asleep standing up.”
For a moment, he hesitated — a lifetime of discipline, of walls built against everything soft, making even a simple act like sitting down beside you feel like surrender. But then he exhaled, and the faintest smile ghosted across his face before he crossed the room, each step slow, deliberate, silent despite his size. The armor creaked faintly as he lowered himself onto the couch beside you, the weight of him shifting the cushions so that you automatically tilted toward his warmth.
You set your mug aside and turned toward him, tucking one leg beneath yourself. “Did Alfred patch you up?”
“He tried,” Bruce said, running a hand through his hair. “I told him to get some rest.”
You arched a brow. “And you’re avoiding medical care again because…?”
“Because I’ve had worse.”
“Of course you have.” You gave him a small, indulgent smile. “You’ve probably said that after every bone you’ve ever broken.”
Bruce’s lips quirked again, just faintly. “You’re getting sarcastic.”
“You bring it out in me.” You leaned closer, voice softening. “Hold still, would you?”
He blinked, confused for a moment, until you reached up and brushed your thumb along his cheek, wiping away a faint smear of dried blood. His breath caught, just barely, at the touch — and something in his shoulders seemed to unravel. You took that as permission and began to work at the clasps of his armor, one by one.
The clicks echoed softly through the room, a slow rhythm, almost tender. You’d done this a hundred times before — helping him peel away the persona, layer by layer, until only the man remained beneath it all. When the final piece fell away, you set it gently aside and let your fingertips rest against the now-exposed fabric of his undersuit, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest.
“There,” you murmured. “Better.”
Bruce’s voice was quieter now. “Do I look less terrifying?”
“You look like my husband again,” you said, smiling softly. “Though I can’t say the whole brooding thing doesn’t work for you.”
He chuckled lowly — that deep, rare sound that felt like the reward for every hour you’d ever waited up for him — and leaned back into the couch. “You have terrible taste.”
“Maybe.” You tucked yourself against his side, pulling the blanket around you both. “But I think it’s working out for me.”
For a long while, you just sat there, pressed against him. The fire popped quietly, and the glow danced across his face, softening the sharpness that Gotham demanded of him. You could feel the faint tremor in his muscles beneath your hand — not weakness, but the aftershock of adrenaline leaving his system. His arm came up around you, slow, hesitant at first, and then firm, his hand resting at your waist like an anchor.
“Do you ever wish you could stop?” you asked eventually, your voice so quiet it almost vanished into the hum of the fire. “Just… one night where Gotham doesn’t need you?”
He didn’t answer right away. He rarely did. You could almost hear the thoughts shifting behind his eyes — that constant calculation, that unyielding instinct to protect, to fix, to fight.
Finally, he spoke. “Sometimes. But then I remember what happens when I do.”
You frowned slightly. “Bruce—”
He turned his head, just enough that his breath brushed against your hair. “I stop,” he said quietly. “When I come home to you.”
The words hit harder than he probably meant them to. You felt your throat tighten, the edges of your heart melting just a little under the weight of them.
“That’s not fair,” you whispered.
“Why not?”
“Because you can’t just say something like that at three in the morning when I’m half asleep.”
He smiled, just enough that you felt it against your temple. “You asked.”
You made a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh, curling closer to him. “You win.”
“I usually do.”
“Don’t push it, Batman.”
His laugh — quiet, real, and warm — rumbled through his chest. The sound made something deep inside you unclench. You rested your head against him, your body sinking into his warmth as if it was the only safe place left in the world.
Outside, rain began to fall again, soft and steady against the windows. The sound of it was hypnotic — the perfect lullaby for a night like this. Bruce’s hand moved idly against your back, drawing slow, lazy circles, the roughness of his fingers gentle in a way that never failed to undo you.
“You should sleep,” he murmured after a long while.
“So should you.”
“I will,” he said. “Right here.”
And for once, you believed him.
Because Gotham could wait — for a few hours, for one night, for however long it took for Bruce Wayne to simply exist without the mask, without the weight, without the noise.
In the end, you both drifted off like that — the fire low, the rain whispering against the glass, and the first faint hint of dawn beginning to touch the sky. And though the world outside would wake soon, heavy with its usual chaos, inside Wayne Manor, there was only peace — the kind that could only be found in the spaces between battles, in the quiet heartbeats shared after the night had finally ended.
And in that fragile, perfect stillness, Bruce Wayne slept — not as Gotham’s vigilante, but as a man who, for a little while, was home.
Caution: Contains very explicit themes, 18+ content. Read with caution.
I warned you....
-----------
Dick turned on the lights in his apartment as soon as he got back from the patrol car. He smiled and went straight to his closet, taking off his suit and putting on comfortable pants and a soft t-shirt that were lying around.
When he opened the closet, he smiled even more at the sight of you.
You were trembling as you let out small gasps that were muffled by the silicone ball gag that was securely strapped to your face. You were blindfolded and wearing noise-cancelling headphones. You shivered when Dick yanked the headphones off.
—"Shhh... don't be scared, baby. Daddy's here"— he laughed as he picked you up and carried you to the living room.
You learned not to struggle. I knew that if you tried to fight against your bonds, the consequences would be worse. Any kind of struggle would be punished.
I placed you on the rug and stroked your head.
—"Be good today, Daddy's tired"— I whispered in your ear as I removed the blindfold.
The light burned your retinas; it had been more than 12 hours since he covered your eyes. He laughed when he saw you squeezing your eyes shut, trying to get used to it. He rubbed your eyes with his warm fingers. You moaned under the gag and tried to pull away. But you stayed still and just squeezed your eyelids shut.
—"Don't be like that, I'm just trying to help you... come on, open your eyes now."
You slowly began to open your eyes. The first thing you saw was the legs of the couch. He grabbed your jaw and turned your head so you could see them.
—"So pretty..."
He went to get something, and when he came back, he grabbed your shoulders and made you kneel. It was something he always did since you couldn't stand up on your own with your hands behind your back. He sat on the couch in front of you. While you were kneeling in front of him, he showed you the ring gag he wanted to put on you, and his hands went to the gag you had on.
You stepped back; you didn't want to have to use that uncomfortable gag again. The silicone gag you had was already uncomfortable, but the ring gag was even worse. You wouldn't let him change the gag.
—"Come on, be good and I'll feed you after this. I swear I'd like to feed you now, but I don't want you throwing up on me mid-blowjob."— He tried to remove the gag you had on; you moved away again.
Dick sighed and laughed. You swallowed, then started to cry. Anything to avoid the punishment that was coming.
—"You asked for it."
He grabbed you and laid you face down on his lap. He lifted your skirt and pulled down your panties. You felt him put moisturizer on his hands and then you felt him massaging the flesh of your buttocks.
You moaned through the gag and tried to move away. But he placed one of his hands on your lower back.
—"I was thinking of 20 spanks, but now it'll be 70... Enjoy them, you little bitch."
The first spank hurt like hell, the second was torture, the third made you cry, and the seventieth almost made you faint. Your ass was burning. You sobbed as Dick caressed your buttocks.
—"They look like two caramel apples. Do you feel more obedient?"
You didn't answer, so Dick spanked you to get a reaction out of you.
You nodded quickly, and he laughed. One of his fingers went to your wet pussy and removed the vibrators you'd been wearing and torturing you all day.
—"Looks like you had a good day. It's my turn now, right?"
He left you kneeling on the floor in front of him, trembling with fear, color, and cold. He removed the gag and wiped the snot from your nose with a paper napkin.
—"Open up"— his voice sounded different. You opened your mouth and let him put the ring gag on you.—"Perfect."
Dick leaned down and kissed you, dipped his tongue into the hole of the ring gag, and touched the stump of your tongue with his own. When he pulled away, he unbuttoned his pants and pulled out his penis. He grabbed the back of your neck to pull you closer, and lightly tapped your cheek with his member.
—"You'll be able to do it all, and you'll do it right."
That wasn't a question; it was a statement and an order.
His cock entered your mouth, filling it immediately. You choked when it touched your throat. He could only moan and relax on the couch as he pressed your head harder onto his member.
—"I just want to rest. Finish quickly, and we'll have dinner"— he said between gasps.
For minutes, you were only distracted as he used your mouth and throat. You felt him stop gripping the back of your neck and grab a handful of your hair, which he did slowly. He loved watching you the whole time, and you knew if you didn't, the consequences would be even worse.
When he ejaculated in your mouth, he didn't pull away until you swallowed it all.
—"That was good, thank you, my love."
He smiled and removed the gag. It was very relieving, as your jaw finally rested and your cheeks were no longer constantly pressed by the straps. Your lips and chin were still moist. Dick caressed the pink marks on your cheeks. He loved how tender your skin became after hours of being restrained by the straps.
He stood up after kissing you on the lips and began to undo the restraints on your hands and ankles.
—"You can walk or stay there while I prepare the food."
You nodded and just lay on the rug, wondering if this would ever stop, if they were looking for you.
If only someone would have noticed your absence.
When you heard the microwave, you got up and sat at a table next to it. He arrived with two plates and placed one in front of you.
As soon as you started eating, he laughed and took out his phone to take a picture of you.
—"Your friends still don't suspect that you're no longer in Delaware. Don't worry, I keep them well informed... they know you're okay, that you're living well, that you have a sweet boyfriend who loves you."
You felt a shiver run through your body when you both exchanged glances.
—"I love you, you know it."
He smiled and kissed you. His kisses were no longer sweet, they were disgusting and wet. But Dick always enjoyed them. He loved having you, he loved playing with you, he loved kissing you because that's the only way he'd feel the stump of your tongue, which he'd cut off because you tried to call the neighbors.
Hey! I'm back really quickly, haha, sorry. If you don't mind, I have a request, possibly suitable for Spooktober, involving the Batfamily.
Basically, the femReader is trying to escape Wayne Manor, which seems like an impenetrable labyrinth to her. And everyone who could help, who seems like a salvation, turns out to be just another jailer. A twisted idea of family - Bruce wants a wife figure with whom he can play out the illusion of his parents (a surrogate), the Robins want a mother, Alfred, the only normal person in this house, wants his charges to be happy, and the house itself wants a mistress.
You'll never leave here. You'll never leave the family. You'll always be with us. . .
Basically, it's just an escape through a cursed house, filled with a gradually thickening atmosphere of despair. No happy ending. There's hopelessness and resignation.
Something like that) I hope this works, I'm honestly not very good at horror)) Even if it doesn't, that's okay! Write what you want) Have a great Spooktober, I hope you get lots of interesting and chilling requests!
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【❝ Spooktober Week 1: Welcome To The Family❞】
【Synopsis: You’re a part of this family now, whether you like it or not…】
【Featuring: Bruce Wayne (romantic) and the Batboys (platonic)】
【Tags: fem reader, reader is Bruce’s childhood friend, reader is a maternal figure to the boys, Alfred is a reluctant participant, yandere (?) Bruce, yandere (?) batboys, angst, horror, psychological horror, Dark Content (?), TW mentions of Death, TW kidnapping/being held hostage, TW Stockholm Syndrome, TW starving (reader refuses to eat), TW manipulation, TW dubcon mention (it’s nothing crazy), TW pregnancy mention, TW mind break, TW reader experiences possible psychosis (or maybe the manor is cursed/haunted???), TW drugging, TW reader is restrained once or twice, TW brief mentions of violence, uhhhhhh I can’t think of anything else, let me know if I missed anything】
【Word count: 2.7k】
【a/n: OMG OMG OMG! THIS REQUEST IS EVERYTING!!! I love this sort of slow burn horror where you don’t know if the main character (in this case, reader) is going insane or if there’s something supernatural going on!! I literally screamed when I got this bc it’s so amazing, like seriously I love this kid of horror!!! I was really inspired by The Texas Chain Saw Massacre (1974) and Resident Evil 7 — especially the dinner scene at the end!! I really hope you like it, this was so much fun to write!!! <3333 𓃠】
【Spooktober Masterlist】
Wayne manor, a place you once considered to be a second home, now serves as your gilded cage.
You've known Bruce Wayne since you were in diapers — a miraculous stroke of fate that you now seem both cruel and unfortunate. Growing up, you were always at the manor, be it for a simple play date or one of the galas Bruce's parents would host.
All that changed when Thomas and Martha Wayne were gunned down by some petty thief in an alley.
Bruce changed after that; rightfully so, in your opinion. Both you and your parents — who had been close with Thomas and Martha before their untimely deaths — tried to be there for him and provide the newly orphaned boy with some form of a family among the wreckage of the one he'd lost, but all he did was push you away.
Still, you persisted. You stuck by Bruce at Gotham Academy even when he avoided you or outright ignored you. You still visited the manor and showed up for birthdays and holidays even when you weren't asked, because that's what friends do.
You were a bright presence among the hallowed halls of the manor. Slowly, but surely — much to Alfred's relief — Bruce let you back in. He let you light up his life and chase away the darkness he once thought all consuming. Wayne Manor was and always will be a better place with you in it.
You were always just friends. Sure, your parents used to joke about you two getting married when you were kids, and maybe you kissed a few times during your teenage years, but you were always just friends.
Neither you nor Bruce ever spoke about what exactly your relationship was, so when he became known as Gotham's resident playboy billionaire, you didn't bat an eye. In fact, you were glad that he was enjoying life — even if it wasn't with you.
Then he came home with Dick.
To say you and Bruce weren't prepared to be parents would be an understatement, but you both took the responsibility with stride.
Dick took to you quickly. He called you Mama and refused to let anyone other than you treat his wounds after coming back from patrol. You weren't his mother — not biologically — but you were in all the ways that mattered.
You were a silent, comforting presence for both Dick and Bruce; something stable to lean on when everything became too much. You supported him from the sidelines when they went out into the night to protect Gotham even when the stress and worry gave you premature grey hairs, but it was always worth it for your boys.
Next came Jason.
You were officially moved into the manor when Jason came along, and you know now that your presence there made all the difference. He came from nothing. Young, scrawny, and in desperate need of unconditional love and care, you made it your mission to give him the life you believed he deserved.
Jason was a tougher nut to crack. He was brash and untrusting at first, always looking over his shoulder with the notion that at any moment one of you could turn on him. Thankfully, the betrayal never came.
It's always hard to be the second child, but Jason found his place in your hodge podge family as your brilliantly smart, albeit a bit reckless, boy. He called you Ma and would always eagerly come home to show you his grades every time he did good on a test with the sweetest, most radiant grin you could ever imagine.
Things changed when Dick left. Tensions were high, and suddenly the manor felt suffocating. You couldn't leave, not when Jason was relying on you, so you endured for his sake like any good mother would do.
Then Jason died.
You mourned your sweet boy like you'd lost a part of yourself, because in a sense you did. You urged Bruce to break his no-killing rule to go after the Joker and avenge poor, sweet Jason.
But he didn't.
Bruce let the man who killed his son walk free. He let his principles outweigh the life of the boy who considered him a father.
That's when you left the manor.
The place felt lifeless without you. Bruce felt it and so did Alfred — the latter of whom tried desperately to get you to return. You didn't, though, not for some time.
You made your return when Tim came into the picture.
Bruce didn't know how to do it alone. He needed you, and he wasn't too proud to admit as much. So, you came back. You settled into your old room at the manor, but continued to pay rent for a penthouse in the city if you ever needed to step away again.
Tim was unlike your other boys. He simply called you Mom. He only listened to you when you begged him to go to sleep and take breaks from reviewing cases. You're the only one who ever managed to make his coffee correctly — Bruce didn't add enough sugar and Alfred added too much — and he always came to you when he was having relationship troubles.
For a brief moment in time, things felt normal again, but you were wrong to think it would last.
First Jason came back.
You didn’t believe it at first, but when Bruce confirmed it was him — your sweet, lovely boy — all the hurt and pain you'd buried with him was suddenly resurrected too.
Jason was different — of course he was, he died for fuck's sake — but he still called you Ma and let you hold him like you did when he was a boy.
It was hard to get him to reconcile with Bruce, but he only did it for you. They'd never fully see eye to eye, but they could at least let bygones be bygones for you.
Now, Damian, you weren't expecting.
He showed up on the manor's doorstep with a scowl that matched his father's and a katana on his back.
You'd always figured that Bruce was seeing other people, but so were you. Whatever you had with him wasn't exclusive, but it was serious. You'd dedicated years of your life to him and his boys — if that's not serious you don't know what is — so to see his son, his flesh and blood son, with another woman made you want to flee again.
But you didn't.
Just like all those before him, Damian needed you. Sure, he had a mother — one that he loved dearly despite their strained relationship — but she wasn't around to give him a normal life.
Damian took the longest to open up. You both accepted that you'd never be his mother, so he settled on simply calling you by your name; an honor that not even his adopted brothers were deemed worthy of.
Once again, a routine normalcy — or at least as normal as the Wayne family can be — fell over the manor, but you know that these sorts of things never last long.
You tried to leave again after a particularly bad argument with Bruce. The keyword is tried.
It was an argument a long time in the making. Something born of years and years of silent neglect and hidden feelings. It was explosive, loud enough to shake the walls you'd come to know so well.
Bruce wasn't letting you leave. Not again. So, he convinced you to stay just one more night. It was late, and he didn't want you out and about under the cover of darkness.
You stayed.
You shouldn't have stayed.
You shouldn't have drunk the tea dear old Alfred brought you after that fight.
You should have known something was wrong when you passed out not long after drinking every last drop of that 'relaxing tea blend'.
You should have known Bruce wouldn't let you walk out of his life again so easily.
You wake up in your room as usual, except something feels… off. You quickly come to realize that the door is locked from the other side and when you try the widows, you discover them bolted shut. You try in vain to bash the door down or break out the windows to no avail.
Your phone is missing when you go to look for it and that's when the panic really starts to set in.
You're trapped.
Bruce enters not long after you wake up, carrying a breakfast tray for you as though nothing is wrong.
"Why Bruce? Why are you doing this?" The question leaves your lips in a whisper, mumbled between wavering sobs and soft sniffles.
"I can't lose you, (y/n). The boys can't lose you. We need you, the manor needs you. I can't let you leave, not again." There's a tenderness, an almost desperation, in Bruce's voice that you don't expect to be there, but his reply does little to temper your dismay.
"You can't keep me here! Someone will find out; Alfred, or one of the boys, the— "
"They already know."
Your anger is short-lived. As soon as the words leave Bruce's lips, you deflate into a limp, hopeless shell.
They already know.
They're compliant in all this, in holding you hostage.
You're sweet boys, the ones you practically raised, and Alfred, the man that became something of a father to you; they're just as responsible for keeping you here as Bruce is.
You're too stunned, too far gone to push Bruce away when he crosses the room to wrap you in a hug. You want to fight and push him away when he presses a kiss against your temple and mumbles that this simply has to be done against your hairline.
The rest of the day goes by without you realizing it. You lie in bed, switching between disassociating, crying, and banging against the walls and windows out of sheer desperation.
You don't eat the breakfast Bruce brought you and you sure as hell don't drink any of the tea Alfred brings around.
Dick is the first to visit you in your makeshift jail cell. As always, he's all bright smiles and kind reassurance, but his jovial tone is tainted by the mere fact that he's helping to keep you here.
"C'mon, Mama. Bruce is just doing this for the greater good. We'd be lost without you. God, we were a mess when you left the first time. We can't lose you again. If we had let you leave, then who knows if you would have come back."
You ignore him. It hurts you to ignore your boy, your first son who taught you how to raise a child, and God knows it broke Dick's heart to get the silent treatment from you.
Things don't get easier. You fight and you fight hard. You refuse to eat, and you outright attack Bruce whenever he dares to show you his face. He lets you scratch and hit him and hurl every last vitriolic insult you can think of at his face without so much as batting an eye. Deep down, he knows he deserves this, but it pains him to know how much you've come to hate him.
Jason is the next to stop in and check in on you.
"Hey, Ma. B told me you're not eatin' again. I know you're hungry. And I know what it's like to go days and days without food. You gotta take care of yourself. If you can't do it for yourself, then do it for me. Please, Ma. I don't wanna see you wither away like this — none of us do."
Again, you ignore him. The melancholy in Jason's voice, the soft pleading and anguish in every word, almost makes you break right then and there, but you stay strong and remind yourself that he too is an accomplice in this crime.
You calm down a bit after that.
You start eating and stop trying to escape — for now, at least. You don't fight or attack Bruce anymore, but you still refuse his affections.
Tim comes next.
"Hey, Mom. The others told me you've been adjusting well. I'm glad. To be honest, I was worried you'd do something… drastic, but for once in my life I'm glad I was wrong. You belong here. I need you here. The others need you here. The manor needs you here."
All you offer is a small nod in response.
Your newly docile attitude earns you additional privileges. For one, you're allowed a TV in your room — one that is programmed to only show a few select channels — and finally, you get your phone back. Unfortunately, it's been stripped of all its abilities to contact anyone outside the manor, but it's better than nothing.
You start letting Bruce touch you again, believing that if you close your eyes he's still the man you used to love. Deep down, you hope that he’s still the boy you used to call your best friend, the one that kissed you for the first time in these very halls, the one your basically raised four boys with, and the one you still love despite it all.
Damian is the last of your boys to come around.
"I'm glad that you've finally come to realize just how important you are to all of us, (y/n), myself included. Your place is here, the manor has deemed it so. Know that all we do is not out of hatred. We love you — so much so that we can't let you go."
You're able to muster a small thank you this time.
You start spending your nights in Bruce's room. You let him hold you and kiss you and tangle with you beneath the sheets because, at this point, you've deluded yourself into accepting this twisted version of love.
More than once you think about sneaking out while he's asleep, but you know he's always three steps ahead of you. You can't leave anyway, not when your boys are relying on you, and certainly not when the manor's walls whisper for you to stay.
For now, you play the happy wife and the doting mother.
You and Bruce have talked about eloping and maybe adding another little Robin — one born to the two of you — in the future. You nod along with fake smiles and promises of forever, but the cognitive dissonance makes you feel like you're losing your mind.
Maybe you are.
The manor's whispers grow louder each night. You hear its beckoning calls in your sleep, clawing and groping around in your skull until its words take purchase.
It all becomes too much and one day you just snap.
You try to run.
You try to fight.
But this is where you belong, whether you like it or not.
Your boys hate the way you scream and cry when they restrain you.
Bruce's heart breaks when you tell him how much you despise him, that you wish you'd never met, and hope he just put you out of your misery already.
You can see the pain in Alfred's eyes as he injects you — the woman he's come to regard as a daughter of sorts — with a sedative that finally puts an end to your struggle. He didn't want to do any of this, but it's for the good of the household.
When you wake up, you're seated at your designated spot at the dinner table, at the very end of the solid piece of mahogany opposite to Bruce. The boys are there, all sitting in their spots too, chattering over family dinner as though everything is completely normal.
You're still drugged out and delirious when Alfred comes to pour you a glass of water. You barely pick up on his mumbled apology for his part in all this, but it doesn't mean anything now.
The last flames of the fight within you still burn strong as you try to stand, only to find yourself restrained to your seat.
Pure dread, unlike anything you've ever felt before, settles in your chest and without even realizing it, hot, wet tears start to slip past your lashes. It's hard to breathe and even harder to think with the lingering remnants of the sedative in your system.
The others go on with dinner without even once acknowledging you; joking and bickering back and forth like they used to before all this. The manor's whispers linger just beneath the buzz of conversation, reminding you of just how important you are.
Your place is here.
You're needed here.
You belong here.
You'll never leave Wayne Manor — you're a part of the family, after all, and families stick together no matter what.
Would you do Yandere obsessed Damien who is married to reader and after she learns the truth about her husband about his obsession (he had been keeping secret from her) she tries to leave him and he lost it keeping her locked up before getting Martin Manhunter powers to wipe her memory of all the things he doesn't want her to know.
Or Damian's secret wife that absolutely no one knew not even his family (they aren't Yandere ) about is exposed to the world along with his obsession and the sick things he has done to keep her is enclosed by a metahuman that uses his powers to project his memories like a movie for the whole world to see dying in the process it taking an deadly affect on him or Damian kills him and everyone is horrified when it's clear to see after been kidnapped and forced to be with him for years she has given up and Stockholm syndrome has taken over and she thinks she loves him when she used to despise him and fight him.
Or Yandere Damien that sees her and instantly knows she belongs to him, gets pissed when he sees her wearing a wedding ring and has a child, so kills the husband and gives the child to adoption and uses her love for her child to stop her from trying to escape, and when she is good rewards her with letting her watch her child from far away or gives her pictures of her child. No matter how much she begs he won't let her reunite with her child saying that because her child isn't his blood and is instead that bastards blood, but acts like having his own children with her will fix everything. .
All that remains
ty for the req annon!!
divider by @hyuneskkami
You first noticed him on a night heavy with rain and the scent of the city — wet asphalt, smoke from distant fires, and the faint tang of ozone from lightning that split the sky in two. Gotham was always restless, but that night, it felt different, alive with a tension that seemed almost sentient.
He was there in the alley behind the museum, a shadow among shadows, waiting. You had been leaving late, carrying a thin folder of catalog notes, eager for the quiet of home. Then, the crash — glass shattering — and a figure moving faster than any human should. He emerged, dragging a thief by the collar, blood streaking down his shoulder. And then his eyes found yours.
You weren’t afraid. Not entirely. Something in that gaze — sharp, intense, almost imploring — rooted you to the spot. He offered a hand, a smirk, and a simple question: “You okay?”
Your reply, whispered through racing thoughts, was almost irrelevant: “I think so.”
From that night onward, he lingered in your life like a shadow that refused to fade. At first, it was subtle: a message left at your desk, a coincidental meeting at your favorite café, a bouquet of white orchids delivered anonymously. You told yourself to be wary. You tried. But there was something magnetic about him, an inevitability that pulled you toward him despite your better judgment.
Weeks passed, and then months.
His presence became a fixture in your life, gentle yet persistent. Coffee became dinners. Dinners became long conversations that stretched into the early hours of the morning. You laughed at his dry wit, occasionally teasing him, enjoying the rare glimpses of humor he allowed himself. Damian had a way of making moments feel suspended outside time — as though nothing else in Gotham could touch you when you were together.
And yet, there were subtle signs, almost invisible threads of control sewn carefully into the fabric of your life with him. He knew your schedule before you mentioned it. He appeared in moments you hadn’t anticipated. Sometimes, you caught him watching, not in malice, but with an intensity that made your skin prickle. You dismissed it at first. You wanted to trust him.
You loved him. And Damian Wayne loved fully, obsessively, relentlessly.
The romance unfolded slowly, each moment measured, precious.
A night on the roof of Wayne Manor became routine. He would drape a coat over your shoulders without speaking, standing close enough that the warmth of him seeped into you. He would point out constellations, speaking in low tones about distant worlds, shadows, and the lives of men who sought control over the stars. You listened, enraptured, unaware that the man next to you cataloged every word you spoke, every shiver, every laugh, storing them away like precious treasures.
He remembered every scar, every preference, every fear — and his memory was meticulous. Gifts appeared when you least expected them, a salve for a cut, a book to comfort your mind, a flower that reminded him of a fleeting comment you’d made weeks before.
It was love, yes. But it was also the beginning of obsession.
Slowly, the obsession deepened.
He arrived before you noticed him at the café. He always knew when you were tired, when you were alone. He appeared in your apartment under the pretense of “checking on you” when storms raged outside. When you mentioned a pain in your wrist or a headache, he would be there moments later, concerned, almost insistently so. At first, it felt protective. Later, it felt suffocating.
And yet, you loved him. You clung to those moments because they were Damian Wayne, and loving him was both a refuge and a thrill.
Time passed, marked more by moments than days.
Then came the subtle signs that something was… off.
The phone that would not ring. The car that refused to start. Doors that seemed to close silently behind you. You laughed it off at first, blaming technical glitches, minor accidents. But unease began to curl in your stomach like smoke.
One evening, in the library, you found it: a folded piece of paper slipped from a book. Curiosity overcame fear. You opened it and found a list — your routines, names of friends, your habits cataloged with meticulous precision. At the bottom, in his handwriting, a chilling note: Do not let her leave.
Your chest tightened. The puzzle fell into place. The calls you overheard him make, the technology that always seemed one step ahead — it had all been to keep you close, to watch, to measure.
The confrontation was inevitable.
You found him in the study, sitting at his desk, calm, composed, the very picture of controlled elegance. “Damian… why?”
He looked at you, unflinching. “Because I love you,” he said.
Love. You wanted to believe it. You did. But the words only sharpened the fear in your chest.
“I can’t stay like this,” you said. “Being watched, measured, controlled. This isn’t love.”
“You are mine,” he said softly, not cruelly, but with the certainty of a man who believed in absolute devotion.
When he took your hand, it was gentle, almost tender. But it was also final.
Days passed. Weeks.
He never raised a hand. He never shouted. He simply never let you leave. Meals appeared at your door. He sat nearby, reading, always watching. You could see the obsession in the way he cataloged your expressions, the way he adjusted the space around you to ensure your comfort — and your captivity.
You tried to resist, at first — small acts of defiance, lingering at the doors, pressing your ear to the halls. But he was always there, a silent shadow, and the exhaustion of constant vigilance wore you down.
He told stories of Nanda Parbat, of the League, of stars and shadows and immortality. His voice was hypnotic, soothing, carrying the weight of a man who would do anything to shape the world — and you — in his vision of perfection.
Then came the night he crossed the final boundary.
He approached you in the quiet of the Manor, eyes glowing softly in the lamplight. “I can fix this,” he said. “I can make it like it was. Before the lies, before the fear.”
You shook your head. “Love isn’t something you can erase or rewrite. You can’t remove me to make me fit your idea of us.”
He cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks. “Then let me take the pain. Let me protect you from it. From everything.”
You saw the desperation, the obsession, the twisted purity of his intent. And when he whispered your name, the world shifted.
Later, you realized he had gone to J’onn J’onzz — the Martian Manhunter.
You didn’t know how he persuaded him, only that one morning, Damian returned, calm and composed, his eyes soft in the light of dawn. “It’s done,” he said. “You’re safe now. You’ll remember nothing of the fear… or the secrets you never should have known.”
You wanted to protest, to resist, but there was nothing to resist. The edges of your memory blurred, like ink dissolving in water.
And yet, fragments lingered. Flashes of a locked door, a whispered threat, the feel of his hand when it had felt like a tether rather than a comfort.
Life returned to a semblance of normalcy. Wayne Manor felt like home again. Damian was gentle, attentive, patient. You believed him. You trusted him. And yet…
Sometimes, late at night, your dreams were haunted by fragments — of shadows, of whispers, of the knowledge that something crucial had been stolen. Sometimes, when he brushed a thumb across your cheek, your heart would flinch, and you’d see, just for a heartbeat, the ghost of the man who had once been desperate to keep you trapped.
Damian would smile, brushing it off, leaning in to kiss your forehead and whisper, “Sleep, beloved. You’re safe.”
And you wanted to believe him. You still did.
But somewhere deep, a fragment of memory whispered, faintly, impossibly: You weren’t supposed to forget.
The love remained, absolute and consuming. But so did the absence — the pieces of truth he had erased, the fear he had hidden, the obsession that had shaped it all.
And in the quiet moments, when the house was still and the city murmured beyond the walls, you realized that even in perfection, even in love, there could be loss — loss of freedom, loss of knowledge, loss of the self you once were.
Bittersweet, endless, and irrevocably Damian.
The mornings that followed blurred together, gilded in a serenity that felt too deliberate. The Manor was quiet again, the way Damian preferred it — no echoes, no unanswered questions, just the rhythm of a life he had sculpted to perfection.
You walked the halls without the heaviness of fear, though sometimes, when sunlight caught on the old portraits, something inside you trembled. Familiar faces stared back from painted eyes — Bruce, Alfred, his mother Talia — and you would pause, fingertips brushing the carved frames, as if the wood itself could remember what you could not.
Damian would find you there sometimes. Always calm. Always watching.
“Lost in thought again?” he’d murmur, his voice soft, almost indulgent.
You’d smile faintly. “Just thinking how quiet it is here.”
His lips would curve, faint amusement flickering in his eyes. “Peace is a rare thing, habibti. We should cherish it.”
And you did. Or tried to. The tea he made in the mornings, the faint smell of smoke on his clothes when he returned from patrol, the warmth of his arm around you when you couldn’t sleep — it all wove a sense of safety so seamless that questioning it felt almost cruel.
But memory has a way of haunting even the most perfect cages.
Sometimes it came in flashes — a sound, a scent, a tone in his voice that didn’t match the tenderness in his eyes. You’d turn, searching for the source of that sudden chill, and he would already be there, hand brushing your arm, gaze unwavering.
He’d guide you back to bed, as though the mere act of lying beside him could erase the ghosts behind your eyelids. His hand would trace idle circles on your wrist — the same wrist that once bore the faint mark of restraint, though you no longer remembered why it felt so tender in the rain.
One evening, it rained again — just like the night you first met. Gotham seemed to exhale under the storm’s weight, the scent of ozone and wet stone curling into the open windows. You stood at the balcony, watching lightning flash across the distant skyline.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Damian said, stepping up behind you. His arms slipped around your waist, the warmth of him steady against your back.
You nodded. “It feels… familiar.”
He stiffened almost imperceptibly, then relaxed. “Perhaps it’s because the storm always brings us back to where we began.”
You turned in his arms, searching his face. There was something in his eyes — something vast and ancient, like grief wrapped in devotion.
“Do you ever think,” you began, hesitant, “that we’ve lived this before?”
His breath hitched, just for a moment. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” you said softly. “Sometimes I dream of… of us, but different. You’re standing in the dark. You’re saying something I can’t remember. It feels like I’ve lost something.”
Damian’s gaze darkened. For a heartbeat, the mask slipped — and you saw it. The guilt. The desperation. The love that had gone too far.
Then his hand was on your cheek again, thumb tracing your skin with reverence. “Dreams aren’t real, beloved. They’re just echoes of what we want most.”
You nodded, though the answer didn’t quite reach you.
He kissed you gently — and in that kiss, there was sorrow. You didn’t understand why.
That night, Damian stood alone in the study long after you’d fallen asleep. Rain traced slow paths down the windows, the thunder outside distant but insistent. The fire burned low, shadows flickering across the portraits of his ancestors.
He reached into the drawer of his desk and pulled out a small, silver device — a fragment of Martian technology, given reluctantly, used only once. The last tether to the choice he could never undo.
J’onn’s words echoed in his mind: There are consequences, Damian. The mind is not a weapon to be polished. It is a garden — once you pull out a root, the whole soil shifts.
He knew that. He felt it every time your eyes lingered too long on something you shouldn’t remember. Every time you said familiar. Every time you woke with tears you couldn’t explain.
He closed his fist around the device. His reflection stared back in the glass of the window — the son of the Demon, the heir of the Bat, the husband who had rewritten his own sins.
“Maybe I went too far,” he whispered to no one. Then, after a pause, quieter: “But I can’t lose her. Not again.”
Weeks later, a new storm rolled through Gotham. You found yourself in the greenhouse, tending to orchids he’d grown for you — white, flawless, untouched by the world outside. You reached for a petal, tracing it gently.
And suddenly — the scent of rain, the flash of a hand around your wrist, the sound of your own voice saying, This isn’t love.
The memory was gone as soon as it came, but it left behind a hollow ache, sharp and cold.
You looked up and found Damian watching from the doorway.
“Something wrong?”
You hesitated. “I just… remembered something strange. A dream, maybe.”
He crossed the room, brushing a lock of hair from your face. His smile was faint, tired. “Then forget it,” he said gently. “Dreams are meant to fade.”
But as he turned away, you noticed his hands trembling. Just slightly.
And for the first time since the rain-soaked night you met him, a thought flickered in your mind, faint but undeniable —
HEADCANON; that Damian Wayne/Al ghul was first a little scared growing old, since it meant he was allowing his body to weaken(which if you don't know being an heir to multiple roles is a big deal) the demon head and the batman who has too many enemies to not be able to count with one or two hands. It's a threat to himself but most importantly- -you-. Seeing how you aged slowly through the years didn't make anything change with his feelings, the opposite rather; it made him a little happy inside, that he could fulfill the small innocent wish he had vowed before. Growing old together, starting a family. But seeing in the mirror how he stayed the same, knew it was time to stop or slow down.
Holding your hand, it's skin pruned tender and not as soft as before. Looking into your eyes that were closed, it made him wonder how long it will take until the day they will forever be shut.
"you stare like an old man."
Your voice sounded peaking out an eye sensing how he was staring- over the years you grown to know it was him. Observing, seeing you and only you.
"I am an old man, beloved." Locking his fingers with yours, the contrast between them he didn't care to notice before kissing the tip of your knuckles. "You don't look a day over 45."
"it's not gonna fit." he mutters, more to himself than to you. he presses his lips to a thin line, watching your leaking cunt after he made you cum a couple of times with his fingers and tongue. his veiny and huge cock is spring free against his stomach as he watches down at you, biting your lip.
"it kinda has to fit, bruce, it'd be so awkward if it didn't." you tease, pushing jokingly his hip with your feet. "c'mon, babe, i can handle feeling you for a couple of days."
he doesn't say anything, but his eyes darken just enough to make you shiver. he yanks you closer by the knee, pressing a kiss to your inner leg before hooking in under his shoulder for better access.
his free hand strokes his massive length, thick as your wrist, veined and throbbing, easily nine inches of pure intimidation. precum beads at the tip, and he drags it teasingly along your slick folds, coating you, making you whimper.
"careful what you wish for, sweetheart." he notches the blunt head at your entrance, pressing just enough to stretch you wide—fuck, it burns so good already.
you bite your lip harder, thighs quivering as he sinks in an inch, then two, your walls clenching greedily around him. "breathe for me. that's it... good girl."
he rocks his hips slow, splitting you open inch by agonizing inch until you're gasping, nails digging into his biceps. halfway in, and you're already stuffed full, his girth bullying your cervix like he owns it.
"mmh, fits just fine," he murmurs, lips brushing your ear, voice wrecked. "you can take the rest, yeah? you said you could."
You ever think about one day all the paintings Damian does of his wife gets put in a gallery years later after his death by his descendants? Like he obviously gonna be famous in Gotham as a doctor but imagine soon after his death all his hundreds of paintings get their own exhibition and so many of them are of his wife and pets and children (but most of his wife) through out the years. Probably have some romantic Arabic love poem as the title of the exhibition.
Like Gotham didn’t realize doctor Wayne was a talented artist. They knew he loved his wife but WOW that guy is in love with his wife. Romance of the century. ❤️
Anon omg😭
You think all his younger family members get fed up with how people talk about their grandpa after he passed? Like only mentioning his incredible medical work and not who he actually was as a person.
So they open the exhibit to show people who their Jido was (if Damian would use that word for Grandpa? I know it's different in different dialects)
Do you think he was happy in his last years? He'd done his work to make the world better and he was surrounded by loved ones. Even if reader dies of old age a good few years before him, I think he'd still be happy.
Do you think he always found a way to bring her up in conversation, always keeping her memory alive, "She loved this song." Or "I used to go here all the time with your Grandma." (I bet he does this with the other og batfamily members who passed because he'd be one of the last)
Do you think when the little kids in the family ask him tons of questions like kids do he'll just say, "You sound just like Grandma. Have I told you when she-" and all the kids groan because he's definitely told them that story before and they just want some cool Grandad lore for once (of which Damian has PLENTY) and not another sappy story about Grandma.
masterlist • prologue • chapter 10 (the finale!!!!)
🐠 🌊 🦈 💌 🐚 🪸
summary: In which Jason gets recruited to be a chaperone (again), this time at the end of year school dance
wc: 4.5k
--
Jason tugged at the knot of his tie like it had personally wronged him. “This is ridiculous,” he muttered, yanking at the silk until Damian smacked his hand away. “They’re ten. Ten, Damian. Put them in something neutral and call it a day. No one’s gonna remember who wore a bowtie to their fourth grade dance.”
Damian fixed his own tie with practiced precision, unimpressed. “This is Gotham Prep,” he said, every syllable sharp. “We have standards. Formal standards. Unlike the public school gutter you crawled out of.”
Jason rolled his eyes. “I literally went to Gotham Prep too, Demon.”
Damian flicked lint off his lapel like it had personally offended him. “Briefly. And poorly.”
Jason opened his mouth for a comeback, but the door creaked open before he could get there. Bruce stepped in, sleeves rolled, hair a little mussed like he’d been in meetings all day and still found time to change into a crisp button-down. He crossed the room without a word, plucked Jason’s tie out of his hands, and straightened it in one neat pull.
Jason stilled. He wanted to be annoyed, but the knot sat properly against his collar for the first time all evening.
Then Bruce crouched slightly, adjusting Damian’s tie as well. Damian didn’t complain. For once.
“Better,” Bruce murmured, smoothing Damian’s collar. His voice was quiet, but there was something softer there than usual. An effort.
Jason squinted at him. “What, no lecture about posture? Or how we’re both doing it wrong?”
Bruce’s mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “I’ve been trying something different.”
Jason didn’t ask, but he felt it anyway. The way Bruce had been making an effort lately. Less orders, more dinners. Less absence, more presence. It was weird. Good. But weird.
Then Bruce ruined the moment.
“By the way,” he said casually, smoothing Damian’s collar, “you know GuppyBoard only allows one chat per student, right?”
Jason froze. “...Come again?”
“One chat per student,” Bruce repeated, stepping back. “Everything tied to that student shows up in the same thread. Messages from teachers. Guardians. Family members. All of it.”
Jason’s stomach plummeted. “No. No, that’s not—”
“Oh, it is,” Bruce said. His tone was mild, but his eyes weren’t. “Which means I’ve seen every message you’ve sent Miss Y/N through Damian’s account.”
Damian’s head snapped up so fast it was a miracle he didn’t sprain something. “What?”
Jason felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. “You—no. You’re lying. This is some billionaire gaslight tactic, you—”
“I am not lying,” Bruce said simply. His eyes were too amused for Jason’s liking.
Silence.
Then Damian’s lips curved, sharp and dangerous. “Show me.”
Jason scowled. “No.”
“Yes,” Damian countered, already reaching for Jason’s phone. “If you are to court my teacher, I must ensure you haven’t humiliated yourself, or me, beyond repair.”
Bruce handed him the phone. Traitor.
“Don’t—” Jason started, but it was too late. Damian’s eyes skimmed the screen, widening with every line. Then he started to laugh. Actually laugh, sharp little bursts like he couldn’t contain it.
“Oh, this is pathetic.” He tilted the screen so Jason could see the damning evidence. Y/N’s neat, professional message: Could you please help Damian with his math packet? And Jason’s reply, timestamped at two in the morning: I suck at math myself. Maybe you should tutor me. Privately.
Jason groaned. “Okay, that—out of context—”
Damian kept scrolling, grin stretching wider. “You begged her for her phone number. Multiple times.”
“She kept saying no!” Jason snapped. “What was I supposed to do, suffer in silence? You know how many fish danced across my screen every time she answered? I had migraines.”
Damian’s shoulders shook as he read aloud in an obnoxious tone: “‘Keeping things professional… <3.’” He looked up, eyes gleaming. “With a heart, Todd. A heart. She adores you.”
Jason yanked the phone back, face burning. “You’re ten. You don’t get to mock adults for being soulmates.”
“Oh, I do,” Damian said coolly, adjusting his cufflinks. “I support this union now, which means it is my duty to monitor your conduct. And your conduct is appalling.”
Bruce’s brow arched. “She sent a heart?”
Jason pointed at him. “Don’t you start.”
But Bruce didn’t let up. “She doesn’t do that with me.”
Damian smirked, adjusting his cufflinks. “Nor with me. Fascinating.”
Jason’s jaw dropped. “You two are unbearable.”
Bruce hummed, faintly amused. “He’s not wrong.”
Jason threw his hands up. “Unbelievable. Both of you. Ganging up on me like this.”
Damian smirked. “Consider it training. If you cannot withstand familial ridicule, how will you survive Miss Y/N?”
Jason glared, but Damian just smoothed down his jacket, every inch the picture of Gotham Prep formality. He looked older than ten for a moment, like he’d been born wearing a suit and tie.
Jason’s chest ached. He wanted to say something about how proud he was, how much the kid had grown, but the words stuck in his throat.
Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and muttered, “Still think this whole formal wear thing is stupid.”
Damian just smirked at his reflection. “And yet, you look better.”
Bruce’s mouth twitched, almost a smile. “You both do.”
Jason groaned. “Great. We’re sentimental now. Next thing you know, Alfred’s gonna come in here with a camera.”
But for all his grumbling, he didn’t move when Bruce reached out to smooth his hair down.
—
The car ride to Gotham Prep had been blessedly short, but Jason was still questioning his life choices by the time he pulled into the circular drive.
Damian hopped out first, smoothing his tie like he was heading into a shareholders’ meeting instead of a school dance. Jason followed at a slower pace, tugging at his cuffs, ignoring the amused look Damian shot him over his shoulder.
Inside, the school hallways buzzed with energy. Glowsticks cracked, shoes squeaked against tile, the faint bass of Kidz Bop reverberated from the gym. Jason wrinkled his nose. Great. He’d survived gunfights quieter than this.
He walked Damian back to his classroom and stopped short.
Because you were there.
Pen in hand, you stood by the door, your dress catching the fluorescent light in a way that made his brain stutter. Nothing flashy, just simple, soft, professional enough to pass muster with Gotham Prep’s reputation police, but you looked good. Better than good. Pretty. The kind of pretty that made Jason forget how to breathe for a second.
You glanced up, saw them, and smiled.
“Mr. Todd.” Your voice was warm, familiar, but your eyes softened at the sight of Damian. “Thank you for bringing him. And for volunteering tonight.”
Jason scratched the back of his neck, suddenly hyper-aware of the tie Bruce had straightened for him. “Yeah. No problem.”
And then the chorus began.
“OoooOOOOooOOOoo.”
Twenty three pairs of fourth grade eyes had swiveled in unison, grins stretching wide. One kid pointed outright, stage-whispering, “Mr. Todd is back! And Miss Y/N looks pretty!”
“Maybe they’ll get married,” another chimed in, sending the room into a fresh wave of delighted squeals.
Jason felt heat crawl up the back of his neck. Damian groaned. You blinked once, then clapped your hands sharply, teacher-mode engaged.
“Alright, that’s enough,” you said firmly, though your cheeks had pinked. “Coats on hooks, please. You’ll all have plenty of time to speculate about your teacher’s personal life when you’re in college.”
That should’ve shut them up. Should’ve.
But Jason, traitor that he was, just shoved his hands in his pockets, smirk tugging wider. “What?” he said lazily. “They’re smarter than you give them credit for, Teach.”
The room exploded.
Kids squealed, whispering turned to shouting, and someone in the back started a chant of, “Miss Y/N and Mr. Todd! Miss Y/N and Mr. Todd!”
Your head snapped toward Jason, betrayal written all over your face. “Are you serious right now?”
Jason shrugged, completely unbothered. “Just calling it like I see it.”
Damian groaned so loudly it cut through the chaos. “This is revolting.” He grabbed his notebook off his desk like he could bury himself in animal facts and never emerge.
“Alright, that’s enough,” you said firmly, though your cheeks had pinked. “Coats on hooks, please. You’ll all have plenty of time to speculate about your teacher’s personal life when you’re in college.”
That earned a round of giggles, but the kids more or less obeyed, bustling around the room.
Jason shoved his hands in his pockets, smirk tugging at his lips despite himself. “Popular as ever, Teach.”
You shot him a look over your shoulder, half warning, half amused. “Do not encourage them.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.” You shook your head, exasperation mingling with the curve of a smile. Then your attention flicked back to Damian, who stood ramrod straight at your side, pretending not to hear any of it. “Alright, Mr. Wayne. Ready?”
“Of course,” Damian said crisply, as though nothing could rattle him. His ears were faintly red.
“Good.” You rested a hand on his shoulder, guiding him toward the hall. To Jason, you added briskly, “Chaperones are getting briefed down the corridor. Second door on the left.”
Jason raised a brow. “Kicking me out already?”
You gave him a look that said you had kids to wrangle and no time for his mouth. “You’ll survive.”
Jason huffed, but his smirk stayed put. He gave Damian a quick salute. “Have fun, kid.”
Damian rolled his eyes but didn’t shrug off the hand you kept steady on his shoulder.
Jason lingered a second longer, watching the two of you disappear into the crowd. You, head bent slightly toward Damian, your expression patient and kind. Damian, stiff-backed but leaning, just enough, into your guidance.
For a second, Jason thought about what Bruce had said earlier. About GuppyBoard. About the heart you’d sent.
He shook it off before it could get too loud in his head.
Second door on the left. Time to get briefed.
–
The gym was unrecognizable.
Usually it smelled like sneakers and sweat, but tonight, between the strings of twinkle lights, the spinning mirrorball, and the folding tables sagging under bowls of fruit punch, it was almost magical. Almost. If you ignored the shrill laughter, the glowsticks already cracking underfoot, and the Kidz Bop version of whatever chart-topper was blaring through the speakers.
Jason leaned against the far wall, surveying the scene with the kind of grim focus most people reserved for battlefields. He’d been in firefights quieter than this.
One corner had been claimed by a squadron of kids attempting to Fortnite dance each other into the grave. Another was pure chaos: spilled punch, shrieking, glowsticks waved like weapons. And near the bleachers two of the older teachers were making suspicious eye contact and disappearing beneath the bleachers like they thought no one would notice.
He muttered under his breath, “Gross.”
Then his eyes found you.
You stood near the snack table, clipboard tucked against your chest, making sure no one spiked the punch with Pixy Stix again. Jason drifted over, hands in his pockets, shoulder brushing yours as he leaned against the table.
“Never thought I’d say this,” he muttered, watching a group of kids attempt to Fortnite dance in unison, “The place puts the Iceberg to shame.”
You laughed under your breath, not looking at him. “Wait until the DJ plays the Cha-Cha Slide. That’s when the real carnage begins.”
Jason’s lips quirked. He wanted to push, wanted to talk about the roof, about Red Hood, about everything that had shifted, but before he could, a shriek cut through the music.
Two boys were wrestling in the middle of the dance floor over a glowstick, both on the verge of tears. Jason sighed and pushed off the table. “I’ve got it.”
“You’ll make it worse,” you warned, following him into the fray.
Together, you separated them. Jason scooping one up by the armpits like a sack of flour, you kneeling to coax the other into handing over the bent plastic.
“Hey,” Jason crouched down, voice even. “Glowsticks aren’t worth black eyes. Trust me.”
You raised a brow at him. “That your professional opinion?”
“Personal,” he said dryly. “Learned the hard way.”
The boy hiccuped a laugh. Jason ruffled his hair and sent him back toward the dance floor, while you guided the other to grab some juice. Crisis averted.
You both straightened at the same time, too close, the mirrorball flashing light across your faces.
Jason cleared his throat. “You wanna—”
“OoooooooOOoOOoOOoOo!”
Every head in a ten-foot radius turned. Fourth graders gasped, whispering like they’d just witnessed a proposal.
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Back to the floor,” you told them firmly.
Jason waited until they scattered, then leaned closer. “As I was saying. You wanna dance?”
Your head snapped toward him. “Absolutely not.”
He held his hands up, palms out. “Just asking.”
“Chaperones don’t dance,” you said firmly. “And even if they did, I’m not risking my job because you can’t stand still.”
Jason smirked. “You make it sound like I’m that irresistible.”
Damian was across the gym, arms crossed, glaring at a group of kids attempting the Macarena. You caught sight of him correcting their posture with the severity of a drill sergeant.
“Spines straight,” he ordered. “You look like penguins, not dancers.”
A girl tried to show him the floss. Damian’s scowl deepened, but he copied the motion stiffly, like he was sparring.
Jason snorted. “Oh my god, he’s actually—”
Damian turned, caught him staring, and his eyes narrowed to knives. One finger lifted in silent threat: say a word and die.
Jason raised his hands, mock-innocent. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”
When the song ended, another crisis hit, two girls crying over a boy who’d agreed to “slow dance” with both of them. You knelt between them, soothing, while Jason distracted the boy with a cup of punch and a lecture about commitment.
By the time everyone calmed, the mirrorball was still spinning, the music still thumping, but Jason felt wrung out.
He wanted to talk to you. Needed to. But every time he edged closer, another oooooOoOoooOO split the air, and you shut him down with a glare that could’ve cracked glass.
So he stayed near, shadowing your rounds, watching you handle chaos after chaos with steady hands. And every time the light caught your smile, every time you laughed at something one of the kids said, Jason’s chest ached in that way he hated, like wanting something he couldn’t have.
And still, he couldn’t look away.
—
By eight o’clock sharp, Gotham’s wildest rager had been shut down. Parents trickled in through the gym doors, tugging sleepy fourth graders away by the hand. The music cut off mid–Kidz Bop track, the caterers already wheeling their tables out with a look of shellshock.
The other chaperones gathered their coats, exchanging weary goodbyes. Mrs. Keller patted your arm with a smile far too knowing. “Thanks for staying behind, dear. You’ve got plenty of energy left.”
Mr. Rodriguez clapped Jason on the shoulder. “Strong kid like you, you’ll have the chairs stacked in no time.”
Jason blinked. “Wait, what—”
But they were gone before you could protest, coats flapping dramatically as if they were escaping a warzone.
You looked around. Empty gym. Glitter ground into the floor. Abandoned glowsticks, cups, half a dozen folding chairs tipped on their sides. The mirrorball still spun lazily above it all, like a taunt.
Just you. Jason. Damian.
Jason shoved his hands in his pockets, snorting. “So let me get this straight. Every other adult bailed, and somehow we’re left in charge of cleaning Gotham Prep’s biggest crime scene?”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Apparently.”
Damian adjusted his jacket, unbothered. “It is only logical. You are the youngest teacher. Todd is the strongest. I am the most efficient.”
Jason barked a laugh. “Efficient? You didn’t even clean up your glowstick victims.”
Damian glared. “Say that again, and I will demonstrate my efficiency on your face.”
You held up your hands. “Both of you. Chairs first, then trash.”
Jason groaned but obeyed, stacking chairs with one hand like they weighed nothing. Damian began sweeping discarded glowsticks into a neat pile, muttering about wastefulness and posture.
You bent to gather cups near the punch table, only for Jason to appear beside you, holding out the trash bag. Too close. Always too close.
“Funny how that worked out,” he said casually.
“What?” you asked, tossing in a soggy napkin.
“Us. Alone. Cleaning up after ten-year-olds.” His grin was lazy, dangerous. “Almost romantic, if you squint.”
Your throat went dry. “It’s janitorial work, Mr. Todd.”
He leaned closer. “Still counts.”
From across the gym, Damian’s voice rang out. “Stop flirting and stack the chairs properly, Todd!”
You choked on a laugh. Jason scowled. “Unbelievable. I get heckled by ten-year-olds in the field, and now at school dances too.”
“You’ll survive,” you said, but your smile lingered.
Jason didn’t smile back. Not this time. He straightened, tossed the last crumpled cup into the trash bag, and stalked toward you with that heavy, deliberate gait that always made your pulse skip.
“Can we talk now?” His voice was low, not quite pleading, but close enough to make your breath catch.
Your eyes flicked instinctively toward Damian, still standing by his neatly stacked pile of glowsticks, arms crossed like a miniature CEO.
Before you could even form the words, Damian lifted his chin. “I will take my leave.”
You nearly dropped the bag in your hand. “Excuse me? It is eight p.m. In Gotham. You are ten years old.”
Damian didn’t even flinch. “I am also Robin.” He said it as if it were a job title, a credential, a trump card you couldn’t argue with. “I patrol rooftops until three a.m. on school nights. I will not perish on the walk home.”
Your jaw worked soundlessly. Jason, of course, was smirking, the traitor.
Finally, you managed: “Sure, Damian. Just text when you get home.”
Damian inclined his head like a tiny monarch granting a favor. “Naturally.” Then he slipped out the gym doors with the same calm assurance as a man heading into battle.
The doors shut behind him.
And then it was only you. And Jason.
The silence hummed louder than the mirrorball above.
The gym was too quiet now. Only the faint hum of the lights overhead and the lazy spin of the mirrorball remained, scattering flecks of silver across the floor. You bent to scoop up an abandoned glowstick wrapper, tossing it into the half-full trash bag at your side. Jason leaned against a folding chair, watching you with that look again. The one that had been chasing you all night, heavy and unspoken.
“You’re avoiding me,” he said finally.
You froze, straightened slowly. “I’m working.”
“You’re deflecting.” He pushed off the chair, closing the distance between you in a few easy strides. His tie hung loose now, collar undone, and for some reason that made it harder to breathe. “We never finished our conversation. About the roof.”
Your hands tightened on the trash bag. “Jason—”
He gentled his voice. “I need to know what you’re thinking. About me. About all of it.”
The words landed heavy. You stared down at the glowing flecks on the floor, searching for steadiness. “I’m thinking,” you said carefully, “that I have a classroom of ten-year-olds. And one of them is carrying more weight than anyone should. And his family—” you glanced up, meeting his eyes, “—is complicated.”
Silence.
“You know,” you said finally, the words tasting like something you weren’t supposed to say out loud, “I’ve thought about calling CPS. More than once.”
Jason didn’t look surprised. He leaned on the broom, arm draped casually but eyes sharp on you. “I don’t blame you.”
You froze mid-motion. “Then explain it to me.” You turned, met his gaze. “How can a ten-year-old, how can Damian, be Robin? Go through all of that every night, and then show up for long division like nothing happened? How is that fair?”
Jason’s jaw worked. He stared at the confetti-strewn floor for a beat, then said quietly, “Because I did it too.”
The trash bag slipped a little in your hands. “You—”
“I was Robin before him,” Jason said, voice rough but steady. He picked up a stray juice box and lobbed it into the trash, like the movement could disguise the weight of his words. “Well, two Robins before him. Bruce found me on the street. Took me in. Gave me… something to fight for. And I thought I could handle it. I did, for a while.”
Your throat was tight. You wanted to ask a hundred questions, but you stayed quiet. He was still talking, still giving.
“Then some things happened.” He didn’t look at you. “Bad things. And when I came back… I was angrier. Harsher. I couldn’t be Robin anymore. So I made myself into something else. The Red Hood.”
Your breath caught. Not because you hadn’t guessed, but because he was actually saying it.
Jason finally looked at you, shoulders tense like he expected you to recoil. “The family’s… complicated. Messed up, really. But recently—” He shrugged, rubbing the back of his neck. “We’ve been trying. Dinners. Less fighting, more… talking. Damian’s happier. Bruce is showing up. And a lot of that’s because of you.”
You blinked, the gym lights suddenly too bright. “Me?”
“Yeah.” Jason’s voice softened. “You make him feel like a kid. He needs that. Hell, we all needed that. But you-” he broke off, shaking his head like the words were too much. “You’re good for him.”
The mirrorball spun above you, scattering bits of light across his face. You wanted to memorize the way he looked right then. Unguarded, tired, but almost hopeful.
Your chest ached. “Jason…”
Jason slung the trash bag onto the growing pile, dusting his hands off. “Y’know,” he said slowly, “since we’re finally talking… there’s something I should probably confess.”
You arched a brow. “That sounds ominous.”
He leaned against the bleachers, looking a little too pleased with himself. “That night. After the Iceberg Lounge. You never actually gave me your address.”
Your stomach dropped. “What?”
Jason smirked. “You passed out before you could. So I called Damian. Asked him where you lived.”
You blinked. Then snorted so loudly it echoed in the empty gym. “You threatened a ten-year-old for my address?”
“I didn’t threaten him,” Jason protested, though his grin was wicked. “I just… heavily implied that bad things might happen if he didn’t tell me.”
You laughed until your cheeks hurt, and when you finally caught your breath, you shot back: “Okay. My turn. The zoo trip? You never actually agreed to chaperone.”
Jason straightened. “The hell I didn’t.”
“Nope. You were distracted. I was desperate. So I just… acted like you said yes.”
His jaw dropped. “You hustled me.”
“Don’t act so shocked, Mr. Todd.” You smirked. “You’ve been hustling me since the Condiment King rescue.”
Jason groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Don’t remind me.”
“No, I’m serious,” you said softly. “I actually believed you. I thought maybe… the Red Hood just wanted to make Gotham better for his kids.”
Jason froze. Then muttered, “I panicked, okay? I made up twins. For weeks after I lived in fear that we’d bump into each other and you’d ask about them. Had backstories and everything.”
Your eyes gleamed with mischief. “You named them, didn’t you.”
“…Diesel and Clementine.”
You nearly fell over laughing. “Jason. Absolutely not. You are not allowed to name our future kids.”
Silence crashed between you.
The words hung in the air, heavy and impossible to take back. Jason’s heart stopped. You froze, wide-eyed, realizing what you’d just said.
He stepped closer, voice low. “…Our future kids?”
Your cheeks burned, but you didn’t look away. “Don’t push it, Jay.”
He grinned slow and dangerous. “Too late.”
It was easier after that. You moved together through the gym, picking up glowsticks, righting chairs, sweeping confetti into piles. The silence between you softened into something companionable.
Until you reached for the light switch.
Jason’s hand closed gently around your wrist, stopping you. “Not yet.”
You frowned. “Jason—”
“You deserve a dance.” His voice was low, but steady. “Not just cleanup duty.”
You should have said no. You almost did. But then he was fiddling with the DJ controls, and a distorted Kidz Bop version of some overplayed pop ballad warbled through the speakers.
Jason turned back to you, hand extended.
“You can’t be serious.”
“Deadly.”
Against all logic, against every rule you’d been clinging to, you set your hand in his.
He tugged you gently into the center of the gym, under the mirrorball. His other hand settled careful at your waist. You rested yours on his shoulder, heart thundering.
The music was corny, the acoustics terrible. But when you looked up, the flecks of light caught in his eyes, and suddenly it was perfect.
You swayed together in the empty gym, silence weaving between the lyrics. Every breath felt too loud. Every brush of his thumb against your waist, too much.
Then you heard yourself whisper: “I’m not Damian’s teacher anymore.”
Jason stilled. His gaze sharpened, searching yours.
You swallowed. “School year’s over.”
For a beat, the world held still. Just you, Jason, and the hum of the mirrorball above, scattering fractured light across his face like the city itself was conspiring to make him look softer.
His mouth curved, a little crooked, a little disbelieving. “So what does this mean…” He leaned close enough that you caught the warmth of his breath, the faint smell of his cologne. “You’ll finally give me your number like a normal person? No more fish app?”
Your lips twitched. “I was thinking something more like…” You hesitated only a second, then tugged at his tie to pull him down to you. “…this.”
The kiss was quiet at first, testing, like neither of you wanted to shatter the moment. Then Jason tilted his head, deepening it, and suddenly the distance you’d both been holding onto for months just snapped. His hand splayed against your back, steady and certain, while yours fisted in the lapel of his jacket like you weren’t letting go.
And for once, you didn’t care about reputations or rules or what a single parent at Gotham Prep might think. All that mattered was Jason Todd, warm and solid and kissing you like he’d been waiting his whole damn life.
The kiss broke only when you both needed air. Jason stayed close, grin tugging at his mouth like he couldn’t help himself.
He smiled then, small and awful and utterly honest. “God, Teach, you have no idea how long I’ve waited for that.”
You swatted his chest, still breathless. “Shut up. Stop calling me that. It’s summer. What are you, twelve?”
Jason just laughed, low and warm, and stole another kiss before you could finish scolding him.
The mirrorball spun. The Kidz Bop cover droned on. And in the middle of Gotham’s fanciest gym, you let him kiss you again anyway.
