ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ the damian wayne writer™ » very spiritual » green tea fanatic » talia al-ghul defender » ballerina » chanel, dior and vivienne westwood addict » love the classics and that includes the comics » you can't even rip dick grayson out of my cold dead hands » bruce wayne's wife
"It's not who I am underneath, but what I do that defines me" ›››› Bruce Wayne
requests ⋮ closed .ᐟ [read guidelines]
suni’s reads ⊹ ࣪ ˖ the odyssey, the Illiad, frankenstein, the count of monte cristo, dracula, six of crows, the romance of three kingdoms, theogny, the homeric hymns, the symposium, lysistrata, chainsaw man, meditations by marcus aurelius, ovid's metamorphoses, prometheus bound, a stepmothers märchen, the phantom of the opera, the boy wonder by juni ba, caleb xia's whole charaecter arc
tag-list info If you want to be tagged in a series, reply to the master-list post. If you want to be tagged for a certain character, reply to the DC master list with "can I be tagged in all of *insert character*'s fanfics?" be sure to add whether this includes platonic fics with this character or just romantic
divider/collage info all DC dividers and collages are made by me. the chibis are done by @/KILLER_POPOLO.
I just want to say thank you to everyone who was in my inbox for all the support and care 🥹. gen it made me so happy—I read through each and every one and I hope whatever love was shown to me was thrown right back into your lives tenfold <3
All the messages were so thoughtful and personal !! I wish I could say thank you personally to everyone but I’d never get to writing and I hope that’s a way I can thank you to everyone!!
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ Jason starts growing facial hair again and he doubts he's young enough to go through a teenage phase. Good thing you know how to shave.
pls read a/n at the end before replying !!
aka ›››› “Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.” “Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
Jason has started growing facial hair again.
It’s such a stupid, ordinary sentence that it almost feels like it belongs to someone else’s life. Some other twenty-two-year-old who wakes up in a cramped apartment with morning light slipping through crooked blinds and worries about things like razors and bad lighting and whether stubble makes him look older than he is.
Not him.
His face is a map of healed disasters—thin white lines cutting through his brows, the faint pucker near his jaw, the uneven texture along his cheekbone where skin never quite settled back into what it was meant to be. There was a time when even the thought of hair growing there felt impossible. He remembers the chemical sting, remembers laughter echoing too loud in a warehouse that smelled like rust and rot and something sweetly corrosive.
The Joker had called it “light acid.”
As if acid could ever be light.
As if anything about it had been.
After that, hair just… didn’t grow. Not where it should have. Not where other boys his age complained about patchy beards and uneven sideburns and the awkward in-between stage of becoming something older.
Jason never got that stage.
He went from boy to broken and skipped the mundane humiliations in between.
Until now.
At twenty-two, standing barefoot in front of the narrow bathroom mirror in his apartment in Gotham City, Jason Todd squints at his reflection and feels something dangerously close to disbelief.
There is hair there.
Not much. Not thick. But there. Real.
Dark stubble shadows his jaw, uneven and stubborn, catching the early gray light filtering in through the frosted window. He drags his thumb over it once, slow, like he expects it to come away empty.
It doesn’t.
The memory surfaces uninvited—your voice last night, half-breathless and laughing when you pulled him back just enough to complain that it was itchy, that it scratched when he was feasting on you like he hadn’t eaten in days. You’d swatted at his shoulder and told him to shave.
It hadn’t been an attempt to redirect your mouth onto him for once like he thought.
Not that time.
“Oh, god,” he mutters now, staring harder at the mirror.
He looks dreadful.
That’s the numb, dawning realization settling into him as he takes in the rest. The hollows beneath his eyes are darker than usual, bruised crescents that no amount of sleep seems to erase. His nose looks a little more crooked than he swears it did yesterday. His hair—thick, black, unruly—is sticking up at impossible angles like he lost a fight with his pillow and didn’t bother winning.
He leans closer.
At least his skin looks better.
That part softens something in him.
You had noticed it two nights ago when he complained, voice rough and embarrassed, about it feeling irritated again—too tight, too sensitive along the old scar tissue. You hadn’t teased him. You just disappeared into the bathroom and came back with that stupidly expensive face cream you insist on buying, the one that smells faintly of lavender and something warm.
He grumbled the whole time.
You ignored him the whole time.
In the dark, your fingers had worked carefully over his face—gentle where the scars pull, slower along the places that still ache when the weather shifts. You’d murmured nonsense into the quiet, soft praise and softer affection, lips brushing his temple between instructions to stop fidgeting. He remembers the weight of you leaning over him, the warmth of your thighs against his hips, the way your thumbs smoothed over his brow like you were trying to iron out something deeper than irritated skin.
Jason had fallen asleep like that.
Just like that.
He doesn’t remember the moment it happened. Just remembers waking up tangled in you and the faint trace of lavender still clinging to him.
“I knew it was hair!”
Your voice slices cleanly through his thoughts.
He flinches slightly before catching himself, then groans under his breath as you pad into the bathroom behind him, bare feet silent against the hardwood.
You look like you crawled straight out of a dream.
Your hair is down and messy, falling around your shoulders in soft disarray, catching the light in uneven strands. You’re wearing one of his old shirts—swallowed by it—and a pair of his pajama pants that you bought him, the drawstring pulled tight and the hems cuffed four times so they don’t drag. The fabric hangs off you like you belong in it.
Like you belong here.
You slide your arms around his waist from behind without hesitation, pressing your front to his back, warmth seeping into him instantly. You get on your tip toes as your chin settles on his shoulder, cheek brushing the rough edge of his newly grown stubble as you peer at his reflection with open curiosity.
“Jason, baby…” you murmur, studying him in the mirror like he’s something precious and slightly ridiculous.
He snorts softly, but his hands come up automatically to rest over yours where they’re clasped against his stomach. His thumbs trace absent circles over your knuckles.
“You loooove it,” he says, stretching the word with heavy sarcasm, though there’s something almost hopeful beneath it.
You hum, pretending to consider it.
One of your hands slips free and moves up to his face, fingers squishing his cheek gently, testing the scratch of the stubble. Your nose wrinkles.
“Hmm,” you decide, lips twitching. “It's itchy. And the last thing I need is irritation down there.”
Jason exhales through his nose, long and slow, the sound vibrating faintly in his chest before it escapes him.
Mock-offended. Almost dignified about it.
“I don’t have a razor,” he says after another indulgent second of you squishing his cheeks like he’s something soft and manageable instead of what he usually is. His words come out slightly warped beneath your fingers. “And it’s a holiday… stores won’t be open.”
The apartment is quiet in that sacred, late-morning way—sunlight slipping through the blinds in thin golden blades that cut across tile and skin alike, dust motes suspended lazily in their glow as if even they have decided to rest.
Somewhere outside, a car door slams. Distant chatter echoes up from the street. Gotham City hums in the background like a beast half-asleep, never fully docile, but quieter than usual.
“I use a men’s razor,” you mumble thoughtfully, as if you’re offering him a piece of gum instead of a shared blade. “Wanna use that? I can disinfect it.”
He stills.
It’s subtle—the way his shoulders lift and hold, the way his fingers pause against your wrist—but you feel it. You always feel it. There are certain silences in him that aren’t empty; they’re crowded. This is one of them.
“I…” he starts, and the word drags.
Jason Todd does not drag words. He fires them. He sharpens them. He uses them like tools or weapons, depending on the need. But now it comes out slower, almost shy, like something young and unsure has briefly surfaced beneath the hardened edges.
“I don’t know how to shave,” he admits finally, gaze dropping to the sink like it’s suddenly fascinating. “Even… before… uh. It didn’t really grow.”
He doesn’t elaborate.
He doesn’t have to.
The space after before is heavy, but you don’t reach for it. You don’t pry it open with sympathy or soften it with apology. You simply hum, soft and thoughtful, and unwind your arms from around him to open the mirror cabinet above the sink.
“Why now?” you murmur, mostly to yourself.
The hinge creaks faintly as it swings open, bottles clinking together like small glass wind chimes. You reach for the razor with easy certainty, as if you’ve already decided the answer to that question doesn’t matter nearly as much as what you’re going to do next.
Jason watches you through the mirror.
Why now?
It’s the same reason he’s gained weight—real weight, not the kind born of muscle and vigilance, but something warmer, something earned in kitchens and late-night takeout and meals he didn’t force himself to finish out of obligation. There’s a softness now at his lower belly, subtle but undeniable, a gentle curve where there used to be only rigid lines and constant tension. His shoulders still carry power, his arms still know violence, but his body no longer looks like it’s bracing for impact every second.
He thinks his body is learning how to be happy again.
Like an animal stepping cautiously out of a trap long after the jaws have opened.
Like soil finally allowed to grow something instead of just endure.
He doesn’t say that.
“Maybe it’s because you’re always slathering me in your fancy stuff,” he deflects instead, a quiet chuckle warming the edges of his voice as he flicks the toilet seat closed with his foot and lowers himself onto it. “It probably shocked my face back to life.”
You glance at him over your shoulder, amused, sunlight catching in the loose fall of your hair.
Jason sits there completely naked, utterly unguarded in a way that still feels new enough to be fragile.
The light doesn’t hide anything. It travels openly across him—over the scars that ladder his torso, the uneven patches of skin that never healed quite right, the pale lines and darker ones, the geography of damage that used to make him want to flinch away from mirrors entirely. There was a time he would have layered himself in clothing even alone, as if fabric could soften history.
But you didn’t run.
The first time you saw him like this, you hadn’t looked horrified or pitying. You’d looked curious. Careful. Your fingers had traced each scar like you were reading braille, mapping him not as something broken, but as something survived. You kissed him afterward the same way you always did—no hesitation, no recalibration.
If you didn’t run from that, he doubts you’ll run from stubble.
You step back toward him now, razor in hand, a small towel draped over your arm like you’re about to perform something sacred and slightly ridiculous. The scent of your soap lingers faintly, mixed with steam from the sink you’ve just run warm water into.
“C’mere,” you murmur.
You nudge his knees apart gently and step between them, the casual intimacy of it making something low in his stomach tighten. Your warmth bleeds into him. He instinctively rests his hands at your hips, thumbs pressing lightly into the soft fabric pooled there.
“This feels like a trap,” Jason mutters, but his voice lacks conviction.
You smile down at him—slow, fond, almost reverent—and press your thumb to his jaw, tilting his face slightly so the light catches the uneven stubble.
“Relax,” you say softly. “I’ll take care of you.”
The words aren’t dramatic, and aren't grand. But they land in him like something holy.
He tilts his chin up, obedient in a way he never is with anyone else, trusting you with the vulnerable line of his throat. Your touch is deliberate but tender, as if you’re handling something both fragile and fierce.
You rinse the razor under warm water first, testing the temperature against your wrist the way you always do with anything that’s going to touch him. Steam curls faintly into the air, softening the sharp morning light and turning the bathroom into something gentler, almost hazy. When you open the shaving cream, the scent—clean, subtle, faintly medicinal—mixes with the lavender still clinging to his skin from the night before and fills his senses.
Jason smells like you. He thinks numbly.
“Hold still,” you murmur.
He huffs softly. “I am holding still.”
“You’re flexing.”
“I am not—”
“You are,” you insist, smiling a little as your fingers press into his jaw, encouraging him to unclench.
He forces his shoulders to drop.
Jason isn’t used to being handled like this. In training, contact is correction—forceful, precise, meant to overpower. In fights, it’s impact—bruising, brutal, survival measured in split seconds. Even affection, in most corners of his life, is clapped onto backs or ruffled through hair, rough-edged and fleeting.
But this?
This is his hot girlfriend taking care of him.
You spread the shaving cream slowly, fingertips gliding over his jaw, working it into the uneven terrain of scar tissue and smoother skin alike. You’re meticulous about it, smoothing the foam into the curve beneath his cheekbone, along the sharp line of his jaw, over the stubborn patch just beneath his lower lip.
Your touch changes when you reach the scars.
Not hesitant. Not afraid.
Just attentive.
You adjust the pressure instinctively, tracing the raised line near his chin with your thumb before coating it gently. Jason watches your face instead of the mirror now. The focus there. The way your brows knit in concentration. The small crease that forms between them when you’re trying to get something exactly right.
“You don’t have to look at me like I’m hurt and you need to patch me up,” he mutters.
You glance up at him through your lashes. "I'm not. I'd prefer that right now. At least you sit still when I patch you up.”
He snorts quietly despite himself.
The razor touches his skin for the first time.
It’s a soft, almost inaudible scrape. A delicate drag that removes the shadow in a clean stripe, revealing pale skin beneath. You move slowly, rinsing the blade after each careful stroke, watching for any sign of discomfort.
Jason feels it more than he expected to.
Not pain—just awareness. The sensation of something being removed. Of change happening in real time.
That sounds dramatic. He scolds himself in his own head. It's just hair. Hair he would have died to grow when he was seven and desperate to be tall enough to steal from the top shelf.
The warm water trickles down his neck in thin lines when you wipe away excess foam, your fingers following to catch it before it drips too far.
He swallows once when you tilt his head slightly to the side, exposing more of his throat.
“You trust me?” you ask lightly, but there’s something real beneath it.
He doesn’t hesitate this time.
“Yeah.”
The answer is simple. Immediate.
Your thumb rests just below his ear as you guide the razor along the sensitive stretch of skin near his jawline. The intimacy of it hums between you, quiet but undeniable. He can feel your breath ghosting across his cheek.
His hands, which had been resting loosely at your waist, slide upward without thinking. One settles at your lower back, palm spreading there. The other drifts higher, fingers grazing the fabric at your ribs, tracing the outline of you through cotton.
You pause when you reach the faintly discolored patch near the corner of his jaw—the place where the skin never quite grew back the same.
“Does this one still feel tight?” you ask softly.
“Sometimes,” he admits.
You don’t comment on it. You just adjust the angle of the razor and move even slower, barely any pressure at all, your other hand steadying his face with gentle firmness.
Jason’s eyes close for a second.
He lets them.
There’s something almost reverent about the way you do this. Like you’re not just shaving him, but tending to him. Like this small, ordinary act is a way of saying: I see all of it. I’m not afraid of any of it.
When you finally finish one side, you lean back slightly to inspect your work, head tilting.
“Look at that,” you murmur. “Sexy jawline coming back.”
“Never left,” Jason says automatically with a shit eating grin.
You grin. “Sure, baby.”
You rinse the razor again, then shift to the other side, fingers brushing through the faint shadow still there. The bathroom is quiet except for the sound of running water and the soft rhythm of your breathing mingling with his.
He watches you again.
The way your hair falls forward over your shoulder and nearly brushes his chest before you tuck it back absentmindedly. The way you don’t seem to notice how intimate this is—how your hands cradle his face like something precious.
When you’re done, you wipe the last traces of foam away with the warm towel, pressing it gently along his jaw, then down his throat.
“There,” you whisper.
You smooth your palm over his cheek, testing it. Your thumb lingers at the corner of his mouth.
“Much better.”
Jason turns his face slightly into your hand.
The movement is instinctive. Almost feline.
He looks at himself in the mirror again.
The stubble is gone. The scars remain. The crooked nose. The tired eyes.
But there’s something different in the way he’s sitting. Less guarded. Less braced. Like he isn’t waiting for the mirror to betray him.
He slides both arms fully around your waist now and pulls you closer until your hips press flush against his chest. He rests his forehead against your sternum, exhaling slowly, breathing you in.
“You’re gonna make me soft,” he mutters against your skin.
Your fingers comb gently through his messy hair, nails scratching lightly at his scalp.
“Thats the goal,” you say.
And for once, the idea doesn’t sound like a threat.
Im gonna be honest I had a shit day and this felt like the only was I could talk to someone lmao don't got any other method, don't take this as me coming back frfr cus people are mean here too
How do you think Talia would react if she found out that Damian has a partner? I can’t really tell if she would disapprove of it, since it shows he’s now vulnerable and therefore technically ‘weaker,’ but I also can’t imagine her openly hating on them either 🤔 I’m curious on what THE Damian Wayne writer™ thinks about this 🥹🥹 I COULD imagine her observing (stalking) his partner to lowk check them and stuff
in canon she reacts like a normal Asian mother lol !!
When Damian starts dating Flatline, she expresses her distate for her but Damian simply responds "I don't care."
And that's that. Talia doesn't care to do anything more than that. I don't think she would see him as weaker for having a partner--simply because of her relationship with Bruce being a source of strength for her as well.
def don't think its going to be a close knit in-laws type of situation with her that his partner MIGHT have with Bruce or the bat-fam, but she seems like shed ask the occasional,
"And hows that smiley one your seeing?"
"...good."
"Ah. That's...mhm."
Bruce Wayne genuinley consumes every single one of my waking thoughts in a way that is comparable to the feeling of a 16 year old white boy discovering Christian Bale through looks maxing
we both are obsessed except I’m writing x reader fanfics so at least I’m productive
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ its been years and he still thinks you're the best.
word cnt. 3.8k
“It’s been a while.”
Your voice doesn’t try to carry. It settles instead—low and warm and almost contemplative—as you lean your head into the crook of your elbow where it rests on top of your knees, cheek brushing the sleeve of your jacket. You look at him the way people look at old photographs: searching for what’s changed, and what stubbornly hasn’t.
It’s 10:00 p.m. in Gotham City.
The city is just waking up.
Streetlights flicker and hum overhead, halos of jaundiced gold bleeding into slick pavement still damp from an earlier drizzle. Neon signs sputter alive one by one, staining the low clouds in pink and electric blue. Somewhere down the block, a train shrieks along elevated tracks, metal grinding against metal in a sound that feels almost animal. The air tastes like rain that never fully commits, like exhaust and old brick and the metallic promise of something about to happen.
This is the hour Gotham stretches its spine.
And with the way your scent drifts toward him—subtle but unmistakable, clean soap threaded with the faint spice of worn leather and the warmer, quieter note that is simply you—Damian feels something in himself stretch awake too.
He notices it immediately. Resents it.
“Has it?” Damian murmurs.
His voice is lower than it used to be, the edges smoothed by years he refuses to acknowledge, but there’s still that blade beneath it—sharp, precise, honed by discipline and expectation.
“I feel like I just registered the peace of your absence.”
The words are measured, but they land between you with a softness that betrays the effort it took to make them sound indifferent.
You let out a quiet chuckle, breath fogging faintly in the cooling air, and tilt your head so the streetlight catches your face at an angle that makes you look almost untouchable.
“You? At peace?” you say, amused in a way that feels too fond to be entirely safe. “God, that’s a boring sight.”
The corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it.
It’s brief. Barely there. But you see it.
You always did.
For a moment, the years fold in on themselves.
You remember being fifteen—too loud, too hopeful, too certain that if you just held on tightly enough the world would rearrange itself in your favor. You remember standing exactly this close to him, the air between you charged with everything you didn’t yet have language for, and tugging at his gloved hand like it was something owed to you. Like if you pulled hard enough, Damian would choose you over patrol, over training, over the expectations that clung to him like armor beneath his armor.
You remember the way your fingers curled around his, stubborn and trembling and brave.
You remember waiting for him to tug back.
Damian remembers feeling his age.
He remembers the humiliating awareness of it—the way your grip burned through leather, the way it made his pulse misstep, the way he felt suddenly untrained in something far more dangerous than combat. He remembers wanting, briefly and fiercely, to hold on.
He remembers pulling away first.
He told himself it was discipline. Focus. Strength.
It had not felt like strength.
Now, standing in the dim spill of Gotham’s restless light, Damian keeps his hands at his sides, fingers flexing once as if testing whether they still remember the shape of yours.
A car passes slowly at the end of the street. Headlights sweep over both of you, illuminating the sharper lines of his face, the steadier set of your shoulders, before sliding on and leaving you in shadow again.
“You, uh…” Your gaze drops, almost shy in a way that doesn’t suit you, and your fingers begin worrying the fabric of your gloves—thumb rubbing over the seam again and again as though you can smooth out whatever tension has crept into your voice. “You seeing anyone?”
It’s casual in structure.
It is not casual in weight.
The question hangs between you, fragile and electric.
Damian feels it land somewhere just beneath his ribs.
His jaw shifts slightly, the movement controlled, almost imperceptible. His eyes flick over your shoulder out of habit—rooftops, fire escapes, windows, blind corners. Exit routes. Vantage points. Threat assessment. The city is predictable in its violence.
You are not.
“Yes,” Damian lies.
The answer leaves him too fast to be shaped, too controlled to be careless. It lands between you like something set down deliberately—flat side first, no room for interpretation.
He studies you the way he was taught to study opponents: shoulders first, then hands, then eyes. He watches for the tightening of your fingers around the seam of your glove, for the fraction of a second where your breath might hitch, for the microscopic shift in posture that would betray relief—or disappointment.
“And you?” he asks.
Quieter now.
Not gentler.
Not colder.
But closer, the syllables carrying less distance than the space between your bodies.
The wind shifts down the alley, rolling between brick walls and catching in your hair, lifting it just enough that the warmth of you reaches him unfiltered. Soap and fabric and something undeniably alive. It hits Damian harder than it should. He has to regulate his breathing on instinct alone—slow inhale, controlled exhale—because his body reacts before his discipline can intercept it.
You are standing close enough that he can feel the ambient heat of you through leather and cotton and air.
One step.
That is all it would take.
Damian does not take it.
Instead, he remains still beneath the flickering streetlight, every line of him composed and restrained, acutely aware that the “peace” he claimed to have found in your absence was never peace at all.
It was quiet.
There is a difference.
And quiet is fragile.
Damian wants you to lie.
The realization comes sharp and unwelcome.
He wants you to say yes—to say you’re seeing someone, that they’re kind, that they make you laugh, that they walk you home at night—because that would give him something clean to hold. An excuse. A reason to nod once, wish you well, and retreat with dignity intact. He wants the kind of closure that requires no vulnerability, no admission that he has carried you like an unresolved equation for years.
Damian wants permission to let go.
He wants an ending that isn’t his fault.
“No,” you say softly.
The word is careful this time. Fragile around the edges.
“No, no… not—not since you.”
For a second, the city drops out from under him.
The train in the distance fades. The hum of traffic dulls. Even the wind seems to hesitate, caught between buildings as if it, too, is waiting to see what he does next.
Gods save him.
Damian feels the impact of that confession like a physical strike—clean, precise, straight to the center of his chest. It doesn’t bruise. It splits.
His throat tightens before he can command it not to.
He could end this right now. He could tell you that you shouldn’t have waited. That it was foolish. That he never asked you to. He could remind you of the distance, the danger, the inevitability of his life. He could be cold.
Damian is very good at cold. After experiencing his whole life he thinks it would be impossible not to be.
Instead—
“…Have you been well?” he asks.
The question is almost formal, as though you are acquaintances meeting by chance rather than two people standing in the wreckage of something unfinished. He reaches for it because it is safe. Because it moves the conversation forward without forcing him to stand inside that no you just handed him.
Damian cannot afford to linger on it.
“As well as you’ve been,” you reply.
There’s no accusation in your tone.
That makes it worse.
Because you see him.
You always have.
You see the fatigue tucked behind his composure, the way his shoulders carry more than they should, the faint shadows beneath his eyes that no amount of discipline erases. You see that his “yes” was not peace. It was postponement.
And he knows you saw right through that yes.
The space between you shifts again—not physically, but in weight. In gravity. The air feels denser now, threaded tight with everything neither of you is saying.
Damian’s gaze lowers briefly, not in submission but in calculation, as if he’s searching for a strategy that doesn’t exist. When he looks back at you, there’s something there he cannot fully mask.
“Want some?”
Your voice drops to something conspiratorial and warm, barely louder than the distant rush of traffic below. You nudge the carton of orange “chicken” toward him where it rests between you on the narrow metal slats of the fire escape, the cardboard already softening from steam and mist. The scent rises with the night air—sweet citrus glaze, soy, fried batter still clinging stubbornly to crispness despite the damp.
Below you, Gotham City murmurs and flickers, unaware of the far more precarious balancing act happening three stories up.
Damian’s gaze drops to the box, then to your face.
He pauses at the gesture—not because he doubts you, but because he understands what it is. An offering. Casual on the surface. Intimate underneath.
“I’m vegeta—”
“I haven't forgotten,” you cut in gently, almost offended at the implication. “It’s vegan chicken.”
Haven't forgotten? Damian didn't even think you knew back then.
You say it softly, like you’re telling him a secret rather than correcting him. “Tastes good.”
You lift the chopsticks toward him, the lacquered wood steady between your fingers, a single piece caught carefully between them. The glaze glistens under the weak spill of a nearby window’s light. Your hand doesn’t shake.
Back then, he wouldn’t have thought twice.
At fifteen, he might have rolled his eyes, muttered something sharp, and taken the entire piece from you out of spite. Or refused outright, defensive and rigid in ways he mistook for strength.
Now—
Now he thinks once about how close your fingers are to his mouth.
Thinks twice about the way you’re watching him, not teasing, not challenging—just waiting.
Thinks a third time about how easily this could tip into something neither of you can pretend not to notice.
And then, despite himself, he makes the profoundly unstrategic decision to lean down.
He bends just enough, close enough that he can feel the warmth of your breath before he even bites, and closes his teeth over half the piece. The glaze is sweet and sharp and still faintly hot against his tongue. For a fleeting, absurd second, he feels like some tragic fairytale prince accepting a poisoned apple.
Snow White with worse impulse control.
You don’t pull the chopsticks away.
Instead, you take the other half into your own mouth, lips brushing dangerously close to where his had just been. The shared heat of it lingers in the space between you longer than it should.
The metal railing beneath you creaks softly as you shift your weight.
“You… you have plans tonight?” you whisper.
Your voice has changed again—softer, thinner, like you’re testing the air for cracks.
Damian straightens slowly, swallowing with more effort than necessary. He nods once, controlled, composed, as if his pulse isn’t doing something inconvenient beneath his ribs.
“I’m very busy.”
It’s automatic. A shield lifted without conscious thought.
Damian looks down as he says it, as though the answer might be written somewhere safer than your face. His boots are soaked through from earlier rain, dark leather gleaming faintly under the city’s glow. Water beads along the edges, clinging stubbornly. That’s when Damian notices it—the thin strip of receipt paper still plastered to the sole from the Chinese place downstairs, ink smudged but legible if anyone bothered to look.
Evidence.
Of time spent.
Of intention.
Damian’s jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.
With a swift, almost irritated motion, he scuffs his foot against the metal grate and kicks the receipt loose. It flutters briefly in the wind before disappearing into the alley below, swallowed by shadow and damp concrete.
As if it was never there.
As if he hadn’t gone inside with you.
As if Damian hadn’t waited while you debated between sesame tofu and orange “chicken.”
As if he isn’t standing here now, three stories above the city, sharing food from the same chopsticks and pretending he is not exactly where he chose to be.
The lie of “busy” hangs between you, thin and fragile.
Because if he were truly busy—he would not still be here.
The wind lifts your hair again, restless and deliberate, curling it around your face in slow, fluid spirals like you belong to water instead of brick and rusted metal. It frames you unfairly—softening edges that were never sharp to begin with, catching in your lashes, brushing your mouth. You don’t even notice it.
He does.
Damian’s own inky black strands fall forward into his line of sight, dragged loose by the same current. They curtain his eyes, a narrow veil he does not bother to fix. It grants him brief reprieves—fractions of seconds where he can look at you through shadow instead of directly at the quiet devastation of your expression.
“That’s not a no,” you whisper, almost fondly, before taking another bite of the vegan chicken.
It tastes awful.
The glaze is too sweet, the texture too spongy, the citrus cloying in a way that makes you want water. You chew anyway. Swallow anyway. Because you know he noticed you remembered. Because once upon a time, remembering mattered more than taste.
You used to do this all the time.
Small sacrifices. Adjustments. Learning which teas he preferred, which words would draw him out instead of shut him down, how to sit close enough that he’d speak but not so close that he’d retreat. You’d rearrange your afternoons to match his patrol schedule, pretend you just happened to be free when he emerged onto the fire escape restless and sharp-edged from training.
You didn’t mind.
You wanted to be part of his busy.
You wanted to be the thing he penciled in.
Back then, the two of you would sit exactly like this—knees nearly brushing, the city yawning beneath you—while he confessed things he wouldn’t admit to anyone else. The wrongs he believed he’d committed. The doubts he pretended not to have. He would speak low and intense and furious at himself, and you would listen like it was sacred, like your understanding could tilt the moral axis of the world back into place.
And somehow, sometimes, it did.
“You're impossible,” Damian exhales now, the words slipping out on a sigh that carries more weariness than insult.
He shifts away from you on the narrow platform, scooting a few inches down the fire escape as though distance is a practical solution. The metal groans faintly under the redistribution of weight. It is not far enough to break the warmth between you.
It is far enough to be noticed.
The way you look at him after he moves—
Not wounded. Not angry.
Just quietly aware.
It hits him harder than if you had called him out.
Regret blooms low and unwelcome in his chest, heavy as wet wool. He tells himself it is better this way. Safer. That proximity is a liability he cannot afford.
Damian does not believe it, but he still tells himself it.
Silence settles over you both, but it is not empty. It hums. The skyline stretches wide in front of you—jagged rooftops and blinking red aircraft lights, windows glowing like scattered constellations across the dark spine of Gotham City. Somewhere, a siren wails and fades. Somewhere else, laughter spills from an open window before being swallowed by distance.
“What’s she like?” you ask at last.
Your voice is softer now, stripped of its earlier teasing.
“Or he.”
The correction is gentle. Open.
Damian stills.
For a moment, he keeps his gaze fixed outward, on the city that is easier to interpret than you are. The wind presses fabric against his frame, outlines the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Then, slowly, he looks down instead—to his boots, still damp, still darkened by rain. The leather creases at the ankle where he’s worn it thin from use.
He studies them as though they hold the answer.
As though the shape of his solitude might be written there in mud and scuffed polish.
“Still into emos?” you ask lightly.
The word floats between you, teasing and careless on the surface, but there’s memory tucked inside it—late nights, black hoodies, music too loud through cheap speakers, you pretending not to notice how closely he listened to every lyric.
Damian snorts before he can stop himself.
It’s quick and unguarded, a sharp exhale that shakes his shoulders and breaks the careful stillness he’d been holding. The sound is rare enough that it startles you into a smile before you can contain it. His amusement lingers faintly on his face, softening the hard lines, undoing years of discipline in a way that feels almost unfair.
For a moment, he looks younger.
Not smaller.
Just less armored.
“I’m not picky,” he replies after a beat, the smile still ghosting at the corner of his mouth. “Not like you.”
The accusation is light, but his eyes slide to you with quiet intent, watching how you take it.
“That’s not true,” you hum, nudging the carton with your knee. “I’m not picky.”
The wind shifts again, catching your sleeve and pressing fabric against your wrist. He notices the absence of rings there. Notices the way your hands rest open on your lap instead of intertwined with someone else’s.
“Tall, dark, and handsome,” he reminds you, tone deceptively mild. “I do believe that was your type when we were smaller.”
There’s history in the phrasing. When we were smaller. As if the two of you grew up in tandem, like twin trees bending toward the same light.
You tilt your head, considering him in a way that makes his pulse misstep again.
“And yet,” you reply quietly, “I liked you even when you didn’t fit the first requirement.”
The words are gentle.
They land heavy.
For a split second, something unsteady flashes through his eyes—surprise, maybe. Or the memory of being shorter than you for exactly six months and hating every second of it. Of you pretending not to notice, never once teasing him for it even when Grayson and Todd would.
Damian reaches for the carton before he can say something reckless.
With deliberate audacity, Damian plucks the last piece of vegan chicken from the container and pops it into his mouth without offering you the chance to object.
It’s a calculated theft.
A distraction.
He chews slowly, as if savoring a victory he did not earn.
“Real mature,” you hum, watching him with narrowed eyes that hold far more affection than irritation.
Damian swallows.
The glaze is too sweet. The texture still questionable. He supposes it matches the situation.
He doesn’t comment on it.
Instead, he wipes his thumb clean against a napkin and finally looks at you fully—no curtain of hair, no skyline to hide behind, no boots to study for answers.
“You always did accuse me of that,” he says quietly.
Immaturity.
Distance.
Running.
The night presses closer around you both, the fire escape swaying faintly with the rhythm of wind and breath. Below, the city continues its restless hum, unaware that something far more precarious balances above it.
He should move away again.
He doesn’t.
Instead, he remains where he is—close enough that your knees nearly touch, close enough that the shared warmth between you feels intentional now rather than accidental.
“You were picky,” he says after a moment, the words falling softer now, almost fragile. “You just made exceptions.”
His eyes dip briefly, tracing the curve of your lips, the ghost of a smile that used to haunt his thoughts. Then they snap back, sharp and undeniable, catching yours again. “And you were always very bad at hiding them.”
You stare into the eyes you’ve tried for years not to memorize, the ones that have shadowed your quietest dreams and your loneliest nights. “I didn’t invite you here so I could talk down on your lover,” you murmur, voice low and steady, though your pulse betrays you with its uneven rhythm.
“Then what did you pull me here for?” Damian’s voice is softer than usual, almost tentative, but the words still carry a weight. He leans his head against the chill metal bars of the fire escape, hair falling loose around his sharp cheekbones. “You trying to be a homewrecker?”
He says it like it’s a joke—like he’s testing a line he’s never meant to say seriously—but the corners of his mouth twitch in a way that tells you he’s not entirely joking.
“No.”
Your own voice is quiet, firm, edged with exasperation and warmth at once. Finally, you reach out, the movement slow and deliberate, compelled by something deeper than reason. His hair—dark, impossible, falling in rebellious waves across his face like he’s some prince carved out of shadow—catches your fingers.
You move closer, fingers brushing along the inky strands, tugging a small section back to pin it neatly with the hair clip that’s been holding your baby hairs in check all evening. The motion is intimate and unhurried. You murmur softly under your breath, so he can hear it, so only he can: “I just know I could be better.”
Damian tilts his head toward you, just enough that the faint line of his neck is exposed to your touch. His jaw tenses imperceptibly, a silent acknowledgment, almost a challenge.
“Do you?” he asks. The question is small, almost tender, but it carries the weight of years, of all the things unsaid, of every space between you that was never closed.
Your hand slides slowly from the roots of his hair down the warm curve of his neck, fingertips landing where neck meets shoulder, tracing a line that speaks louder than your words. “I can be better,” you breathe, deliberate and honest, letting the tension between the two of you thrum in the quiet air.
He doesn’t move away. Doesn’t pull back. He lets you stay. And in that acceptance, in the slight tilt of his shoulder beneath your fingers, there’s something unspoken yet absolute.
“You are the best,” he whispers, voice low, quiet, trembling only slightly.
Not a statement. Not a confession. Not a question.
But it's better.
⸝⸝ ₊ ⊹ damian wayne-al ghul tag list tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) : @foivetimesacharm, @tasia13, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @strawbrysapphic, @theonlyshowgirl, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @kekeanna266, @nayy-a, @marwwfairy, @redhooduwu, @xolollipop, @jaydennicole, @revesephemeres,
reblogs and replies always appreciated, lmk what u think .ᐟ
Just to clarify. You don't write smut BECAUSE you're a minor? Or you don't write smut at all, AND you're a minor?
(I totally get why people don't want to write smut for Damian. He's a baby, idc if they age him up in the fic, he'll always be a baby to me)
here is my stance on it !! ty for the question anon ദ്ദി(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )
one, I am not experienced in said area, so I think whatever I would write would be lack luster. I am not gonna sit and pretend like I've never read it but writing and posting is a whole other thing. I also don't want to portray inaccurate depictions of it because that is just harmful. two, my frontal lobe hasn't developed and I don't want to regret putting that stuff on the internet lmao.
three, sex is a beautiful thing. I am not saying I'm against writing it because I am a minor and sex bad for minor!! I am saying I am against writing it because I am a minor and shouldn't be putting that out in a space that adults and people twice my age can see.
That doesn't mean the second I turn 18 ill be posting smut, the farthest I've ever gone in fan fic's is make outs and that's only after at least 10k words. Maybe some sexual tension cus sue me. I think maybe some sex jokes/hinting at it happening too but like...I'm a teenager so sex jokes are a part of my vocab (ᵕ—ᴗ—)
for now, it's I don't write smut at all AND I'm a minor
One day it might be I write 30k words that go into smut and I'm a functioning adult, but it would be the most boring vanilla romantic shit you'll ever read that you'd wish I stuck to angst （´∇｀''）
can I ask what piece's of writing you take inspiration from in your own text?
everything in my “suni’s reads” section in my pinned post !! Love the old classics I think it’s one of the best ways to understand writing fundamentals!
ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ you own the diner that gives cheap food for kids. If you need to throw out a thug, he made sure you knew who to call. If he needed somewhere to get actual food and a safe place to rest that asked no questions, he knew where to go.
word cnt. 3.3k
includes ›››› banter, fluff, sexual tension I think, teasing, somthin small to get me back into writing
“…Well?” Your grin tilts into something knowingly sweet, all coy challenge and quiet hope. You watch the way his eyes betray him—how they brighten despite himself, how his fingers pause mid-air against the wrapper like they’ve been caught in the act. It’s a small thing, that hesitation, but you see it. You always do.
Red Hood exhales through his nose, a rough little huff meant to pass for indifference. His helmet is half on, and he and you both know you won't tilt your head down to look at the face below it.
It wasn't ever anything you needed to do.
Your smile only widens, cheeks aching with the effort of holding it back. “Admit it,” you sing softly, sing-song enough to be annoying, gentle enough to be affectionate.
He chews in stubborn silence, jaw working like he’s negotiating terms with his pride. Then, finally—reluctantly—he swallows.
“…It’s,” he starts, pauses, scowls at the burger like it’s betrayed him. “Better than the Bat Burger,” he mutters, the words dragged out like a confession extracted under duress.
Before you can react, he takes another bite, quick and deliberate, eyes suddenly very focused on anything but you. It’s meant to hide the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth.
It doesn’t work.
You light up anyway—bright and unguarded and devastatingly pleased—and Red Hood, for all his practiced resistance, eats faster just to avoid looking at you like that.
“I told you,” you say, already moving, fingers curling around his glass to top it off beneath the soft hiss of the soda machine. Ice clinks gently as the cola rises. “That place is all grease.”
“Hey—well,” Red Hood counters around a mouthful, words muffled but indignant, “your burger doesn’t come with a mini Nightwing figure, does it?”
You snort, setting the glass down beside his plate with a soft thud. “Yeah, and our Coca-Cola doesn’t come with diabetes.”
He shoots you a look over the rim of the glass, something halfway between offense and amusement, before taking another long sip.
It’s late—late enough that the street outside has gone quiet, Gotham settling into that uneasy hush it only ever pretends is sleep. And somehow, impossibly, your diner is still open. The neon sign hums softly in the window, tired but persistent, like it knows better than to give up just because the hour suggests it should.
You only bought the place a few months ago. The few old staff stayed. The old regulars too. You never touched the menu names—just the recipes themselves, quietly fixing what had always been almost good. Making it better. Making it worth something. Worth staying open for.
Three months was all it took to sand down the sharp edges of the place. The tacky ’80s diner aesthetic softened into something warmer, more classic—vinyl booths polished instead of cracked, chrome wiped clean, lights dimmed just enough to feel intentional. People noticed. Families started coming.
Kids, especially. Which was notable, considering this stretch of Gotham used to belong to grouchy old men who treated your parking lot like their personal smoking lounge.
You’d heard the whispers, eventually. The way kids talked about the place. Cheap food. Good food. Safe food. And if kids were plotting something on this side of Gotham—really plotting—Red Hood would’ve heard about it long before you did.
You still remember the night you met him.
The crash of shouting. The sound of something metal hitting pavement. You’d stormed out back gripping a frying pan like a weapon, heart in your throat, only to find Red Hood in the middle of it—hauling three wheezing old men toward your trash cans with the casual efficiency of someone cleaning up a mess he didn’t make.
He’d looked at you then, startled, a little wild, like he hadn’t expected backup.
That had been the beginning.
Not quite a partnership.
Definitely not trouble.
Something messier. Something quieter. Something that looked a lot like friendship, even if neither of you ever said that outloud.
If you need to throw out a thug, he made sure you knew who to call.
If he needed somewhere to get actual food and a safe place to rest that asked no questions, he knew where to go.
“Do you think it needs anything?” you ask, already drifting toward the small, dog-eared journal tucked beneath the counter. You flip it open on instinct, pen poised, brows knitting as you scan notes written in different inks, different moods. “Maybe the meat needs more spice,” you murmur. “Or the bread—maybe more salt?”
Red Hood hums thoughtfully, dragging his thumb across his mouth to wipe away a smear of sauce before he answers. “I think it’s perfect,” he says simply. Then, after a beat, softer but no less certain, “Really.”
You still. Just for a moment. Pen hovering mid-air. Considering. Then you sigh—long and put-upon—and Jason has to clamp down hard on the laugh that nearly bursts out of him when you speak again.
“You’d eat slop if I served it to you,” you say flatly. “I don’t even know why I ask.”
He grins, unrepentant. “You’d make good slop.”
You huff, shaking your head as you reach down to adjust your apron, the fabric worn thin and soft with age. It’s part of the uniform—old, faded, clearly meant for someone else entirely. You’ve always assumed the woman it was bought for is long gone now, her shifts and habits stitched into the seams like a quiet ghost.
Still, it fits you well enough.
And Jason watches you tug it straight with an expression that suggests he means every word he said.
“Those guys still bothering you?” he asks after a moment, gaze flicking past you to the clock mounted high on the far wall. Midnight clicks into place with a dull, final little sound. You should be home by now. Instead, you’re here—hovering, unsettled in a way that doesn’t quite match your usual calm.
Your hair has come loose in places, soft strands escaping whatever effort you made to tame it earlier. Your makeup is still neat, but your hands give you away—picking at your nails, worrying at the edges of yourself. Every so often, your eyes dart toward the door like you half-expect the worst of Gotham to stroll in wearing a grin.
His voice pulls you back.
You huff softly, reaching for the rag and giving the counter a swipe that doesn’t really need it. Then another. Anything to keep your hands busy. “Am I not allowed to ask for company?” you say, tone light, almost teasing—carefully casual in the way people are when they’re hoping not to be questioned further.
Jason watches the motion of your hands, the repetitive back-and-forth, before answering. “Didn’t think I’d be the one you’d call for that,” he says. There’s a beat, and then he adds it—quieter, rough around the edges, like he’s bracing for rejection. “Not… that I’m complaining.”
“Better not be.” You chuckle softly.
Red Hood takes another bite of his food, waiting for you to get the courage to answer.
“…Do you think you could walk me home?” you ask after a moment, the words coming a little softer than you mean them to. “Some—some thug came into the parking lot and started cursing and stuff. He was drunk, but, uh—”
“Yeah. I got you.” Red Hood cuts in easily, like the answer was never in doubt. He reaches for the little sauce container, adds more with reckless confidence, and takes another bite. “Is that why you’re bribing me with food?”
You smile, tilting your head as a loose strand of hair slips free and brushes your cheek. “Yeah. Fattening you up so if we get chased, I can run away faster.”
Red Hood snorts around a mouthful. “I could be four hundred pounds and still run faster than you.”
“Well, if I die, you’d probably lose a hundred,” you shoot back, faux-serious. “Who else would let you eat for free?”
Alfred, Jason thinks automatically—but he keeps that to himself. Instead, he swallows, takes a long sip of soda, and says, “Well, we won’t have to worry about that. As long as I’m here, you don’t need to worry about Gotham.” He pauses, glancing down at the burger with sudden scrutiny. “Just worry about the fact that this bread’s a little salty.”
You freeze.
Then you slam your fist into your open palm, eyes lighting up like you’ve struck gold. “I knew it, you liar!”
Red Hood laughs, full and unguarded, and for a moment the night outside the diner feels a little less dangerous.
It’s a few moments later when you hum thoughtfully, gathering his empty plate and glass before he can protest. “Would you like dessert?”
Red Hood huffs, leaning back in the booth. “You really are trying to fatten me up.”
You lift a brow over your shoulder as you push through the door to the back, flicking on the lights and setting the dishes into the sink. Water runs, warm and familiar. “Is that a no?”
“No—ah—” Red Hood pauses, glancing at the clock on the wall. Twenty past one. Too late by any reasonable standard. He raises his voice so it carries. “We should probably get going, no? It’s Saturday tomorrow, and you open early, right?”
“Red,” you call back easily, “do you want vanilla ice cream or chocolate?”
There it is. Complete disregard. Utter dismissal.
It does something to him he doesn't want to admit.
“Cookies and cream,” he answers anyway, resigned, a little breathless. “I know you have some.”
“For me,” you say as you step back out front, drying your hands on your apron.
“For two?” he asks hopefully, batting his lashes with exaggerated flair under the helmet even if you can't see it, clearly joking—until he isn’t. He stops halfway through the bit, like he’s caught himself lowering his guard into a joke without meaning to.
You don’t comment. Even though your stomach flips. Even though you notice. Instead, you keep your tone soft and familiar. “Always,” you murmur. “Even though your portion alone should be for three.”
He laughs, relieved, grateful. Still a bit stiff from the newness of it.
You shake your head fondly, the soft scrape of the scoop against the frozen ice cream loud in the quiet diner, the chill spilling out like a ghost of winter into the dim, yellow glow of the overhead lights. The smell of sugar and cocoa drifts up, a small warmth against the damp bite of Gotham outside.
A bowl of ice cream is made for the both of you, simple, but enough. You hesitate, fingers hovering over the spoons, a hint of nervousness creeping into your chest—would he scoff if you shared one bowl? The thought of having to wash an extra dish wins out, and you set the spoons on either side of one bowl.
Red Hood watches, silent and still, his presence folding the rest of the diner away. All that exists is him, leaning just enough over the counter, eyes catching the lamplight in a way that makes every detail sharper: the worn edges of his gloves, the oil smudges on his jacket, the way his jaw tenses like it’s holding back half the city’s weight.
He waits, quiet, letting you take your seat first. Then he finally reaches for a spoon, the motion deliberate, slow, a ritual that keeps the moment suspended.
You take a small bite, letting the cold sweet coat your tongue before speaking. “I gotta ask…how do you get around? That motorcycle…really yours?”
Jason pauses mid-chew, eyes narrowing like he’s calculating how much to reveal. “Yeah…? What? You don’t like my girl?”
“Nah,” you answer lightly, letting the corners of your lips lift in a small smile, “just thought you were a broke ass like me. God, she doesn’t deserve to be ridden in Gotham.”
He smirks, leaning closer just enough for the overhead light to catch the sharp line of his cheekbone. “Hey. I’m a very high-class man,” he says, letting the words hang, watching the way your gaze runs over the dirt and oil-streaked leather, the fraying edges of his gloves, the faint scar on the sliver of skin that is his wrist. Mhm. Very high class. “And she loves it over here.”
You sigh, another bite of ice cream melting slowly in your mouth. The fluorescent lights flicker slightly overhead, casting long shadows across the linoleum floor and bouncing off the chrome edges of the counter. “She’d be the first. You should get locks. Some kid might try to snatch off the tires.”
Jason’s hand freezes mid-spoon, eyes flicking to yours. For a second, disbelief and something sharper—shock, maybe, or a hint of incredulity—crosses his form, quickly masked by that careful, practiced smirk. “…They still do that here?”
“Mhm…” You lift your spoon, letting a bit of cookie crumble fall into the bowl with a soft plop. “…Caught a kid last week trying to get the wheels off my car.” Your voice softens, fondness creeping into it without meaning to.
Jason is quiet for a beat, and you can almost feel the weight of the pause in the space between you. “…What…what did you do?”
You look up at him, eyes a little surprised, but then soften into a small smile, warm and patient. “Come on, Red. It’s me,” you murmur, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. “I gave him ice cream and some money from the tip jar. Told him if he started taking out the trash for me every day, I’d give him five bucks each time.”
A low noise escapes Jason, something between disbelief and amusement, and you can’t tell if it’s admiration or something else. “I think…you’re overpaying him. The trash can is like twenty feet away from the back of the building.”
“He bought a new jacket last week,” you say, soft, savoring the memory like a small victory. “A new jacket and a set of pencils for school. He did his homework in the employees’ changing room. I think I’m paying him just fine.”
Jason leans back slightly, chair legs scraping faintly against the diner’s linoleum floor, his spoon hovering mid-air. “If I ever caught a kid flicking my tires, I’d just teach them how to do it faster and give him a lollipop if they finished in under two minutes. If your not quick enough the bats come bite your toes you know? Tell the bedtime store to every little thief I find."
You groan, rolling your eyes so hard you almost see the reflection in the laminated counter, before scooping another bite of ice cream. “This is why you’re single.”
Red Hood freezes, the spoon halfway to his mouth, his posture stiffening like he’s just been called out in front of the entire city. “What does that—where did that—how did you get to that conclusion?”
It’s times like these you remember just how much he’s able to calm you down, how he’s able to soak the tiredness of the day off your skin like a sponge.
How much you crave him for it.
You stare at him blankly, deliberately slow, watching the fluorescent light catch the edges of the helmet and throw shadows over his sharp angles. “Did you hear anything you just said?”
He exhales, a small puff of frustration escaping, voice low and clipped. “Whatever…I’m married to work. People there think my stories are funny.”
“Oh?” You tilt your head, the soft diner light reflecting in your eyes, batting your lashes in that way you know makes him shift uncomfortably, “And pray tell, Red…what work do you exactly do?”
Jason hesitates, hand still frozen over the ice cream spoon. “…Gotham Child Services?”
You nod solemnly, taking the last bite, the cool sweetness lingering on your tongue. “That explains the guns.”
Red Hood sighs, the sound muffled and rough through the helmet as he tucks it back down over his chin. “Never win with you, do I? Fine. Drug lord. Nice one though. I got lollipops.”
You hum, the quiet warmth of the diner lights catching your hair as you coo, “Hmm…let’s see how much you tip me for my service and I’ll think about letting your ego win the ride home.” You rise, swiftly walking to the kitchen to let the bowl soak in the sink.
“Ride home? Thought we were walking,” Jason chuckles, the sound low, careful, as he watches you move back toward him. He stays still, gloved hands resting on his knees, tracking the sway of your hips, the way your fingers brush the countertop.
He’s quiet as you slip past him to grab your coat from the wall, the soft rustle of fabric punctuating the silence between you. The faint click of the buttons makes his chest tighten, and he doesn’t even try to hide the way his helmet tilts just slightly, betraying how intently he’s watching.
You tug your coat over your shoulders, the fur brushing your neck and falling across your arms.
You walk back to him, never leaving him for too long.
When your hands press to each pocket of his jacket, your fingers pressing into the leather over his chest. He lets out a small, embarrassed noise, more instinct than intention. Red Hood freezes for just a moment, the weight of your touch lingering longer than it should. “What pocket has the lollipops?” you hum softly, watching his helmet tilt with the subtlest of hesitations. You can’t see his eyes, but you feel them on you anyway, the tension pulling tight across the space between you.
“…Took five from home and gave five out. You’re a few hours late…” Red Hood mumbles, voice raspy as always, but now just slightly warmer, more human under the helmet.
“…So you have more at home?” You tilt your head, letting a strand of hair fall over your shoulder as your fingers press lightly into the leather of his chest again.
“Uh…” His gloved hand moves, brushing yours for just a moment, the frayed edge of leather tickling your wrist. The contact is electric, and he doesn’t pull away, just holds it, letting the tension thrum in the small space between you.
“Red.” You mumble, voice soft, low, something more intimate than teasing.
“Yeah?” He rasps back, shifting slightly as if the small movement might let him breathe without panic.
“You suck at flirting.”
“…Cute girl wants a lollipop from me.” His voice cracks slightly, awkward under the helmet, and the way he says it makes the space feel smaller, warmer, more charged.
You chuckle softly, the sound small but deliberate, filling the quiet air around you. “Red. I don’t want a lollipop.”
“Nah?” He mumbles gently, and you catch the faint tilt of his head, the shift of weight in his shoulders. “But they are the expensive kind Ma’am, I didn’t cheap out.”
“Oh?” You hum, letting your gaze soften, your fingers brushing just over the patch of exposed neck under his helmet. “So you do like sweets.”
Jason grins, faint and almost imperceptible, hoping you can sense it even under the mask. “Hey, you are what you eat.”
Your hand slides up from his chest to that sliver of exposed skin on his neck, the warmth so close you can feel it through the thin fabric. Your fingers trace carefully, teasingly, across the soft curve there.
He shifts slightly, leaning toward your touch even as his mind protests.
“Bet you’d taste sweet, then.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” He whispers back, voice low, soft, close enough that you can feel it in your chest.
His hand twitches, almost involuntarily, brushing against your wrist.
jason peter todd tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) : @justamarsbar, @peridotnature854, @nayy-a, @that-willowtree, @kekeanna266, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @theonlysakura, @givemefinganame, @theonlyshowgirl, @melllzz, @strawbrysapphic, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @tasia13, @foivetimesacharm, @noble-17, @celestialend,@superuddertrash-blog, @revesephemeres, @redhooduwu, @themessedupsonata
I don't mean to be rude, just a genuine question, since you said you love writing to Damian: Isn't he still a child? I see a lot of pictures of him, but I don't understand why I don't remember any images of him older or anything like that, but I could be wrong so I'm asking.
this is a valid question!! I’ll answer it from my pov on why I (emphasis on I) write for Damian Wayne.
(putting my key points in red!!)
1. Yuji Itadori and Megumi Fushiguro are 15-16 in current timeline. Damian is 14-15 so not much difference and no one gafs about those two when it comes to their fics.
The fandom just babies Damian to an unholy level 😭. You could argue this is because of people tending to baby Asian men if they are surrounded by white people as well.
2. I just turned 17 so I’m not exactly writing outside of my age range. Lmfao if I heard people complaining about me writing for Bruce that would make more sense than complaining about me writing about Damian.
3. There’s so many au’s in DC…Damian is aged up in many of them!!
4. He’s written with a love intrest and my writing doesn’t get any more explicit than canon writing already done soo. Take it up with canon dc writers lmao
I started dc in 2017 when I was nine years old. He was my first fictional crush then too lmfao and he was older then me. I always age him up in my fics too so yeah!!
(hope I don’t sound defensive in this…hope that answered your question anon!!)
hiii!! so, after rereading “dairy queen closes in 10 minutes” for the 11th time, i’ve finally gathered enough courage to send a message since i am awkward asffff
i’ve never been a tim drake girl, reading one or two fics when they appeared in my feed, that’s how this work of yours reached me, at 2 a.m, while downing a pit of ice cream (my typical weekend, sadly)
never in my long history of reading fics i have yearned so badly for a FICTIONAL MAN omfg 😭😭
you made me yearn and long and feel and i kinda love you for it
i just wanted to let you know how amazing your writing is since i have learned to never hold back from complimenting someone
anyways, long message short, your work is amazing and ily 😘😘
I love converting people to Tim Drake oh my god 😭💗 U GET IT BRO HES SO EASY TO YEARN FOR THATS WHY HE HAS SO MANY BITCHES
Tysm for enjoying and reading my work !! I always love to hear from you guys and I’m so happy whenever someone feels something after reading :)
(What ice cream flavor was it I need recommendations 😈(finally eating dairy again))
